Chapter Text
When shadow kneels before flame.
The kingdom bleeds.
A child born in fire calls the black. Darkness sworn to light turns its back. The branded heart divides between what oaths demand and what the soul calls true.
Ancient eyes see the children’s choice. Three golden hear the chosen voice.
In halls of stone where dead ones reign, the marked rise through joy and pain.
Trust breaks clean as winter ice. The realm learns the bitter price.
Bonds forged in blood and flame heal the world or bring it shame.
Love betrayed becomes war. Love redeemed breaks every cage.
When all seems lost, the choice comes. Hearts unite, or pay the cost.
Beware the ones who walk through flame.
When they rise, nothing stays the same.
***
I drew the silver brush through my hair one final time that night. Father’s chosen sapphire gown waited across my bed, silk thin enough to let the great hall’s chill bite straight through. He’d mentioned projecting strength, though I felt anything but strong watching candlelight shift across the fabric.
Leather creaked beyond my door as Alastair shifted his weight. He moved with that careful clumsiness I’d known since childhood, when sudden sounds sent me into fits and he learned to gentle his steps. His boots gave him away after all these years.
He cleared his throat once through the oak. Twice. The familiar rhythm of his uncertainty.
A third time, and I smiled.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and Alastair stepped through with reverence. His dress uniform had transformed him from the boy who’d scaled apple trees to bring me the ripest fruit into a man forged by duty and devotion, storm-blue eyes holding shadows I couldn’t name.
“The Senarium grows restless, Your Highness.”
I turned from the mirror. “And what does that have to do with me rushing?”
His mouth softened with familiar gentleness. The protector faded, leaving only Alastair, my oldest friend. “Nothing whatsoever.”
In the quiet between us, rank vanished. I became simply Ayla, and he became the boy who’d boosted me over palace walls when the world felt too small for my restless spirit.
“Walk with me?” I asked.
“Until the end,” he promised.
Dead kings watched us pass, their painted eyes tracking our movement through corridors heavy with history. My slippers stirred no sound while his boots betrayed every step. That clumsy gait I’d treasured since childhood.
“You’re nervous,” he said.
“Father wants to announce something tonight. About Cam.” My throat tightened around my missing brother’s name. “Probably some lie about his absence serving the realm.”
Alastair’s expression hardened. He’d trained with Cam in the practice yards, shared meals and laughter before duty pulled them down different paths. “The truth surfaces eventually.”
“Does it?”
We reached the great hall’s entrance. Beyond those doors waited the Senarium members, their eyes assessing, their whispers carrying the weight of judgment. Alastair’s hand gripped his sword hilt the moment we entered.
I saw them by the wine table then. Three servants, but something was wrong. One’s head tilted at an unnatural angle. Another moved in jerky, erratic motions. Torchlight caught their faces, revealing eyes rimmed red as if they’d wept for hours.
“Alastair.”
Alastair struck. His blade sang from its sheath as the first man lunged toward me.
The attacker clawed for my throat. Fingers like bone, skin gray and tight. Alastair’s steel bit deep into his shoulder, and dark fluid spread across his shirt. Wine-colored, not blood. The decanters at the wine table stood untouched.
Two more rushed us. Alastair shoved me behind a pillar and whirled to meet them, steel ringing against steel. The great hall exploded into chaos. Nobles screamed and fled. Guards roared commands that drowned in the madness.
Steel pierced his ribs. Alastair fought on, stood between me and death while crimson spread across the floor. Bile rose in my throat. Those storm-blue eyes found mine once and held my gaze as he fell, blood pooling dark beneath him.
Hands dragged me backward. I kicked, screamed, clawed at the arms that held me. Reached for him even as the distance grew.
He had promised to walk with me until the end. The end came that night.
Present Day
Blood pools beneath the last challenger. Red spreads across stone while my fingers twist my rings.
Alastair’s blood darkened the same way.
The crowd roars as the masked victor steps over his fallen opponent, sliding swords into crossed sheaths at his back. A marshal raises the victor’s hand and declares him winner. My new guard.
Alastair, I think, and my chest tightens. You should be here. Should be stepping forward, bowing with that careful reverence you never quite managed to hide behind duty.
But you’re not. You never will be again.
Guards stride ahead of me, others trailing behind the victor, boots striking marble in rhythm. I glance back at him.
My braids pull tight against my scalp, the baby’s breath Seraphina wove through them wilting in the heat. Sweat gathers where the braids meet my neck.
He towers over the men around him, and I realize how small I would appear beside him. Blood stains his mouth, dark against tawny skin. When his eyes find mine, I cannot look away.
We round the final corner. My fingers twist at my rings.
The private audience chamber yawns ahead. Father waits beside his throne, mustache stiff with wax, fingers drumming the carved armrest.
Guards spread into position as we enter. “Magnificent display,” Father declares. “Three days of combat. Hundreds of Navarre’s finest warriors. And you emerge victorious.“
The victor remains silent.
Father’s smile hardens. “Remove your helm. Let us see the face of our champion.”
Leather ties snap loose under his fingers. He lifts the helm away and shakes dark hair free, strands falling past his brows. Sweat carves clean tracks through dust on his face. I trace one line down to the corner of his mouth. His gaze finds mine, and my fingers still against my skirts.
He violates every rule of propriety I’ve learned. I cannot look away.
Black ink spirals up his throat. His pulse pounds beneath the relic, and I watch it beat. My tongue darts across my lip before I force myself to turn away.
Mahogany creaks under Father’s grip. When his eyes fix on Xaden, I see the king who executed his father.
Father sneers. “Xaden Riorson.”
Guards shift stance, twelve hands finding sword hilts. Shadows answer by surging wide behind him.
Xaden stands unmoved by Father’s crown. The throne commands nothing from him.
“Your Majesty.” His voice holds no deference, offers no recognition of the king before him.
Father advances, guards flowing with him. “You have considerable nerve appearing before me.”
“I won your tournament.” Xaden holds his ground as steel surrounds him.
“The tournament was for loyal subjects,” Father snaps.
Xaden’s head tilts. “Define loyal.” He brushes arena dust from his sleeve. “I served Navarre at Basgiath in the Riders Quadrant. That’s more than most of your loyal subjects manage.”
Father twists his mustache until wax flakes onto his doublet. “Your father was a traitor.“
Baby’s breath prickles against my scalp. I lift my hand to the wilted flowers, and Xaden watches my fingers work the delicate stems. His eyes follow my hand as it drops back to my side, drift down the emerald silk, then snap back to Father.
My cheeks burn.
“My father is dead,” Xaden says. “I’m not him.“
Father’s eyes narrow on the black ink spiraling up Xaden’s throat. “You bear his name. His mark. His shame.”
“I have the strongest signet in Navarre, and I just put down a hundred and twelve of your finest warriors,” Xaden says. “Your next strongest candidate lies face down bleeding into the dirt.“
Bleeding.
Alastair’s blood and red-rimmed eyes flash through my mind. My rings bite into my skin as I twist them harder.
Xaden’s gaze drops to my hands.
“You think I would entrust my daughter to a Riorson?” Father says.
“A Riorson is exactly what your daughter needs.” When Xaden looks up at me, our eyes lock, then he turns to Father. “Besides, if I wanted to betray you, would I risk my life in your tournament? March straight into your fucking castle and put myself at your mercy? If I meant harm, I’d strike from the shadows, not hand you a dozen chances to burn me alive like you burned my father.“
The king straightens his shoulders and turns to me for the first time since Xaden removed his helm. “What do you think, Ayla? Will you feel safe with a Riorson as your guard?”
My lips part. Father asks what I think.
Nineteen years I’ve waited for this question. Nineteen years biting my tongue while others decide my life, watching men choose my guards, dictate my movements, silence my voice. And now he asks what I want.
I study Xaden. Blood crusts his split lip while dirt streaks his hands, his jaw, his throat where the relics wind upward. He slaughtered over a hundred men across three days of fighting, commands a dragon, speaks to shadows, curses kings and walks away unscathed.
Alastair polished his mail each dawn and called me Your Highness with reverence that never wavered. When he smiled, warmth flooded my chest.
Now that warmth feels small.
My fingers smooth the emerald silk of my skirts. Nineteen years of soft things, clean things, careful words whispered in corners. Nineteen years shielded from anything that might unsettle the perfect order of my days.
This man would unsettle everything.
I realize then how much I want to be unsettled. How much I want him to change me, maybe even dirty me.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be very safe with him.”
Father stares at me, as if he’s never seen me before. His fingers drum once against mahogany before he catches himself.
“Very well.” He turns to Captain Harding at his right shoulder. “The oaths, Captain.”
Captain Harding has three daughters. His youngest just turned seven, and his wife Martha embroidered the small daisies on my riding gloves last winter. Now he must swear in the son of the man who sought to destroy everything he serves.
“Understand this first, Riorson,” Father says. “My daughter’s life is now your only concern. Fail her, and no corner of this continent will hide you from my reach.”
“I don’t fail,” Xaden says.
“For your sake, you’d better not,” Father replies.
Captain Harding steps forward. “Kneel.”
Xaden drops to one knee before me. Not Father. Not the crown. Me.
Captain Harding draws his blade, steel ringing against leather. Afternoon light catches the metal and forces me to squint.
“State your name and calling.” Captain Harding’s voice echoes through the chamber.
“Xaden Riorson, son of Fen Riorson, former wingleader of Fourth Wing, chosen rider of Sgaeyl, Blue Daggertail.”
A Blue Daggertail. I think of the Black Morningstar mother and her Golden Feathertail hatchlings, how they hunt me down in the breeding grounds, how fire blazes in their eyes when they find me. How something ignites in my chest when they call, fire spreading through flesh and bone, promising wings I’ve never worn.
“By the ancient laws of Navarre and under witness of the gods, do you swear to guard Princess Ayla’s life with your own? To place her safety above all other considerations?”
“I swear it.”
“Do you pledge to obey her commands, keep her secrets, counsel her in truth, and defend her honor with steel and flame?”
“I pledge it.”
The blade touches his left shoulder. “Will you serve the crown of Navarre faithfully, defend King Tauri’s reign, and forsake any cause that might stand against the throne?”
Xaden’s jaw shifts. His eyes find Father’s face, then mine.
“I will serve Princess Ayla faithfully.”
Father cuts through the silence. “Princess Ayla is an extension of the crown, Riorson. If the throne falls, so does she. Your oath to her is your oath to Navarre.”
Xaden looks at me as he answers. “Understood.”
The blade settles against his right shoulder. “Then by steel and flame, you are bound to her service. Seal your vow with the hand you’ve sworn to protect.“
Captain Harding steps aside, and I step forward. My skirts brush my ankles as I approach the kneeling man. A scar cuts through his left eyebrow, white against skin darkened by sun.
I extend my hand. He takes it, palm rough with calluses, still warm from fighting.
He brings my knuckles to his mouth. His split lip opens fresh, blood welling dark. He doesn’t hesitate. The kiss touches my skin, and his blood spreads wet across my knuckles.
“You’re bleeding.”
He drags his thumb across his split lip, eyes locked on mine. Blood stains the pad. “Am I?”
He brings that bloodied thumb to his tongue. Red disappears against pink, and something coils tight in my stomach.
I should look away. Should remember Father, the witnesses, the weight of what just happened between us.
Instead, I watch him clean every trace of blood from his skin.
Xaden doesn’t release my hand or rise from his knees. He kneels there, watching my face.
“Tell me your name.”
Father shifts behind me. “You heard—”
“I want to hear him introduce himself properly.”
His thumb moves across my knuckles, spreading blood in circles. “Xaden.”
Just that. Like he’s testing me.
“The rest.”
His mouth curves, dried blood cracking at the corner. “You know the rest.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Riorson.” He speaks the name like it belongs to me now. “Xaden Riorson.”
“Ayla Tauri,” I say.
Gold sparks in his dark eyes. “I know who you are.”
Father coughs. “You may stand.“
Xaden rises, his hand still holding mine. I tilt my head back to keep my eyes on his.
Captain Harding sheathes his blade. Steel slides against leather, but neither of us moves to break contact.
His thumb traces my knuckles once more. Then he releases me and steps back.
I flex my fingers. My rings chime against each other, and I stare at the blood marking my skin.
“Your Highness.” He stands perfectly still. “What now?“
“Ser Donovan will show you the castle layout and security protocols,” Father says before I can open my mouth. “Tonight we celebrate our tournament victor before the full court. The Senarium expects to meet Navarre’s newest guardian.”
I press Xaden’s blood deeper into my knuckles with my thumb, watching it stain my skin. He catalogues the guards behind Father, sweeps his gaze across the tall windows, returns to the king.
“I’ll need to see everything,” he says. “The last attempt nearly succeeded because someone fucked up.”
Father eyes my bloodied hands. “Clean yourself before tonight. The court will expect certain standards.” He waves toward the door. “You’re dismissed. Ser Donovan. Ser Tomas.”
Afternoon light slants through the tall windows of the eastern corridor. We pass guards at their posts, jasmine scenting the air as we approach the outer doors.
Fresh air fills my lungs when we step outside, and my shoulders drop for the first time since dawn. We walk beneath the colonnade where sunlight and shadow stripe the stones. Then deeper shadow sweeps across the courtyard. I look up to see a blue dragon soaring overhead, wings extended as she crosses over Calldyr’s red rooftops that slope toward the river.
The guard beside us jerks back, his mail ringing.
“Sgaeyl,” Xaden says, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine.
Every guard in the courtyard discovers urgent business elsewhere. The man by the fountain stares at his boots while another traces the carved stonework with desperate attention. She wheels back, golden eyes scanning the courtyard below.
“You’re not scared,” Xaden says.
I track her flight as she banks toward the towers. “No.”
“You should be.”
“Dragons kill for reasons I understand. People don’t.”
Xaden turns to me, then away. We step inside, where the corridors press close after all that open sky. At my door, Ser Donovan points across the hall. “Your quarters, Ser Xaden.”
Ser Tomas takes his place beside my door while Ser Donovan bows. “Your Highness.”
“Princess.” Xaden doesn’t bow.
“You should bow,” Donovan says.
Arms crossed, Xaden shifts his gaze. “Twenty minutes ago your king made me her personal guard. I don’t take orders from you.”
Tomas’s hand moves to his sword. Donovan’s mouth hardens.
“Ser Xaden does outrank you,” I say.
“Just Xaden.” His eyes stay on Donovan.
“Xaden does outrank you.”
Donovan’s face darkens. He opens his mouth, closes it.
“Understood, Your Highness.”
Xaden drops his arms. “I’ll be back before the feast.” He walks down the corridor. Donovan follows.
At the turn, he looks back and smiles before he disappears.
I slip inside my chambers. Tomas remains at his post.
“Grace? Maeve?” I call as I enter.
Grace emerges from the dressing room, sleeves pushed to her elbows. She halts when she sees me. “Oh, gods. Who did that to your hair?”
The wilted flowers scratch against my scalp when I lift my hand to them. “Never let me listen to Seraphina again. These looked ridiculous this morning and feel worse now.”
Grace steps closer and studies the wreckage. “Sit,” she says, pointing to the chair before the polished silver mirror. “Maeve needs to witness this tragedy before we repair it.”
“Maeve!” Grace calls toward the bathing chamber. “Come see what Seraphina did to our princess.”
I sink into the chair. “I should have known better than to let her near me with flowers.”
Maeve appears around the corner, wiping her hands on linen. “And you trusted her because…?”
“She promised the baby’s breath would make me look ethereal.” I watch Grace’s reflection behind me. “I should have known I’d end up looking like I wrestled with a hedge.”
“Ethereal.” Maeve steps behind my chair and lifts a dying stem between two fingers. “Because wilted flowers inspire men to fight tournaments.”
Grace joins her, and together they pull at my braids. Petals drift to the floor as the plaits come undone.
“You remind me of my new guard,” I tell Maeve. “Same cutting words.”
Grace yanks another stem free. “And who slaughtered enough men to win that honor?”
“Xaden Riorson.”
Both women halt. Maeve’s hands still in my hair.
“The Great Betrayer’s son?” Maeve whispers.
“The very one.”
“The king actually allowed this?” Maeve says. “A Riorson? Guarding his own daughter?”
Grace snatches the hairbrush from the dressing table and brandishes it like a weapon. “If he so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll beat him senseless with this.”
“I don’t think a hairbrush will subdue Xaden Riorson.”
“And how would you know that?” Grace asks.
The absurdity hits me and I laugh. Grace joins in, and then Maeve’s low chuckle surprises us both. I’ve never heard that sound from her before.
“I’d hate to be Xaden Riorson when Grace comes for him,” I say.
Grace draws the brush through my hair, each stroke tugging gently at my scalp. “Don’t encourage her,” Maeve says, still smiling as she moves toward the bathing chamber. “I’ll prepare your bath.”
“Your hair’s getting darker,” Grace says, drawing the brush through sandy brown strands that reach my lower back. “Almost as dark as Halden’s now. Darker than Cam’s, and—” She pauses. “Darker than Alic’s was.”
Neither of us says anything. From the bathing chamber, Maeve calls, “Bath’s ready.”
Grace places the brush on the dressing table, and they guide me to my feet, unlacing my gown until silk pools around my ankles. Steam rises from the water as I step in. When Grace reaches for the washing cloth, I take it from her hands.
“You know I hate that. Give me a few minutes?”
They withdraw on quiet feet, the door clicking shut behind them. I rest one arm along the marble edge, the stone cold against my skin, and let my other hand trail through water hot enough to redden my fingers.
Candlelight flickers against the walls while the marble chills my forearm and the water burns everything else. I sink deeper, letting the heat work into my shoulders and raise my hand to the light.
Dark stains mark my knuckles where his blood dried. Xaden’s blood. From when he kissed my hand after swearing his oath. When his lip split again and he didn’t stop, didn’t pull away, just pressed the wound to my skin.
The stains have turned rust-brown across my knuckles. He could have wiped his mouth first, could have waited for the bleeding to stop, but he met my eyes while he did it.
Like he wanted me to remember.
I plunge my hand into the water. Pink swirls through the bath as the blood dissolves, leaving my knuckles clean. But his mouth’s touch lingers, where his blood bloomed warm against my hand.
Jasmine soap glides across my skin, imported oils replacing the scent of blood and tournament dust. Grace and Maeve return before I call them, arms full of silk and jewels.
Withered baby’s breath crunches under my bare feet as I cross to the dressing chair. Grace towels my hair and sections the damp strands while Maeve spreads jewelry across the table. She begins with simple braids, weaving ribbons through as the pattern grows complex. My scalp burns as Grace tugs each section into place.
“Much better than Seraphina’s disaster,” Maeve says. “She should take notes.”
I look at Maeve in the mirror and arch an eyebrow. Her mouth quirks as Grace pulls me behind the carved partition, where cream silk and gold embroidery gleam in the candlelight.
A knock pounds through the chamber.
“Come in,” I call from behind the partition.
The door swings open and Xaden enters, shutting it behind him. He crosses to the wall beside the doorframe and settles against it, arms folded, as if he owns the room.
His attention locks on mine, then slides to my bare shoulders before following the line of my collarbones. When his eyes return to mine, my pulse hammers at the base of my throat.
Grace and Maeve freeze behind me, their hands stilling on my laces until Grace recovers her voice.
“You stay right where you are,” she warns, “or I’ll—”
“Grace,” I murmur.
Xaden pushes off the wall and his swords ring against stone.
“I hope the tour wasn’t too boring,” I say.
“Fucking enlightening. I counted a dozen ways someone could gut you before breakfast.” The corner of his mouth curves. “Your castle’s security is shit.”
“Good thing you’re here then. Perhaps an outsider’s perspective was needed.” When his gaze releases mine, I notice his attire. Black leather molds to his chest and shoulders, wool stretched across muscles where I expected armor. My throat constricts and I force a swallow. “Are you planning to defy protocol and authority every chance you get?”
“Only when it gets the reaction I want.” He watches my pulse race at the base of my throat. “And judging by how fast your heart’s beating, my plan’s working perfectly.”
Grace yanks my laces tighter than necessary.
“It could be from holding my breath around your arrogance,” I counter.
“Then you’d have passed out by now. I’ve been standing here for five minutes.”
“I like this one. He doesn’t back down,” Maeve murmurs as she clips the dragon earring around my ear.
I nudge Maeve with my elbow. “The gods aren’t that merciful. They’d rather watch me suffer through this,” I tell Xaden.
“Keep telling yourself that, Princess. Sounds to me like the gods know exactly what you need.”
I emerge from behind the partition.
Xaden straightens against the wall. His mouth freezes mid-smile as he absorbs the cream silk, the gold embroidery that traces the lines of my body, the way the fabric bares my shoulders.
Heat floods my cheeks as I run my hands down the silk. His gaze tracks the movement. For once, Xaden Riorson has nothing to say.
“Will this do for the feast?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. It’ll do.”
“I’ll sneak you both something from the feast,” I tell Grace and Maeve as I cross toward Xaden, who pushes off the wall.
“Spiced lamb,” Grace demands immediately.
“And the roasted grapes,” Maeve adds. “If they’re serving them.”
“I’ll see what I can manage,” I say.
Xaden stays quiet as we enter the corridor. After several paces, he studies me sideways.
“So you’ve been smuggling food out of royal feasts. How long has that been going on? They knew what to ask for.”
“Are you planning to arrest me for theft? Drag me before my father in chains?” I turn my head to him. “Because it’s all mine anyway.”
“You’re right. Besides, putting you in chains would just make you helpless. Where’s the fun in that?”
“Is that how you talk to all the princesses you guard?”
“You’re my first. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Why are you here, S—” I stop myself. “Xaden. You belong at an outpost near Poromiel, not playing nursemaid to a princess.”
“Your father doesn’t trust me. Can’t say I blame him. Maybe he’s smarter than he appears.” He wheels toward me. “But killing Poromish soldiers and fliers at some outpost? Anyone can do that. Protecting his daughter requires something else.”
“And you? Xaden Riorson? Are you loyal to the king? To Navarre?”
“I serve what needs protecting.” He halts and stares me down. I turn to face him. “Your father executed mine when I was sixteen. The crown branded me a traitor’s son. So no, Princess, I don’t serve kings or crowns. But I came here. I swore an oath. And I don’t break my word.”
“But your oath was to me.”
“I’m well aware of what I said.”
He stood up to Father. I never could. I should hate him. I should—
Footsteps pound down the corridor. Two guards appear around the corner and bow as they pass.
Xaden straightens. “We should get you to that feast before your father puts my head on a spike for making his precious princess late.”
I nod and we walk toward the great hall, music pouring through the corridors around us, voices rising and falling with each step we take.
My steps falter.
Xaden’s hand captures mine, trapping my fingers. “Breathe, Princess. Hard to do my job if you’re dead.”
I hadn’t realized I was twisting my rings. Air rushes into my lungs. “Sorry. The last feast I attended…” The words stick. “Assassins came for me. My guard died protecting me. He was my friend. My best friend.”
“Good thing you despise me then. Won’t hurt as much if something happens. Though I don’t plan on dying tonight.”
Despise him? I want to be the blood on his tongue.
“That’s a pity. My father would have loved that.”
“I’d say I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’d be lying.” He pulls his hand away as we approach the great hall doors. Music thunders from within.
“Ready, Princess?”
I’m never ready. I nod anyway.