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Chapter Text

“I cannot do this.”

“You can and you will. It is your sacred duty, one you should relish performing.” Mother insists. Her gaze is cold on his back, like the sweat soaking through his shirt. Though he dare look upon her face, Henry knows what expression graces Mother’s regal features. His stomach twists and ties itself into a knot, but he still has to try.

“Could we not postpone?” Henry had been making subtle suggestions to any who would listen to him that he was too immature, too innocent, too anything to marry. But now is not the time for subtlety. This is his last chance. “I am still quite young to marry - I still have much to learn from my tutors and—“

“Do not be so weak, Henry.” Mother does not shout. She never shouts. Mother merely spoke forcefully and it cowed her son more effectively than if she screamed in his face. “Do you want the creature to burn our castle? Do you want your family to burn? Your people? That is why we do this. The ceremony has been tradition for centuries, since our first King sacrificed the three princesses and saved us for another generation.”

Henry shakes his head. This story was one told to him many times over as servants tucked him into bed and by his tutors as they reviewed the kingdom’s histories. As far as any Aurean was concerned, Aurean histories were the only stories worth being told, no matter Henry’s own pleas for stories of other lands. The First King and his sacrifice, Queen Leona and the construction of the dragon towers at the mouth of the river, Queen Penelope and the creation of the Red Order and the formalisation of the ceremony, King Lucian and the creation of the masks. So many ancestors, whose great achievements had been praised through the centuries but never failed to make something in Henry’s stomach pinch.

And it was all based on a lie. The entire kingdom was based on a lie. Each illustrious ancestor had held such conviction in decieving the monster. If Henry wants to stop this, then he must have strength in his conviction too. The brides would arrive any day now. The servants are wreathing the courtyard in roses and carnations. It has to be now.

Squaring his shoulders, Henry turns to face Mother.

“But they were not princesses. We have made no sacrifice - it has always been innocents who have paid the price. Why must we condemn innocents to such a fate? Could we not negotiate with the dragon, perhaps time has—“

His next words choke off, as Mother’s hand makes contact with his cheek. Henry keeps his face turned away, blinking moisture from his eyes. The sting of his cheek lingers, as it has before, and he knows he must choose his next words carefully, or remain in silence.

“You insolent child.” Mother hisses. “You dare disrespect such sacred traditions. Your ancestors roll in their graves. That creature is a menace, held at bay by the Crown’s noble actions, and you would see us all destroyed?” Mother seethes, breathing deeply as if to restrain herself.

Henry dare not raise his gaze, nor open his lips. Cowardice has a bitter taste. And he thought himself brave, thought he could change anything.

“Well?” says Mother, cold hand reaching for Henry’s chin. “Would you see us all destroyed?” She turns his face, nails sharp on the skin. “If I had given you sisters, would you obey that monster and burn them? Throw your own dear sisters into the chasm, hear them scream, hear their bones break? How did I raise such a heartless boy?”

Mute, Henry shakes his head. There had been no other children born to the King and Queen besides Henry himself. Many a lonely night, young Henry had imagined an older sibling to soothe his nightmares or hold his hand during state dinners. During lessons he had wished for a smarter sibling to help with his arithmetic and spelling, to spare him a scolding from the tutors. He would accept even a younger sibling, with whom he might play childish games and shower with affection. And a sister, she would be doted upon endlessly. Henry had imagined protecting her from overzealous suitors and cruel gossip of maids, acting the protective older brother until she grew sick of him and continueing even then. If there had been sisters, princesses of Aurea, Henry would do anything to keep them from being sacrificed.

On that, Henry could agree with the first King. He could never sacrifice his family. But nor could he agree with the deaths of innocents.

“Perhaps, the guilty…”

Mother casts his face away with a scoff. “You think anyone would accept the Crown Prince of Aurea marrying a criminal?”

She turns away, walking to the door of Henry’s bedchamber. Two guards flank the golden entrance, and two more wait outside, with another to escort the Queen when she leaves, not to mention the Red Order waiting, as ever, to follow her every step. No royal is ever given privacy, and since the announcement that Prince Henry was of age to wed, the guards had been closer than ever. Now, Henry knows, he will feel their breath on his neck. The clang of their armour and climes of their mail will echo in his dreams. He will be dragged to that altar, forced up that mountain, whether he wishes to or not.

The words are quiet, but Mother hears them. “It does not have to be a wedding.”

Her harsh, barking laughter rings in Henry’s ears and he flinches away. Anger was expected, never laughter.

“Now I understand.” The fond look she gives him barely conceals the mockery in her eyes. “Your father and I sheltered you too much, loved you and coddled you so. Marriage is not something you should fear, it is quite simple. You shall have plenty of practise saying your vows, and your final bride will not notice your inexperience on your wedding night. You can even blow out the candles if that makes it easier - close the curtains and block out the moonlight. But you will do as you are told.”

Mother speaks with the finality of a Queen, and leaves with the grace of one. Henry slumps to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

The breathes that leave Henry’s lungs are ragged and uneven, inching closer and closer to sobs. He failed. He is a failure. Was there ever a time he succeeded in anything, anything that wasn’t Mother’s design? Princes are supposed to lead, supposed to protect their people. Princes should champion the good, the pure, the innocent. Yet he has failed to save three innocent women from the most painful fate. And now he is crying like a child in his bedroom, instead of fighting harder.

That is what he should be doing, fighting harder. He should think of new ways to convince Mother, or even Father, if he has any sway. He should think of ways to sneak the brides out the kingdom, to warn them and their families of the danger awaiting them. But looking at the guards stood sentinel at the door, armoured, armed and with greater experience than he would ever have, Henry realises the chances of doing any of that are infinitesimal. The palace guards are not reluctant to restrain him, to redirect his parth towards something more to the Queen’s liking.

Perhaps if Henry had help… That is where siblings would come in handy, but there are none of those. In an isolated kingdom such as Aurea, there are no nobles of his age with whom he played as a child, and consequently no allies now he is grown with whom he might plan a conspiracy. But no, Henry is alone. And alone he has failed.

Tears slip down his cheeks. It is cathartic to let them fall to the ground, a testament to his heartbreak. If only his tears could pay for the lives of his brides. May they take thier presence as solace for their lost lives.

From the pocket of his doublet, Henry draws out the letter he received that morning. It was open when it was delivered to him, but all letters are. The insignia on the seal is foreign to him - a chevron and ermine pattern - but so to is the large symbol drawn at the bottom of the letter - a human heart in blue ink, with a flowing pattern of red inside around a golden E. It is from one of his brides, though he knows not which of the three, only that her name is apparently Elodie and she writes like a princess enamoured with both love and duty. I hope that you will get to know my heart. Such hope, such innocence. This letter, which Mother deemed insignificant, spurred Henry’s latest attempt to cancel the sacrifices.

And failure greeted him again, like an old friend.

“I’m sorry, Elodie. I’m so sorry.”

Chapter Text

Henry wakes to the sounds of servants bustling through his rooms. He can pick out the distinctive voice of his manservant directing hot water to the bath, selecting clothes from the trunk, ordering the prince’s breakfast be covered up to stay warm. Despite knowing that beyond the curtains of his bed wait a horde of servants and privacy will be a distant thing, Henry is soothed by the familiarity of his manservant’s command.

Joseph has been his personal manservant since Henry left the palace nursery and was deemed no longer a child. The man was a veteran servant, on the path to becoming a butler, when appointed to the task of looking after the Crown Prince. Yet despite what some may see as a demotion, becoming the minder of a seven year old boy, Joseph took the position with grace and dignity. Never would a sour expression cross his face, nor a bad word pass his lips. In fact, he often had warm smiles for his young charge, and reassuring words before breakfast that Henry always held close to his heart. Joseph has managed the prince’s life for many years, helped him look, act and be the part of Crown Prince. Joseph’s presence will calm Henry’s nerves after his disastrous conversation with Mother.

Rolling momentarily deeper into the cocoon of his blankets, Henry takes a moment to fortify himself. He must don the mask of the charming but aloof prince of Aurea.

The curtain twitches. Joseph speaks quietly.

“Good morning, your highness. Are you ready?”

Henry does not respond, but he tugs twice on the curtain. He hears Joseph step away and command all non essential servants from the room. Henry pushes himself up and steps out from the safety of his bed.

A bath is steaming across the room. The sweet-smelling bath salts Joseph always adds attracting him like a bee to a beautiful flower. He strips off his night-shirt and casts it into a servant’s waiting hands. The heat of the water is heaven. Muscles he didn’t realise were tense, immediately relax. Henry takes a moment to submerge himself completely. When he emerges, Joseph hands him a sponge, already lathered with soap, for him to clean himself.

Henry knows Joseph must have seen a mark on his face, though he knows not how bad it looks. Perhaps it is a mere echo of long, cold fingers, brushing across his cheek. Or perhaps it is a shade of purple merchants royals would kill to wear. Henry knows Joseph sees, for he has a momentary pause before stepping away and wordlessly retrieving a small, gilt jar from the drawer of the vanity. There is nothing they can say about it.

After scrubbing his skin clean of sweat and lingering aches, Henry motions for his breakfast to be brought near. He eats while soaking in the heat. A traditional Aurean breakfast is heavy with meats and breads. Start the day as you mean to go on, they say. Mother and Father have been known to have a suckling pig laid out at their breakfast table, along with five different varieties of bread and pastry. Henry has never been able to stomach it. It sits likes a weight partway down his throat, and he struggles to swallow for minutes after. Instead his fare is lighter, an array of jewel-coloured fruits that burst on the tongue, tart and sweet, and thin pancakes sweetened with sugar. He eats with his fingers, which would throw Mother into a fit if she saw, but is rather convenient for eating in the bath.

“What is the order of the day, Joseph?” Henry asks. There must be something. The first of his brides is coming soon, approaching her death unaware. Perhaps today he will be lulling her into a false sense of security, charming her not to question their queer rituals.

“A wardrobe fitting for your wedding outfit is first. The tailor simply wishes to check the fit, I am sure. Then, Her Majesty the Queen has organised a rehearsal of the ceremonies, to help you feel more at ease.”

Henry closes his eyes against the sudden choking fear. “Am I to practice throwing a sack of sand off a bridge? How do you practice for murder?” He spits the words like they are poison coating his tongue.

Joseph replies in a measured tone, “The ceremony is a necessity to ensure the safety and longevity of the kingdom - it is a heavy duty, but an honourable one. Shall I remove the breakfast tray?”

Henry nods. His appetite has vanished.

When Joseph bends close to take away the food, his breath brushes against the prince’s ear. “I am sure that the princes of previous generations felt similar doubts. As I said, a heavy duty. A burden you must bear as Crown Prince.”

“I just wish there were another way.”

“The Crown has looked into any alternatives over the centuries, I am sure. This is the only way. And the kingdom stands with you as you act in their best interests.”

Henry stands from the bath and lets his skin dry in the morning breeze streaming through the open balcony door. Not two days ago, Joseph’s words would have erased his doubts completely. The confirmation of a lifetime of lessons on duty and sacrifice, specifically the sacrifice of three “princesses” each generation, would have been enough to carry him through the rest of his life. But that damned letter from his bride-to-be weakened his convictions and allowed doubts and guilt to worm inside his mind and his heart. And now into his stomach, as he fears even his light breakfast may be making a return journey.

Joseph dresses the prince in a simple shirt and breeches, in anticipation of the tailor’s visit, then guides him to sit at the vanity, his back to the mirror. While the prince offers up his cheek, his manservant collects a small amount of ointment from the gilt jar and lightly dabs it into the darkened skin. Soon the shadows disappear, now indistinguishable from the rest of his complexion. The lingering ache does not disappear so easily. Joseph gives two quick swipes at the prince’s undereyes with his thumb before returning the jar to its hiding-place.

Henry turns to face the mirror, reviewing his manservant’s diligent work. He much prefers to view himself without imperfections, rather than face the true reflection. It is easier to take on the mantle of perfect prince that way. Looking into his own eyes, Henry curves his lips into that practiced smile. Charming yet aloof. Sweet but distant. Proud yet humble. Those are the ingredients of an Aurean prince.

A knock on the chamber door interrupts the moment of reflection. The guards outside announce the presence of the royal tailor, his assistants, and the castle steward. After a nod from his charge, Joseph opens the door, and the prince is swept up into his final fitting, positioned on a small stool and circled by keen-eyed seamstresses brandishing needles and scissors.

The wedding outfit is made of unadorned blue fabric. It is simple, certainly in comparison to what Mother will undoubtedly wear, and his own bride’s ensemble. Henry rather thinks it will join his regular rotation of clothes after the weddings. Golden piping finishes the garment, and three chains of golden links drape across his chest. It seems a comfortable fit, and Henry has little idea of what the tailor is seeing when he pinches the seams and tuts to his assistants. Henry casts a glance to Joseph, but the manservant is directing his underlings to clear away the morning’s debris.

When the tailor is certain that the outfit will bear the scrutiny of three royal weddings and three religious ceremonies, Henry is stripped of it, and dressed again in the clothes Joseph picked out. Henry runs his fingers along the woven pattern of the doublet, noting, with a stiffled scoff, that it is more luxurious that what he will wear to his wedding. Even the flask secured to his belt bears more adornment than his wedding outfit. For all the importance of the ceremonies, it is clear they do not warrant much effort on the part of his wardrobe. Certainly, the outfit for his fourth wedding will certainly be more opulent. He has seen the King and Queen’s wedding portrait, hung in the symbolically anmed Fourth Hall alongside the wedding portratits of all his ancestors. In the portrait, Mother and Father are bedecked in finery, everything is encrusted with gold or jewels. There are rings on each finger, bracelets and necklaces, shimmering belt buckles and pearl-drop earrings. Many a time, Henry has tried to imagine himself in their position, being as regal and refined, but each time his vision faltered. Mother and Father raised the standards impossibly high.

Joseph brushes a palm between Henry’s shoulder blades and encourages him towards the door. The ceremony rehearsals are waiting, and presumably Mother is already overseeing the final touches. Before leaving, he turns to snatch the letter from the drawer of his desk. A glance at the elegant cursive and enchanting insignia both sicken and strengthen him as he approaches the most important days of his life.

Chapter Text

The small courtyard of the palace of Aurea is bustling with servants. Maid with baskets of orange and red roses decorate the balustrades. A luxurious carpet is being rolled out and secured to form the aisle. And in the middle of it all stands Mother, Isabelle, Queen of Aurea and High Priestess of the Red Order. Like a lighthouse in the heart of a storm, she oversees all work, barking strict orders that are obeyed at once. The chaos of the preparations is not reflected in her serene, pleased expression.

It might be the happiest Henry has ever seen Mother. What seems like pure joy hides behind her regal mask, shining in her eyes. Did she ever look that way for Henry? For anything other than human sacrifice? Did she feel such joy when he was born, when she held a squalling, red-faced babe in her arms? Or even when his tutors spoke of his successes, few as they may be? Henry does not truly want the answer.

Mother’s gaze finally lands on Henry, lingering at the edge of the courtyard. The twist of her smile sharpens. She approaches and kisses his cheek.

“Henry. Did you sleep well, my son?” Have you come to your senses?  The unspoken question passes between them.

“Mother. I feel well rested.” Yes, Mother. His response is contrite and humble, hopefully enough for Mother to accept without further comment.

Mother links her arm in his, and guides him through the courtyard. Her hand is firm on his arm, and he carefully checks the strength of his posture. Servants part before them like a knife through silk, even as they start their second loop. Their steps are measured; a royal never hurries.

“I gave much thought to our conversation last night,” says Mother. Henry casts a wary glance at Mother from the corner of his eye, but sees nothing alarming on her face. Mother contineus to survey the preparations, pointing to a gap in the flowers or a wrinkle in the carpet. “I thought we should warm those cold feet of yours. It is remiss of me to expect a youth such as yourself to feel no anxiety. It is the saying of the youth, is it not, that love is the greatest force of all. Ideas like that put significant weight on matters of the heart, and on weddings.”

Mother pauses, and Henry is obliged to reply, “You are quite right, Mother. Weddings are momentous events, but I must understand that my situation is unique. I would be most grateful for your expert guidance on this matter, and on the later ceremonies.” A pause. “You were a witness in your generation, were you not?”

He has never dared ask about Mother’s experience, beyond hearing regurgitated platitudes of joy and honour. He knows that as the eldest daughter of the previous King, finding three sacrifices was of paramount importance. But surely she had not hardened her heart against their suffering, she must have empathised with their pain, at least a little. And yet, Henry rather doubts it.

Mother sighs, “I suppose it is customary to pass on wisdom to the next generation, especially at events such as these.” She stops thier circular route and guides him to sit on bench, not yet adorned with orange and red flowers. “As you know, I was the eldest daughter, and thus Crown Princess. If I married, it would create a prince, which was superfluous at the time. So we waited until my brother was of age to marry. It took a few years, and some worried we might be too late, but we arrangedthe ceremonies as soon as we could. He was not much older than you, in fact.

“The weddings were beautiful affairs. Not for the decorations, nor the vows that were said, but for the symbolism. Participation in our kingdom’s history and its future. More than one tear slipped down from my mask during the first sacrifice, and during the third I thought my smile might crack the gold into pieces.” Mother smiled wide - that true joy again, this time without the veil of regality. “I hope you will come to know such a feeling - it truly is a transcendent experience.”

“What of your brother? How did he feel?”

“He knew his duty, of course. He put little stock in his weddings, seeing them as mere preludes to the grand event - his fourth, to a suitably pious knight’s daughter. he barely glanced at his brides, and he could hardly wait to finish the sacrifice. Always an eager young man, my brother. But you understand, my son, that the sacrifice is essential, and should be treated honourably, but once done it matters very little. You will marry your true bride, become King of Aurea, and further our great kingdom. It is all quite simple. You see… a prince protects his people, no matter the cost.”

“Your brother, my uncle, I’ve never met him, have I? Is he coming to the sacrifice?” If his uncle is indeed coming, then perhaps his advice would be more helpful. Or maybe it will make his stomach churn even more. Mother’s raw, unfiltered glee was inspiring his breakfast to make a return.

“He’s dead. A drunken walk and a broken parapet. Not even a year after his fourth wedding - tragic, really.”

The bottom of Henry’s stomach drops to the ground. His predecessor is dead. The last prince to marry three times and sacrifice three times, is dead. A tragic accident, or a happy one? And happy for whom? Mother is hardly affected, as she brushes her skirts off and gestures for him to follow. If only his uncle were here. If only the dead could live again.

The bishop has arrived, ready to lead Henry and Mother through the rehearsal. He explains that Henry will be waiting by his side until the bride walks down the aisle. Once there, the bishop will say words which Henry will repeat. The words, apparently, are significant in other kingdoms, and will suffice as vows for the brides, but they ahve never held much power in Aurea. Aurean vows speak of duty, sacrifice and fire. They speak of shadows under mountains and perpetual obligation. Lifelong commitment, and commitment even beyond death, are standard inclusions. The words the bishop tells him of sound entirley too foreign. Perhaps that is how the princes before him stayed aloof? Is it really a wedding if the words you speak are in another language?

Then they will exchange rings. A member of the bride’s family will carry them on a pillow - a task designed to put them more at ease with the haste of the marriage, Mother comments. Then there will be a kiss.

Mother steps up to him then, and speaks lowly, as if in confidence and reassurance. “A mere touch of the lips, if need be. And there will be nothing more. No consummation until your fourth, you understand. And your father will have some words of advice for that, ways to get through.” She reaches up to tap his cheek, her nails brushing his eyelashes. “Now warm those cold feet of yours, and think of Aurea.”

Henry’s face flames, and he cannot look the bishop in the eye knowing what the man must surely think of him. Thankfully, the kiss is the last event of the wedding before the carriage ride to the mountains. All Henry must do is smile, charm and wait patiently - and he has plenty of practice at that.

It is as Mother guides Henry to a waiting carriage, that Henry realises the other ceremony requires rehearsal as well. Is it better or worse, he wonders, to know what is coming and be able to see it in his dreams, or to be unaware and fear the unknown? Will it soothe him to know the inner workings of the trick? Will his heart stop bruising his ribs if he sees the fate he will inflict on the innocent?

Wiping his palms on his breeches, Henry conceals his turmoil under a mask as impenetrable as the golden ceremonial masks. Mother bows her head in faint approval. Henry pushes back his shoulders and lifts his chin. He casts his gaze out of the carriage window, looking past the shining gold interior to the lush green fields beyond.

Aside from the occassional ride through the countryside, always accompanied by a contingent of guards, Henry’s life has remianed within palace walls. He looks out at the fertile fields and glittering rivers, and wonders how far they stretch. Do they reach the border? What lies beyond that? Is there a land out there as cursed as his own, or will those lands shun the very mention of Aurea? No matter the reception, Henry longs to see them. Perhaps once he is married, Mother might allow him on a diplomatic mission to another kingdom in which he might truly see the world.

The carriage pulls to a stop near the carved stone stairs - the highest the carriage can travel before the rocks risk damage to the wheels and axles. Henry steps out and offers a dutiful hand to Mother. She taps his cheek again, and leads the way up.

“You will escort your brides this way. Ensure that you tell them it is an ancient ceremony, one of three, to honour our ancestors and thank them for their contributions to our great kingdom. It is very important to our family, and to our people. That should keep her from voicing any ridiculous protests. She may balk at the masks, but simply smile, and if she asks, they are part of Aurean traditional costume. There will be roses across the path, and candles, all the better to soothe her romantic heart.”

Suddenly Mother stops in her tracks and turns back to him, her expression stern once more. “Don’t let the decorations lull you too. Remember what I told you of the Prince’s duty.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Mother continues leading him up the steps and towards the stone bridge. The dizzying darkness on either side call to him, a macabre melody that makes him grip his belt like a lifeline. That is his brides’ fate. Her coffin, her final resting place.

“I will lead the ceremony,” Mother intones from the altar. “I will hand your bride a coin, then we will perform the hand-fasting. I will cut your hand, then hers, then press them together to mix the blood.”

Mother shows him the bronze dagger. It is smaller than he expected. It fits neatly in Mother’s hand like it was deisgned for her. If he didn’t know that it was centuries old, he might believe just that.

“Will it hurt?” Henry murmurs. His eyes stay on the blade, the source of the trick.

Mother gives a short bark of laughter. “Of course. It is a blade, and we do not let it dull. But I know what I am doing, and a doctor will tend to you immediately. You will be bandaged and soothed before you even leave the mountain.”

Finally, Mother places the dagger back into its box, and Henry can look away.

“Once she is of royal blood, she will cast her coin, and you will carry her back across the bridge. You know what you do next?”

Henry nods, turning to look at the middle of the bridge.

“I throw her over.”

“I recommend a quick and sudden surge of strength. Best not to let her thrash about and hurt you.”

“And then it is over?”

“And then it is over.”

Mother walks back across the bridge. The skirts of her dress brush against his legs, and he steps aside to give her room. Rock scrapes as the heel of his foot slips over the edge of the bridge. He regains his footing.

“I am glad you realise your duty. A prince protects his people, no matter the cost.”

No matter the cost. The words ring through Henry’s mind.

This is the only way. That was what Joseph had said to him, what his tutors, his parents, his servants have said to him for as long as he can remember. Henry brushes his hand against his pocket, where he keeps Elodie’s letter.

A prince protects his people.

No matter the cost.

Henry looks at his mother, speaking with the ladies-in-waiting and Red Priestesses who accompany her everywhere. He cannot be like her. He cannot stand by while innocents suffer. He cannot throw a young woman to a monster, when all she wanted was to marry him.

Henry takes a step, and falls down into the chasm.

Chapter Text

Despite knowing, even for a split second, that the fall was coming, the feeling of falling comes as a shock. His organs swoop within him and push against his body, as if falling came as a surprise to them. Air rushes past him, whipping his hair across his face. Branches barely slow his descent but they claw at the face, limbs and chest, ripping skin and fabric alike. Screams and yelps burst from his mouth, undignified noises Mother for which Mother would chastise him.

Falling lasts an eternity, but is over all too soon. Henry’s body slams into the body of a tree and is captured by its fingers. A deadly nail embeds in his thigh. A guttural scream tears itself from his throat. Suspended a foot above the ground, looking up at the bridge and the distance he traveled in a few seconds, agony engulfs his leg. The rocking of the branches, like the swaying of a cradle, pulls on his wound, never letting him forget it.

Henry dare not look. He only looks up. The faint silhouettes are small as ants on the road. It is impossible to distinguish Mother from the Priestesses and Guards. Is he imagining the shouts and cries? Is Mother barking her orders? Are they scaling down to retrieve him already? In that case, he must move quickly. They cannot bring him back.

Henry braces himself on the stronger branches and finally looks at his leg. A thin branch has torn its way straight through the meat of his thigh. Blood coats the protruding branch. A small offshoot clings to a bundle of red. Henry gags, turning to spit on to the ground. His breeches are soaked through, and red is spreading down the trunk. It is fitting, Henry notes in the corner of his mind, that blood nourishes this place of death. But it is his blood now, and not the blood of innocents.

Steeling himself, Henry lifts his chest, trying in vain not to tense the muscles of his leg. It takes some maneuvering, and many moments to stop and scream in pain, tamping down the urge to writhe. At those moments, he thinks the noises above get louder, and the beat of his heart accelerates. He cannot let them take him. They will ruin everything. He must stay down here.

Finally, Henry is sat up and stable. With a grip slick with blood, he grasps the offending branch and pulls with all his might. He has never been particularly strong, has never excelled in his physical training and he is rather ridiculous with a sword. Father always winced when watching his weapons practice, or he held a goblet of wine in hand with a jug waiting nearby. But something pours strength into his limbs now. The branch snaps, thankfully close to his leg. Bracing for pain, Henry lifts his leg off the remaining stump, and rolls down to the ground.

His vision turns white. He can feel his heartbeat in his leg, feel the rush of blood leaving his body. After a moment, his faculties return.

Freed from the confines of the tree, Henry can look around at the bottom of this pit. The first thing he notices is the surprising lack of bodies. Either the monster eats the sacrifices, or they do not die here. Looking up at the steep rock walls, he supposes they would not find salvation that way. merely by moving forwards would they be able to find a way out. If there was one. The second thing he notices is the clothing. Gold pendants, ruby necklaces, odd shoes, the same tiara several times over. Each “princess” lost something here, perhaps from the fall, or thrown away in righteous anger. And so much of value left scattered at the bottom of a pit - are his people so wasteful or so wealthy? He had never given thought to why they dressed the sacrifices in such finery, only to leave it to rust and decay in the mountain.

Idiot, he reminds himself. The jewellery hardly matters when a life is lost. Idiot.

Vague noises above spur him on. Surely they have called for more guards or some rope. He must leave this chamber and hide in the mountain. He will follow the path of the sacrifices before him. He must find the dragon before his people find him.

With a rip, his undershirt is torn into a strip, and, with the vice-like grip of his belt, stauches the bleeding and allows the prince to stand on his leg. Now able to limp his way through the tunnels, Henry does not delay.

There is an opening in the rock, large enough to a person to walk comfortably. Darkness envelopes him as he enters, and he prays his eyes adjust soon. The walls are sharp and jagged across his palm as he keeps himself balanced on the uneven ground. This is the path walked by so many innocent women before him. Henry places his foot where theirs was placed. He stands in their footsteps. Their fingertips touch across the centuries on the sharp rock walls. Did their hearts bruise their ribs as his does? Did fear coat their palms and drip from their eyes? Is it sacrilege for him to be here? He is the guilty party, the oppressor, the perpetrator of their misery. Is his presence an insult to their ghosts? Would this pilgrimage, his walk of penance, violate their eternal rest? Regardless, he knows that whatever he achieves in this mountain, it will change the course of history.

There are vague plans in the prince’s mind to put an end to the sacrifices, one way or another. His plans start with coming face to face with the dragon, from their they diverge. One fork of the crossroad, leads to a renegotiation of terms. The dragon will be made aware of his ancestors’ trick, and will take their sacrifices from the caslet itself - a fool proof way to ensure only the guilty pay the penalty. Another fork reveals the trick, and the dragon takes his life in lieu of a princess, and leads to the end of the Aurean royal line. A third fork… The third fork is the most optimistic and least probable. Along this path, no one dies. This path is tenuous, easily diverted to the other forks, and may lead to a dead end and the destruction of Aurea itself. In truth, the various plans are more like the closely woven branches of a dense bush, merging into one another and twisting back on itself. In truth, Henry has no clear idea of how to walk the path he wants, but he knows he must try.

The small tunnel finally opens out into a large chamber. A cavernous hall puts the Grand Ballroom at the palace to shame. The vaulted ceilings are so high Henry might break his neck to see them, the shadows so dark they seem to writhe and dance. Pendulous stalactites hang down to the ground, meeting the giant stalagmites like teeth in the jaws of a fearsome beast. A thick, earthy smell pervades the air, with an underlying element of something rotton. Henry cannot quite place what it is, though a bells rings distantly in the back of his mind. From the vast space above Henry’s head comes a soft, fluttering sound, like the fluttering of a birds’ wings. Like the fluttering of a thousand birds’ wings. The sound grows louder and more energetic until, alerted by the presence of a stranger in their nest, a host of sparrows swarm through the air. They weave about the rock formations with practiced grace and elegance. Delicate chirps echo off the walls in a deafening symphony.

A smile tugs at Henry’s lips, and he breathes out a short, gasping laugh. The sparrows’ dance is mesmerising. They swing low, arch high, and make tight, hairpin turns. It is hardly the sight he expected from the dragon’s lair. How could so many, tiny creatures share a home with a fire-breathing monster? Surely the creature could swallow them all at once.

“Beautiful.”

“Beautiful.”

Chapter Text

“Beautiful.”

The voice echoes through the cavern. The low, grumbling timbre raises the hairs on the back of prince Henry’s neck. It is truly terrifying. It is a death knell, announcing the end of a life. Now it is his life that hangs in the balance. It is the voice of the dragon, the creature that has cursed his people for generations. It is the creature that his family has betrayed for generations.

Standing in the middle of the chamber, among the towering and looming rock formations, Henry casts his quick gaze around him for any sight of the creature. But the darkness is too thick, impenetrable. The sparrows are gone now, scared away by the creature’s voice. Henry feels their loss like a soldier losing his armour in battle. He is exposed, vulnerable, alone. Though the sparrows were tiny animals, more prey than predator, their presence had been a comfort signalling the absence of immediate danger. But danger is here now. And the dragon’s camouflage is too effective; he may never see it coming.

But he can hear it. One swipe of its wings sends a gust of air towards him, spraying specks of dust and dirt into his face. Motes clings to his moist lips, the taste of death and decay on his tongue. He wipes his face clear with his sleeve. It is then that he realises what that strangely familiar scent was. The smell of rot that pervaded the air of the cavern is in the fabric of his doublet already. It is sulphur. It smells like rotten eggs. Now there is a smell like burning metal in his nose. It is said that dragon fire smells like suplhur and metal. It must be the dragon’s presence, invading the world around it and laying claim. A dragon cannot live in a mountain for centuries without making its mark.

And the dragon is making plenty of marks. Now, Henry hears the bone-chilling scrape of claws on stone. The squeak of rock breaking into dust pierces his ears and makes him cringe. Is it coming from behind him? Or to the left? He still cannot see the creature. The dragon claws the rock again. It sounds closer this time. Henry stumbles around, a vain attempt to keep the creature in sight.

“I smell royal blood…”

The voice weakens his knees. His already injured leg buckling with fear. He knew the dragon could talk. After all, it had demanded three princesses as sacrifices from the first King, but he had not expected a voice with such refinement. He had expected something more… base, vulgar, simple. Not the vaguely feminine, lilting voice that vibrates deep into his bones and organs.

“But you are not a princess. You are not what is owed to me.”

Henry takes a fortifying breath and hopes his voice does not tremble too much.

“No, I am not.” He projects from his diaphragm, as his tutors taught him to do in preparation for making decrees in court. He has never had to use this skill in any official capacity, or in any capacity beyond the classroom. “But I am here in her place.”

“Who are are you? What is your name, little one?”

“I am Henry, Prince of Aurea, and only child of Queen Isabelle and King Roderick.”

“Hen-ry.”  The creature enunciates. “A prince. Are you all that is left?”

Henry still cannot see the dragon, though he feels it coming closer. The scrape of claws on rock, the gusts of air sent by powerful wings, and the voice that sounds like it is coming from right behind him. Though he attempts the posture of a future king, he cannot stop from turning his head this way and that. Henry may have come down here of his own volition, but that does not prevent the terror coursing through his veins.

“I am the last of my line. I am here to speak with you, to renegotiate the deal that was made with the first King, my ancestor.”

“You wish to renegotiate.”  The dragon’s laughter is cruel and cold. “It was not a deal that was made. It is the price for what was taken and it will not be altered.”

The anger in the dragon’s voice finally sends Henry to his knees. He grits his teeth against the burning agony of his injured leg. “I am sorry if my words offended you, it was not my intent. I merely meant that there are things of which you are unaware, and I wish to make you aware.”

“There are no more princesses.” There is something contemplative in the dragon’s voice. For a while, the cavern is silent. There is no spray of dust from the dragon’s wing, nor claws raking against the rocks. “Justice has reached its end.”

“No, I fear it has not. I fear justice has not been done at all.”

“You want justice.”

“I do.”

“Then run.”  The dragon commands, then rushes for Henry like an eagle swooping down to seize a shrew.

Henry scrambles backwards. He does not escape the giant paw coming down on him. It imprisons him against the earth, pressing on his chest and fragile ribs beneath until he hears them crack and cries out in pain. The dragon looms over him, breath hot on his face. Through the gloom, Henry can make out a slitted nose, flakes of gold, and burning eyes with thin pupils. The smell of sulphur and metal is choking this close, each laboured breath draws in more of the dragon’s essence. Henry’s lungs burn from the inside out.

Light begins to flare out from the creature’s chest. Fire, Henry’s mind supplies redundantly. Sweat begins to bead on his skin and soak through his clothes. The sting mingles with the blood of his wounds and cuts.

This is how I will die, he thinks. He will burn. He will die the way of every sacrifice before him. The path he is on is one of penance, so he shall suffer as they suffered, feel as they felt, die as they died. Fire is a painful death, he knows, but perhaps his proximity to the dragon’s maw will make it quick. That is more than the women before him were given. A stab of guilt lances his stomach. He hopes he has not failed. Though he knows not what the dragon will do once he is dead, Henry hopes it is an end to the suffering. Whether the dragon leaves the kingdom alone, content to have taken the end of the royal bloodline, or burns the castle to the ground, with his parents inside, if the dragon knows that there are no more princesses, then no more women will die for this ploy.

And so, the prince closes his eyes in peace, and he waits.

Suddenly the heat recedes. The crushing weight on Henry’s chest eases a fraction. But he still does not open his eyes. It may a trick, one well-deserved. He wants this death. It is what he deserves.

“You do not fight. You do not scream. I heard your screams when you fell, but you do not scream now. Why?”

Eyes closed, Henry replies, “Because I deserve this. I do not want to fight you. You should kill me.”

“You said you wanted justice. As the last of your line, you want to end my life and my reign over you.”

“No, no. It is not my justice I seek, but yours. We have wronged you, more than you know. I want to fix this.”

It is peaceful lying down and waiting for death. The wound on his leg still throbs, and the superficial cuts on his face sting. His clothes are damp with blood and sweat. The fierce pounding of his heart is slowing. Exhausted tremors have overtaken his hands. But his muscles do not ache with the effort of keeping him upright. The still presence of the dragon’s paw resting over his chest feels like the heavy, quilted blankets that cloak his bed in winter. The slow rumble of the dragon’s breathing could be a lullaby. All Henry wants is to sleep.

“Open your eyes, little prince.”

Henry obeys. His eyes feel like they have been coated with sand, and his eyelids are so heavy. The dragon still looms over him, face a mere foot away. Its blazing orange eyes peer intently at the prince.

They are the same colour as the flowers that decorate the small courtyard of the palace. Did Mother choose the colour on purpose? Has she ever seen the dragon as more than just a shadow in the sky? It is an intriguing coincidence. Perhaps the first King decreed it so, yet another way to insult the dragon. Is the gold that is so abundant in their lands also a way to insult the creature and the golden specks on its skin? Even in the grey light of the cavern, they seem to glow and shine. Are dragons made of pure gold underneath the thick hide?

“Hen-ry.” The dragon croons. His attention is summoned with a start. “You said there were things I should know that I do not. You said there has not been justice. You say many curious things, little prince. Do not think I forget them.”

Before Henry can reply, the dragon’s claws extend and curl inwards. His body is easily scooped up into the dragon’s paw, until he is suspended above the ground, cradled in a palm. Even without the use of one paw, the dragon lifts up from the ground with a powerful thrust and beat of its wings. Circling through the maze of rock formations with as much grace and skill as the host of delicate sparrows, Henry finds, exhausted as he is and captive to a fire-breathing dragon, that flying is the best feeling in the world. Wind rushes through his hair. His limbs feel weightless.

It is with a faint smile on his face, that Henry slips into sleep and allows the dragon to take him wherever it pleases. After all, having spared his life, his life is now the dragon’s to do with as it wishes.

Chapter Text

Stretching out across a deep and dark chasm, is a stone bridge. The worn surface is strewn with vibrant, blood red rose petals. The path up the side of the mountain is littered with glass bottles and abandoned clothing; a belt is tossed over a rock, a doublet thrown in the corner, a cravat caught on the ropes and fluttering lightly in the breeze. And in the middle of the bridge kneels a desolate figure.

His back is bowed. His forehead pressed to the ground. Tears pour from his eyes like rivers down a mountainside. His rosy-pink lips are pulled into a hideous frown, wet with saliva. Blond hair, once styled in the latest fashion, is now in disarray. The golden curls have been tugged and pulled and ripped from their roots. Tinted paste has been wiped from his skin, revealing a sickly pallor and bruised cheeks. Sobs wrack this wretched young man’s body.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. Please forgive me.” The man repeats his pleas over and over again. Sometimes he whispers or mutters into the ground, other times he cries them as loud as he can and screams until his voice turns hoarse. “Forgive me. Forgive my sins. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Wind whistles up the mountain and into the cavern. The sun never reaches this alcove and never warms the stones. The man knees are freezing on the bridge, but he has long since numbed himself to that pain. The pain of his body, he thinks, is inconsequential compared to the pain of his heart and mind. His heart squeezes and seems not to beat. His mind offers him no reprieve, painting ghosts into the corners of his vision and torturing his sleeping hours.

He will stay here until morning, or until they drag him back to bed. Even then, he will not go easily. This is where he should be, where he deserves to be. They will drug and poison him, but he will be back at the next opportunity. After all, this is the third time in as many days that he has come to kneel vigil at the bridge. He will come again on the fourth day, and the fifth, and every day after that until he fades from existence.

Footsteps echo behind him. Delicate, light tapping as someone approaches. It is not the clang and clamour of armour, nor the angry tirade of his father. It must be a woman, to have such light feet. There it is, the swishing of a skirt against the ground. It is a woman.

What woman would ever willingly set foot in this place? He thinks. Yet the curiosity is not enough to turn his head from his constant pleas.

“I’m sorry. I did not wish to… I was not strong enough. Please, understand. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, do give it a rest, dear brother.” The words are stony and bored.

Even before the woman stops before him, the hem of her dress and the toes of her golden shoes in his eye-line, the young man knows who has come for him. It is his elder sister, Isabelle.

“Leave me be, Isabelle. Please.”

Isabelle scoffs. It is a sound she does not often make, so obsessed with displaying herself as the future prosperity of Aurea. She is the Crown Princess, the future ruling Queen. She wants the people to see that she has a backbone of steel and is prepared to do whatever needs doing to protect the kingdom. And she loathes seeing her brother so weak.

For much of his life, he has known that his sister is disappointed in him. She has taken pains to remind him that he should be stronger, that their history demands more from him. Whispered admonishments in court, plainly spoken chastisements before bed, and veiled glances of disdain are her favourite methods. It has grown so much worse as the days of his weddings grew closer and his reluctance began to show. She made it clear that cowardice was not an option, and the only way he got through it was by getting drunk and pretending the brides were empty dolls from his childhood dollhouse. But now, the truth has hit him again, that he did not throw his dolls out of his window in a tantrum, but living women down into the jaws of a monster.

“I cannot believe you,” Isabelle sighs. “You are part of an illustrious line, a name forever remembered in history for protecting our kingdom, and yet you sit here and pout. I have wished since I was a child that I were born a boy so that I could take part in the ceremonies. You have never appreciated the gifts you are given. If it weren’t for me, those women would have realised that something was amiss and fled or screamed or worse. I am the one who helped them dress properly, fooled them with talk of our strange customs, soothed their pre-wedding nerves. While you merely drank your way through the wine cellar. You have always been an ungrateful child, Benedict.”

Benedict, Prince of Aurea, thought his heart was numb to his sister’s insults. But her words have cast him between two opposing feelings, both inflicting guilt for feeling the other. On one hand, he has just killed three innocent women, who all thought they were marrying a prince and becoming a true princess. He feels a heartbreaking sorrow for those women, for their families, for their misplaced trust in him as he carried them across the bridge. Yet, his family find joy is such deplorable acts, they praise him, raise toast to him, and shame him for feeling anything but happiness. There is no way for him to turn that does not cause him more pain and guilt and grief.

“I’m sorry, sister, that I cannot be the brother you want,” Benedict murmurs. “Just let me go. Please.”

Isabelle looks down at her brother’s pale face. She crouches down before him. With a long-nailed hand under his chin, she lifts his face close to hers.

“Dear brother, not yet.” She runs a thumb over the corner of his lip, where the fragile skin has split and bled. “Your wedding is a few days, and this bride’s opinion matters considerably more than the others. Now, get up and get back down this mountain.”

Isabelle stands and gestures to someone behind him. Immediately, two guards step forward, grab him under the arms and lift him up. When his legs do not cooperate, they simply drag him backwards out of the cavern.

“Just leave me here. Let me go. Please, just let me go.”

Benedict’s pleas go unanswered, as if his words were mere wind.

As the guards begin to drag him down the mountain steps, Benedict turns to face you: “Three were taken. Three must be given.”

*

Prince Henry wakes with a start. The words of his uncle echo in his mind. Three were taken. Three must be given.

He knows that part of the story. The first King, so the story goes, killed the scourge before it could grow and terrorise their land and those beyond, just like its parent. As payment, the dragon wanted three princesses, and the King defeated it again with a trick. When Henry was told the story, tucked up in bed, a nursemaid fussing with his blankets, the first King was a brave and honourable man, who wanted only to protect his kingdom. It was only his love for his daughters that made him surrender, but also allowed him to have the last laugh. Sometimes the story said the dragon spawns’ first breathes were of pure fire. Joseph used to say that each egg was the size of a grown man’s chest, and nearly melted the swords of the knights with its heat. Many ladies at court judge a man’s worthiness by whether he would have joined the first King’s campaign, or if he would have even been invited.

As a child, Henry used to soak up stories of his ancestors’ heroics, as if they could imbue him with that same strength. But now, he knows that there is more to every story. The sacrifices that his people have conducted for centuries mean something very different to its victims, and their stories are equally valid. So it stands to reason that there is alternate history to the King’s campaign.

Three were taken. Three must be given.

The words circle around in his mind, repeating in an endless loop. What do they mean? Why did he dream of his uncle? Can he trust a dream to be the truth? If it is the truth, or something like it, it offers some consolation that Henry is not the first prince to doubt his duty. Prince Benedict before him was forced to complete his duty, and was distraught with grief and guilt. He did not naively commit murder. Henry may be the first to throw himself into the chasm, but at least he has some ancestors in whose memory he might take some solace.

Henry blinks his eyes, focusing them in the dim light. This chamber is new. Looking up at the ceiling, thousands of feet above him, he sees shafts of light coming in from outside through cracks in the rock. They look as if pure sunlight is being poured into the mountain, golden and intangible. Dust motes floating through the light glow, like fireflies in the dark of night, or embers in a dying fire. It must be sunset, Henry reasons, recognising the warmth of the sun at the end of the day. But whether it is the first sunset since his fall, or the second, he does not know. Could he have slept for a whole day? His mouth has that dry, horrible taste that comes with too much sleep, yet he does not feel rested. And yet he is too awake now.

Sitting up, Henry stifles a scream behind gritted teeth. Agony, far worse than it felt when the wound was first inflicted, courses through his body. He grinds his teeth to dust against the torture. It radiates out from his thigh, pulsing and throbbing. The pain makes his head go light and fuzzy. He reaches a hand for his belt, still tight against his leg but doing nothing for the pain. When his fingers make contact with skin, the heat makes him pull away with a hiss. An infection, it must be, he think.

Henry falls back down, overwhelmed. Then he realises exactly where he is lying, curled in the nest of a dragon’s tail. The dragon-hide is rough and scratches against the fabric of his clothes. But the muscles, though powerful, are rather comfortable as a bed, and warm too. The tail is long and serpentine, and the coils support the contours of his body perfectly. It would be the perfect resting place, were it not to the dragon to which the tail belonged currently staring at him.

In the golden sunlight streaming into the cavernous chamber, the dragon is revealed in all its terrible glory. Its skin is a shade of grey, almost black, highlighted in an unreadable pattern with flecks of gold. A streak lies under its jaw, another is painted above its lips. Thousands of deadly fangs, the largest the length of his hand, the shortest with razor-sharp points, fill the creature’s mouth; a mouth which rests slightly open, as if to keep its weapons on display. The dragon’s head is crowned with spines and fronds, some black, some highlighted in gold, each the length of a sword. The creature’s throat is layered like armour, its very own gorget, and ripples when it breathes. And finally, the eyes burn like staring straight at the sun, and they are trained intently on the prince.

“Did you sleep well, little prince?” The dragon asks politely.

Somehow, Henry feels the dragon would prefer a more honest answer than Mother expects when she asks the same. So he gives his response some thought.

“My dreams were not pleasant, and I would not protest more sleep, though I am too awake now to get any.”

The dragon nods, understanding completely. “Are you ready to talk? You said many curious things. You say many curious things in your sleep as well.”

Henry blushes to think of the dragon watching and listening to him sleep. He had not known he spoke in his sleep, but he supposes no one would tell him if he did, lest they embarrass him, or anger his parents.

“Nothing too weird, I hope,” he attempts to joke. But the dragon has no sense of humour, and merely makes a grumbling humming sound. Is that a yes or a no? “But, yes, I am ready to talk, if you are ready to listen?”

The dragon shuffles its massive paws, as if getting comfortable, and pins him with an even more intense stare. The tail below him begins to shift gently, until his body is supported in a sitting position that does not strain his wounded leg.

“Thank you.”

“Then speak, Hen-ry.”

The prince reaches for his flask, draining the sweet juice inside to wet his lips. Then he takes a fortifying breath. Now is his chance to fix everything. He must get this right. The weight of this conversation bears heavily on his shoulders. He brushes hand against Elodie’s letter in his pocket.

“I must first offer my sincerest apologies for what I am about to tell you. I know you will not like it. I cannot say that the apologies are on behalf of my family, for they are not. But they are from me, and they are genuine as any feeling I have ever felt.

“When the first King led his campaign against this mountain and brought his men inside your lair, and wronged you so terribly, you enacted a penalty against him and his line, to be paid from that day until the end of your life. But I regret to tell you that penalty has never been paid. When the first King returned to the palace, he met with his advisors, his sons and his daughters, and they discussed, for many days and nights, a way to cheat you. In the end, they devised a trick, to put innocent women in the place of the princesses. By marrying a woman into the royal family, publicly declaring her to be the reigning monarch’s daughter and a princess of Aurea, and then by mixing her blood with the prince’s, they could fool you into believing her a true princess. And so, it is now tradition to marry three women, from lands beyond Aurea, to a prince, then sacrifice her to you.”

As Henry spoke, the dragon’s ire grew. The gorget at its throat glows with restrained fire. A grumble echoes through the chamber. The tip of its long tail flicks in agitation. yet, Henry continues.

“Some moons ago, the King and Queen declared that I was of age to be married and they were searching all known lands for three women to become my brides. They are due to arrive imminently, if they have not already. They were to take their turns marrying me, each unaware of the other two, and then be lead up to the mountain. We tell them that it is a ritual to honour our ancestors. It involves cutting my palm and theirs, then mixing the blood. Then I was to throw them into the chasm. For most of my childhood I was prepared to one day do my duty - to protect my people, as I had been told.

“But then I received a letter, from one of my brides.” Henry pulls the letter out of his pocket, and runs his thumb comfortingly over the elegant script. “After I read it, I could not, in good conscience, kill her. I tried what I could to postpone, to find another alternative, and my last plan involved throwing myself down here. I wanted to speak with you.”

For a while the dragon is silent, save for the quiet rumbling of its glowing throat. Burning eyes stare unnervingly into Henry very soul. The dragon takes its time digested and determining the truth of Henry’s words.

“You came on your own. You threw yourself down here?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What do you hope to gain from revealing the truth?”

“I want an end to this. If you know that the princesses are not Aurean, then you will not kill them anymore.”

“You said you wanted justice. Your kind have tricked me for centuries - their penalty will be so much greater now. I will kill those who dared trick me - I will kill your parents. I will burn their castle to the ground. I may even kill you…

“Is that what you want, little prince?”

Henry looks deep into the heart of the dragon’s eyes. The words the dragon speaks are not taunting nor cruel. The dragon is going to get its revenge. Henry’s answer will not change Aurea’s fate. But the dragon asks, gaze soft on the prince’s face, with compassion.

“I only want to save the innocent. The brides are innocent, they do not even know why they are really in Aurea. And the common people in the kingdom, they have been fed lies just like you, and they have no power to change what my ancestors have done. Spare them, please.”

Dragon’s breath caresses Henry’s face, and he closes his eyes once more. He has done it. The dragon has heard him. The innocent will be spared. He does not like to think of his parents burning, but they are not good people. The innocent will live. Now he can rest peacefully.

“Your Highness!” A man shouts from outside the mountain. His voice carried in through one of the cracks in the ceiling.

“Your Highness! Prince Henry!” The voices are growing louder, coming closer to an entrance. “We are here to rescue you! Hear us and come towards our voices!”

Suddenly, Henry’s heart accelerates, thrashing against his ribs. Royal guards are coming for him. They will find him and drag him back to the palace. Henry’s palms start to sweat and he digs his nails into the skin of his forearms. When Mother finds out he fell of his own volition and spoke to the dragon… he will be punished, worse than any punishment he has ever received. Will she force him to go through with the weddings and sacrifices if the dragon will not take them? The future beyond the mountain is unclear save one thing, that it will be full of pain.

“Your Highness!” The men are at an entrance now.

But the dragon has not moved. It is still looking at him.

“Do you wish to go?” Then it waits and watches.

Henry shakes his head, and the dragon’s tail slowly uncoils to lay him on the ground. With one powerful thrust of its wings, the creature flies towards the soldiers, gullet glowing like a torch. The prince does not cover his hears when he hears the spewing of fire and the screams of the men as they roast inside their armour and the flesh melts around blackened bones. 

As the dragon announces its displeasure and lights up the night sky with its fire, Henry is safe inside the mountain.

Chapter Text

The mountain at night is cold. The place where the dragon left him is exposed to frigid breezes and freezing stone. Without the dragon wrapped around him, Henry is far too cold. Even as the dragon lights up the night with fire, little heat reaches the lair. When Henry braces to curl into himself, his preserved warmth is still not enough.

He looks around the cavern. The grand space is larger than the whole of Aurea’s palace. Great columns stretch from the ground to the vaulted ceiling, decorated with curving plumes of rock, that strangely remind Henry of a species of mushroom. They cannot be naturally formed rock; Henry’s tutors have never described a phenomenon like that. So it must be due to the dragon. Is it caused by the dragon-fire? Henry laughs at the image of the great dragon decorating its lair with the aesthetic of molten fire.

Roars echo through the chamber as the dragon circles around outside. With each roar, the fiery glow is renewed. Shafts of light through cracks, once shining gold are now burnt orange. The people of Aurea must be terrified down in their villages. The great mountain that towers over their land is wreathed in flames on the eve of a sacrifice. And those that know their prince is missing must fear for his life as well as their own.

It was never Henry’s intention to scare his people, but he hopes the dragon’s sense of righteousness and justice will prevail and spare the common people.

Another shiver wracks Henry’s body, yet sweat is dripping down his face. Each shiver aggravates his wounded leg. He cannot stay here and freeze. The dragon may fly all night before returning. It may be warmer in the light, Henry thinks.

The closest shaft of light shines on a small platform of rock. Something shimmering and glittering is piled on the top, like offerings at an altar. Crawling there will be torture on his leg, but to freeze will be certain death. In truth, it is not much of a choice.

Steeling himself, Henry turns on to his stomach and begins to crawl. He uses his arms and his uninjured leg to drag himself across the ground and rocks. The light and the little altar is not far, not when walking. It is a mere few steps away. But to one pulling oneself across jagged, freezing rocks with their arms, it is a journey of miles.

With each minuscule movement, the wound through Henry’s leg burns. The pain brings tears to his eyes - tears he had not shed even when faced with dragon fire. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the light and its promised warmth. Once he is warm, then he can rest. Just one inch more, then he will be there, just one more inch. Gaze fixed, he can now see the orange light reflecting off gold and jewels piled on and around the altar. A crown, necklaces and chains, rings encrusted with gems, and coins, so many coins. It is a dragon’s hoard of gold, taken from centuries’ worth of sacrifices. The treasure surrounds something, but he’s not close enough to see what it is.

Henry’s have started to ache by the time he finally pulls himself over a step in the rocks. He breathes a sigh of relief when he touches the jewels and his hand is bathed in orange light. It is not the searing heat he needs, but is it warmer than he was. He crawls the final inches to nestle next to the altar, moving the treasure out of his way. The metal is warm, too, and it helps to fight off the chill in his bones.

Curled next to the stone, seeking an elusive heat within, bathed in orange light and surrounded by a vast wealth, Henry shivers and sweats. The infection is burning through his body faster than he expected. 

Will the dragon return soon? Will he need to seek a doctor’s treatment, or will the dragon see to his fate? He hopes it is soon, either way.

This place he has found is warm. Like a blind kitten seeking its mother’s milk, Henry presses his face to the altar and burrowing closer to that warmth. His eye catches what is on top of the stones. His heart goes cold.

Atop the stones, are three cracked eggs, easily ten times the size of any egg Henry has seen. The surface of the eggs is not dissimilar to the dragon’s hide, a grey so dark it could be black, with ridges and small spines rippling the surface. A grey liquid, once pouring from the eggs, is now dried and crusted. And, half-submerged in the rotten liquid are three baby dragons. Their bodies have petrified over time, neither rotting nor wasting away, but simply preserved forever in their moment of death. They were new-born, Henry realises, their bodies not yet free from their eggs.

This was the crime that the first King committed. It was not trespass for which he was punished, but for the slaughter of newborn babes. He had killed them, newly hatched, before they had even taken their first breathes. Henry’s breath hitches as he looks at the three babies and their petrified bodies. He would give everything that he has to bring these children back to life, to turn back time so that they had never died. They would be alive, happy with their mother, and so would the countless innocent women.

“I’m sorry,” Henry whispers. He reaches a weak hand up to the babies. With a delicate, gentle finger, he strokes the crest of one warm forehead.

What would they have been like, all grown up, he wonders. Would they grow as large as their mother? Larger, even? Will they look like her, with gold inside pushing to be seen through tough hide? Or is there a father out there, after whom they would take? Henry imagines a dragon, young and still growing, tottering around on spindly legs, like a deer learning to walk, with copper accents on its crown and fronds. Another dragon, with wings too large for its body, white and gold so as to blend in with the summer skies, appears in his mind. The third, identical to its mother, he imagines, shooting fire for the very first time, rewarded with a croon and an embrace from its mother.

Henry strokes those hard bodies and imagines they are still warm and breathing. He can even feel the phantom against his hand as he showers them with the affection they should have been given in life. Instead they had only pain.

Suddenly, Henry is flying backwards through he air. The scream that tears from his throat is visceral, reminded as he is of his long fall from the bridge. He crashes down into a pool of water. Stinging pain like a thousand tiny needles hits his exposed skin. His landing is a bruising force across his whole body. Force close to the bottom of the pool, Henry feels weightless for a moment. Just a second ago, he was mourning three senseless death, and now he is pushing himself to the surface.

Breeching the surface with a gasp, Henry treads water and looks around, bemused. A thunderous grumble announces the mother dragon’s return as she enters his sight, standing defiant on the rock ledge above him. Her expression is furious, hackles raised to bare every fang in her maw. Her tail slashes through the air, the culprit for his sudden flight.

“You dare touch my daughters!” The dragon shouts, gorget glowing ominously. “You dare place your filthy, cursed hands on her! When your own blood are responsible!”

“I’m sorry. I was trying to comfort, to mourn. I did not mean to offend. I’m sorry.” Henry repeats and repeats, though it seems to fall on deaf ears. The mother dragon continues to glare at him as if he were the scourge of the earth.

Henry had thought they had reached an understanding. She had listened to him and his revelation. She had not killed him yet. In fact, she had protected him from the Aurean soldiers come to collect him. But it seems some wounds are too painful, too raw to be healed so easily. He should have known better. Idiot, Henry curses himself.

With a final growl, the dragon turns away and out of his view. Content that she is not going to burn him at this moment, Henry paddles closer to the edge of the pool, where the floor slopes gently upwards. His already weakened condition, combined with new bruises, takes him only half-way from the water. He slumps, exhausted and soaked to the bone. It seems this next sleep will not be quite so comfortable as the last.

Chapter Text

Henry wakes to the feeling of something crawling over his skin. With a yelp, he jerks up and scurries back. He soon realises that what he feels are the strange, wet, glowing worms burrowing under his damp clothes and clinging to his skin. He tears them off, pleased when they do not resist with claws or teeth. They are disgusting to touch, covered in slime and ticklish little legs.

As he pulls at his breeches and the belt around his thigh to remove the worms from his leg, Henry realises what they have done. The wound that had travelled through the muscle of his thigh, in one side and out of the other, which had cut through blood vessels and torn chunks of meat from his body, was gone. Tentatively, Henry brushed his fingertips over the skin of his thigh. It was as if the wound had healed overnight. Nothing remained, save some light scarring. He even pressed down hard to feel the agony that had tortured his waking and sleeping hours, only to feel nothing but strong, healthy muscle.

He quickly checked the other wounds. Bruises on his ribs from the whip of the dragon’s tail: gone. Cuts and scrapes on his arms and legs from falling through the chasm: gone. The marks left on his body at Mother’s command: gone. Even his headache has eased. Henry’s body is more whole and complete that it has been in a long time.

He looks down at the bug curling up in the palm of his hand, and smiles. “Not so disgusting after all,” Henry whispers. With a little pat on its tiny head, he sets it back with its friends. The worms came from the water and they swirl together in illuminating patterns. the water does not look foul, nor polluted. And the presence of the glowing worm in the water is more likely to be beneficial than hazardous. So Henry grabs his empty flask and dunks it in the water until it fills. Then he takes small sips. He has been told many a time, not to drink too fast lest he make himself sick. And until he finds some food, water will have to do.

Once he has drunk his fill, Henry stands, happy to be able to do so without pain. The dragon is curled up around that altar, around the eggs and bodies of her daughters. Slowly, Henry approaches. He stops when he is close enough. It is best not to anger her again by standing too close. He would prefer not to be hit by her tail again.

Henry waits patiently for the dragon to acknowledge him. He senses she is not asleep, so it is merely a waiting game. It is a game that he has played before, when Mother wanted to watch him squirm before finally delivering her verdict or reveal which of his recent actions has offended her. Henry remembers a time when she made him wait for two hours while she answered correspondence before even glancing his way. It had been a fierce battle not to fidget or slouch, lest the resulting tirade be made worse. With each letter that Mother read studiously and each response written and sealed, he had thought the game was over. The pit in his stomach only grew deeper when her hand moved to select the next letter. Thankfully, the dragon does not have Mother’s patience.

She lifts her gaze away from her daughters to the prince, looking him over with keen eyes. But she says nothing. That’s another game, waiting for the other person to give in and speak first. Luckily, Henry has never minded losing that game.

“I am sorry. Truly. I am sorry for touching your daughters without your consent. It was presumptuous and unforgivably rude of me, and yet I do ask for your forgiveness. I only meant to grieve their loss with you.”

The dragon blinks slowly at him. Henry takes that as the creation of a truce. And so, he takes a seat on the edge of the rock ledge, still a respectful distance from the eggs. The prince and dragon sit in comfortable silence.

Henry wonders what is happening back at the palace. Has Mother sent out more soldiers to rescue him? Surely he would know if that were the case, for the dragon would have killed them. What of the brides, who must all have reached the kingdom by now? The plan was not designed to host all three brides at once and risk them meeting and coming to the truth. What have they been told of his whereabouts? They certainly will not know what he is doing for them, but he hopes that their days are happy. He hopes that none of them harbour any particularly strong desires to marry him after all of this. He hopes Mother will not try to go ahead with the sacrifices without him. Technically, only the mixing of the blood is required, the marriage is a mere formality. But at least, if one of his brides is sent down, the dragon will certainly not kill them anymore.

Suddenly, Henry lets himself fall backwards. “What now?” he asks aloud. The dragon knows the truth, and she will never hurt an innocent sacrifice again. Whether or not she takes revenge on the Aurean royal family is a foregone conclusion. But his own place in this future is unclear. What does he do now?

Can he simply walk out of this mountain? Does he want to? And when he returns, will he be King? Henry doubts he will be a good leader for his kingdom. His many tutors and Mother reminded him often enough that he is too weak to rule Aurea as it should be ruled. Even when he attempted to act as he thought Mother would, he fell short of their expectations. If he became King, then he would never see the world. Kings do not have the luxury to travel to far flung lands whenever they wish. Kings are chained to their thrones until the day they die. To Henry, it would be a fate worse than death.

“Do you still not wish to return?” The dragon asks, her voice slow and deliberate. “You were afraid of returning when those men came for you.”

“I didn’t want those guards to take me, because I knew what Mother would do when she found out what I have done. I don’t think I can go back while she still has power over me. I know that makes me weak, makes me a coward, but —“

“You are not a coward.” The dragon snaps, her teeth clicking together. “No coward would throw himself down that chasm and face me, all to save women he had never met. I have known many men in my time, but none were so brave as you are.”

Henry smiles tightly, “So if I am afraid to see Mother again…”

“I will burn her to ash before she can hurt you. It is the least I could do for you, for revealing the truth to me.”

Henry’s cheeks flare with heat. He look over at the dragon, and sees a fond look on her face. “Thank you.” The dragon bows her head.

It may be unfilial, potentially treasonous, to be glad that the dragon wishes Mother dead. But none in his life have ever stood up for him before. 

Silence falls between them again. Until Henry’s stomach emits a furious growl.

“You are hungry.”

An embarrassed smile pulls at his lips. “Sorry,” he says. “It has been… I do not actually know how long it has been since I ate.” His last meal was a few pieces of fruit and pancakes, his last breakfast. It was two sleeps ago, though that is no true indicator of time when injured and inside a mountain.

“Wait here.” She commands. The dragon uncurls from around the altar, and without any explanation pushes off into the air and flies out of the mountain.

Henry does not wish to make any assumptions, nor to appear self-centred, but a small part of him preens at the idea that she is finding him something to eat. That kind of consideration goes beyond what he expected. His stomach merely rumbled and she did not hesitate to leave. Perhaps the servants at the palace, perhaps Joseph, would have taken the initiative to source food if they thought he was hungry — no, not even them. They would fear overstepping. The servants would bring him anything he asked for, if it were strawberries out of season or honey cake when he had already eaten the last of it, but only if he asked. Many a royal and noble grew furious at the thought of a servant overstepping and assuming. Not even Joseph, who could read him so easily after all these years, would dare do anything without some conscious indication, be it a nod or a glance. Joseph was intuitive, but not presumptuous.

It feels like mere moments before the dragon returns, this time bearing something large in her claws. It is bigger than Henry, with four legs. As she flies closer and swoops lower, he recognises it as a blackened horse, already burned and, Henry supposes, cooked.

The dragon lands, surprisingly softly given her size, before Henry, placing the dead horse before him. Then she settles herself where had previously lain, as if she had not just left the mountain to hunt simply because his stomach made a noise.

Henry stands clueless for a moment. Is the horse truly for him? Can he eat now, or must he wait for a signal? Back at the palace, formal meals could only start once the Queen had taken her first bite. Not even the King or Prince could eat before gaining her permission. He and the dragon share a glance, then she gives a fond huff.

Creating a coil with her tail, a nest for him like before, she says, “Come here, little prince. Sit and eat.”

With a broad smile, Henry rushes into the dragon’s warm embrace. She drags the horse closer to where he lies, and selects a strange looking, handle-less dagger from her pile of treasures, pushing it closer to him.

“Take what you need, little prince.”

At the thick scent of cooked meat, saliva pools in Henry’s mouth. Though the horse’s skin is blackened, if he cuts that crust away the meat underneath should be perfectly cooked. His first touch of the animal scorches his delicate skin. He hisses and quickly puts his hand to his mouth, hoping to ease the burn. Later, he will collect some of those magic worms to heal himself. But now, his stomach has begun to protest more insistently. He tries again to cut his meat into thin slivers, using the strange knife to scrape away the skin and shielding his delicate skin with the fabric of his sleeve. 

Each piece he brings to his mouth is the best thing he has ever tasted. Henry gorges himself on the succulent meat, barely swallowing his current mouthful before cutting the next.

“Slow, sweet one. The horse is not going anywhere.” The dragon chides fondly, a deep chuckle vibrating Henry’s bones. He looks back at her shyly, making an effort to savour each piece.

The meal may be a simple one, but he would choose it over any extravagant feasts in the palace or breakfast in the bath. This act of kindness, from a creature who owes him nothing, is the greatest gift in the world. Soon his stomach is full, having eaten most of the horse’s flank. Sated and soothed, Henry leans back in the dragon’s warm embrace, ready for a rarely enjoyed post-meal nap. Hopefully the horse will still be there when he wakes. But, a thought in the back of his mind whispers, if it is not, the dragon will happily hunt another for him.

Chapter Text

Henry reclines in the dragon’s warm embrace. His head is tucked close to her flank. One of her massive wings acts as a canopy, shielding him from the light as he rests. He had woken from his slumber a while ago, but had yet to move from his position. And he did not wish to move, not until the dragon forced him, and she had yet to to do either. In fact, her tail pulled him closer if he shifted away, and her rumbling purr had soothed him when his dreams had turned troubled.

The three eggs were close by, sitting on their altar and surrounded by their offerings. Though others might shudder at the thought, Henry feels no revulsion nor disgust at the thought of sleeping so close to three dead babies. Sometimes, when the light falls over their delicate bodies just so, he can imagine the glow of their eyes or the way their metallic patches would shine. It would jar him, then, to remember that they are dead, and exactly what killed them. It would be blasphemous to consider taking the babies even further from their mother.

“Do dragons have names?” Henry asks, the words spilling from his lips without much thought. For a second, he tenses and bites his tongue for his rudeness. How easily he forgets that the creature letting him live is a fire-breathing dragon who has killed countless over the centuries, and not a subject at the whim of his every question.

But the dragon merely answers, “We do.”

She says nothing more. Henry fights the urge to ask for more. If he asked all the questions currently overflowing his mind, she would surely eat him to shut him up. No one alive in Aurea has ever met the dragon before, and he knows not if other lands and kingdoms have dragons, too. Was she born in this mountain, or did she come here to nest? What worlds has she seen, what people has she met? So many questions, but no one likes a prince who cannot keep his mouth shut.

But the the dragon nudges him with her snout, a gentle push that still forces him onto his back. She stares into his eyes, deep and unyielding, “Hen-ry. Ask.”

“What’s your name?”

She is silent for a long time. She did want him to ask, Henry reasons, but perhaps she regrets that now.

“I’m sorry. I simply wanted to know what I could call you. It was remiss of me to ask - and, actually, not to ask in the first place. Mother would be appalled at my manners. Though you are a dragon, so she might not care.” Henry rambles, yet the dragon does not speak until his words grow quieter and more embarrassed.

“Mahaut.”

“Pardon?”

“Mahaut. That is my name. My kind call me Mahaut.”

“So, there are other dragons. What are their names?” Henry restrains himself to one question.

“There were legion of us, once. Now, we are few. I do not know the names of the ones who are left.”

Henry furrows his brow. Surely if there are so few dragons left, their names are much easier to remember. “Why not?”

Mahaut looks at her daughters. She says, “I have stayed in this kingdom and in this mountain for centuries. No other dragon has crossed into these lands.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Henry cannot fathom being alone for so long, the only company his dead children and the princesses he kill as punishment. To not see a face like his own in centuries, to have no one know his name nor speak to him in anything other than screams and pleas. The sacrifices may have been a punishment meant for the Aurean King, but perhaps it is a double-edged sword. It is a curse on Mahaut as well, chaining her forever in one place, forever reminded of her pain.

“You say that a lot.”

Henry bites down his automatic response to apologise.

Mother said that once, that he apologises too much. He had been rushing through the palace halls, late for his lessons after tarrying in the gardens too long. A scullery maid had been coming up from the laundry with a basket of clean sheets. They had collided. The sheets had fallen to the floor. The girl was immediately on her knees, grabbing any sheet she could find while begging for his forgiveness. Henry had not been able to stand there and watch her pathetic display, so he got to his knees and helped. He apologised himself, as it was after all his fault, and because of him the sheets would need to be cleaned again. Mother and her entourage had passed then, and the guards had hauled Henry to his feet. Later, when Mother came to his rooms that night, she told him he should not have apologised. A Prince, and certainly not a King, is never wrong, and never apologises. Henry’s response, that if that were true then his tutors’ reports were treason, earned him worse than the previous chastisement.

It feel different when Mahaut says it, less disappointed and more curious.

“Will you leave Aurea? Once you have killed my parents.” Speaking so bluntly of his parents’ death is strange. It is disloyalty of the highest degree, deserving of the most severe punishment. But he is nothing against a dragon and possesses no power to stop Mahaut’s plans. She deserves her revenge, and that means his parents must die. It is folly to deny what is an absolute truth.

“No.” Mahaut replies. Her gaze returns to her daughter, and Henry understands at once. If she leaves, they cannot come with her.

“What are their names?”

She points with one long claw at the largest egg, “Tomila.” At the next, “Corra.” And the third, the smallest of the three, “Krasa.”

“They are beautiful names. You chose well.”

Mahaut hums pleasantly in agreement.

“You may touch, little prince.”

Henry tears his eyes from the little dragons, staring at Mahaut in shock. The last time he touched them she had thrown him across the cavern with a flick of her tail. Is this a trick? Should he do as she says and be tossed about, or refuse and tossed anyway? If there is no good option, it is best to do the one he prefers. And, casting a longing gaze back over the babies, he wishes to touch them again, to offer them more of the comfort, of which they were deprived.

Henry stands and takes tentative steps towards the three dead dragons, Tomila, Corra and Krasa. He reaches out a hand to caress Tomila’s head, and pulls back his hand with a hiss, his palm stinging.

Immediately, Mahaut growls and forces herself between Henry and the eggs. Henry staggers back, more apologies slipping from his lips, and holds his hands aloft in supplication.

But she is not growling at him, nor threatening to throw him away. If she wanted to do that, she would have done so already. No, she is sniffing and inspecting his raised palm, the one that prickles with heat. She growls not because he hurt the babies, but because they hurt him.

“No, Mahaut. It is fine. I am fine. It is my hand, that is all. The burn from the horse still hurts,” Henry explains. He had not thought the burn so painful when he touched the horse’s charred corpse, but his palm is a vibrant red and parts of his flesh is wet and seeping clear fluid. “Let me get some of those worms and it will be better.”

Henry scurries away to the cool pond and the glowing worms swimming circuitously through its waters. Submerging his burned hand adds an edge to the pain, but scooping up a handful of the little bugs eases it again. Returning to Mahaut’s side, he shows her the worms, already soothing his burn, and she reluctantly allows them both to settle down, after sniffing imperiously at the little things.

Leaning back into the great dragon, Henry stifles a pleased smile.

“Were you born in Aurea, or whatever this land was called before my people arrived?” He asks, eyes on the iridescent antennae tickling his palm. The glowworms are translucent, if he looks close he can see their little blue hearts beating. How curious!

“Names and borders mean little to my kind. I was born far North of here.”

“What was it like there? To my shame I have read little of lands beyond Aurea, though I know that lands to the north have harsh winters and struggle to grow crops. They have snow, too! I have never seen it, but apparently they are white flakes of ice falling from the sky. And children play in it, which I cannot fathom. Surely falling ice hurts? Who would enjoy that.”

Mahaut chuckles, deep and throaty, and Henry shares her laughter.

“Dragons are not creatures of cold. Ice cannot touch me.”

“Is that your way of saying you’ve never seen snow either?”

Mahaut huffs, but replies easily enough, “The North is white, as far as you can see. Rivers stop moving. The cold makes the land spread into oceans. But there is fire beneath the ground, and that is where I was born. Far South is hotter. Everything turns to sand in the South. It is far better to go out at night, cooler. Except for dragons, we like the heat. There are creatures in the South that lie on rocks to keep themselves warm. They freeze to death if they do not.”

Henry hums. He imagines Mahaut flying over deserted seas of white, a beacon of warmth in a land desperate for it. He can also imagine her spread out of boiling sands, soaking up more heat for her fires. The image makes him chuckle. He tries to imagine himself in these lands, meeting the people, learning their languages and customs, trying new things and seeing what has been forbidden to him. But those images do not come so easily. While it has been his dream to visit distant lands, it has never been a serious consideration. There is duty to consider, duty to his family, his people, his Crown. As a prince, the Crown Prince, no less, his life is bound to Aurea and its limits.

“It sounds so exciting.”

Mahaut hums in vague agreement. To a dragon, Henry supposes, excitement has a higher bar.

As she lays down her head and closes her eyes, Henry looks at his palm. It is healed completely now, the worms simply resting on his skin, content with a job well done. He would never have considered such incredible creatures to exist. Such healing capabilities ought to be reserved for deities or witches. Many in his kingdom would kill for just one of these little worms, and there are thousands of them lurking within this very mountain. What power they have.

Henry turns his hand, wanting to see if they will crawl around the stay on top. They do not. They are quite happy to cling upside down to his palm. How strange to think these little things healed his whole body. Infection had certainly been coursing through his body, courtesy of his wounded leg. Fever had been burning him from the inside out, and his body was littered with bruises. And yet a handful of glowing worms had purged him of infection, cooled his fever, and even regrown flesh that had been torn from him. Is there anything they could not heal?

The eggs catch his eye. Three were taken. Mahaut did say he was allowed to touch. And she is dozing now. What she does not know cannot hurt her. Hope kindles in Henry’s heart. Three must be given.

Quickly, before he loses his nerve, Henry hops over to the altar. Hand still covered in glowworms, he holds it over the three little dragons. Tomila, Corra and Krasa, beautiful names for beautiful dragons. A nervous glance back at Mahaut affirms her eyes are still shut and her breathing even. He plucks a worm from his palm and tucks it into Tomila’s egg and onto her hind leg. He checks that the worm cannot be seen from the outside, before adding another two to the inside of her egg. Turning to Corra’s egg, adds three more worms, and then another three to Krasa’s egg.

With a final caress to each girl’s crown, Henry returns to the coil of Mahaut’s tail, watching and waiting hopefully.

Chapter Text

Lullay, mine Liking, my dear son, mine Sweeting. Lullay, lullay, laa, lullay. Lullay, my dear heart, mine own dear darling. Lullay, lullay, laa, lullay.

Prince Henry sings to the little dragons the same melody he remembers his nursemaid singing to him. She was blonde, he recalls. Her touch was gentle when she brushed his hair. She was always happy to play whatever games he invented. And she sang this lullaby as she tucked him to bed every night, and when he woke with nightmares this lullaby was the key to soothing him. Her charge over him ended when he called the nursemaid mother, and he was handed over to Joseph not a day later. In truth, Henry does not know the nursemaid’s name, and for years he only remembered her as mother.

He hopes this lullaby will soothe the dragons as much as it did him. Though they have not awakened as he hoped, Henry will not allow them to wake doubting that they are loved. His eyes have not left the eggs since he placed the worms within them. Little has changed in the dragons’ appearances, though he fools himself into thinking their flesh is slightly softer, their hide fractionally darker. Tricks of his eyes, he knows, but must try. Clearly, his one success in life has gone to his head.

Lullay, mine Liking —

“You sing well, little prince.” Mahaut’s eyes are still closed, and her head is still resting by her paws. Henry is glad she is not looking at him, the ferocity of his blush is embarrassing. He is thankful that she does not ask him why he is singing; he does not wish to let her down when he fails.

“Thank you, Mahaut. I’m glad you like it.”

Mahaut hums. Henry takes that as a his cue to start singing again.

Lullay, mine Liking, my dear —

A high pitched scream echoes through the mountain. Mahaut rises at once, placing herself between Henry and the eggs, and the source of the scream. It came from deeper within the mountain. Mahaut, with all her knowledge of her home, knows exactly where the noise came from. The fronds around her head bristle as she listens closely to more noises, these too quiet for Henry to hear.

Another scream suddenly pierces the air. It must have come from the same place. Like the other, it is a sound of pure terror and pain. Whoever it is screaming, they are suffering. Mahaut cocks her head, and narrows her eyes, her attention solely on the screams, as more and more reach them.

Biting his lip so as not to disrupt Mahaut’s focus, Henry turns to check on the eggs. Mahaut would appreciate that. All three are well. Their bodies seem little changed since he last inspected them, though the worms still glow deep within the eggs. He tries not to let the ember of hope in his heart die out. It was worth a try, at least.

Mahaut lifts her face to scent the air, and a deep growl reverberates around the cavern. Wings flaring in anger, she shoots a burst of flame up to the ceiling.

“I smell royal blood.” She announces.

“Do you mean the intruder? Can you tell who it is, or where they are?”

“They smell royal - like you. But female. They are in the chasm, just like you, just like the others.”

A woman with the scent of royalty down in the chasm. Oh, Mother, Henry laments. She has gotten impatient, no longer content to wait for him, and has made the sacrifice herself. How she tricked the woman into coming to the mountain without the premise of a wedding ceremony and blessing, he does not know. Though it is probable that Mother used force not persuasion and dragged the woman up the mountain.

“There is more than one.”

What? Has Mother thrown all of the brides into the chasm? Henry easily imagines all three of his brides, though he does not know what they look like, lying at the bottom of the hole. They must be terrified and hurt - were any wounded by the fall, or by the tree branches? At least one must be angry, by the cruelty and betrayal of the Aureans. they must be cursed his name and Mother’s, wishing for their deaths. Once they realise they cannot climbs back up the hole, they will start to walk deeper into the mountain.

“Mahaut…?” Henry asks tentatively. The dragon is not looking at him. Her gaze is fixed firmly on the other end of the chamber. Her tail flicks in agitation, the only outward sign of her turmoil. “What will you do?”

Mahaut does not reply. She flares her wings and pushes up into the air. With a beat of her wings she is soaring through the cavern towards the women. For a moment, Henry fears that all his work has been for nothing and she has grown to enjoy the generational sacrifices.

But his moment of doubt turns to shame when Mahaut calls back, “I will save them”

Of course, he should not have doubted the mother dragon. She had been so furious to learn of the deception, she would never go along with it now. And when her innocent daughters had been slaughtered, she had raged enough to inflict punishment of generations of royals, so she would never do the same to others now. Certainly, Mahaut is a terrifying dragon, and Henry should never forget her capabilities. But she is also honourable. She may be the only honourable person he knows.

With Mahaut gone to save the princesses, the cavern seems far too open and exposed. Though he knows he is alone, the irrational fear that something is creeping up behind him is growing. Henry curls himself next to the altar, but without the comforting embrace of Mahaut’s tail, or the wall of her body, the position is no longer secure. He needs something to provide extra protection.

Casting his gaze around, Henry spots a pile of rocks that are perfect. He hurries over and grabs one, dragging it over to the altar and building a short wall. If he leans against it, his back will be protected and he need only focus on what is approaching from the front. Satisfied with his plan, Henry hauls the rocks with all his strength. His creation is far from beautiful or perfect, but it is serviceable, which is all he needs.

With his new arrangement, Henry settles down next to the altar and the eggs, and resumes his song.

Lullay, mine Liking, my dear son, mine Sweeting. Lullay, lullay, laa, lullay. Lullay, my dear heart, mine own dear darling. Lullay, lullay, laa, lullay.

A grumble from Henry’s stomach interrupts his song. Time is an elusive concept here within the mountain. It could be breakfast, or lunch, or supper. It could have been hours since he last ate, or a mere handful of minutes. But he knows he is hungry, so he will eat. The horse’s carcass is still lying on the stone, a few feet from Henry’s little den. For a second, he considers waiting out his hunger rather than leave his position. But another grumble persuades him otherwise.

He crawls out from his den towards the horse. One touch reveals it has cooled considerably. If Mahaut was here, Henry might be tempted to ask her for a little fire to warm it. But she is gone to save innocent lives, so he can manage cold meat. A tentative sniff reveals no bad odour, so he reaches for that strange dagger.

As he turns, a movement in the corner of his eye stops him. At once he ducks back into his nest of stones. He peers out into the cavern, searching for what he had seen.

It is a person, he can see that easily enough. They are scaling down some one of the huge columns. A crack sits at the top of the column: an entrance. The figure cautiously touches down, and begins to creep silently through the cavern closer and closer to where Henry and the eggs lie hidden. Their steps are light and sure, and they have yet to make any noise to summon the dragon. Clearly they know what they are doing, and what sort of creature lives in the mountain.

But why would anyone want to sneak in here? Somehow, Henry doubts they such honourable intentions as he did when he trespassed. Perhaps they are an opportunistic thief, here to steal some the dragon’s hoard of jewels and gold. The coins alone could feed a kingdom for a whole winter, never mind the crowns and gems. If that is the case, perhaps Henry could persuade Mahaut to hand over some of her treasures, if only to support some of his people through hard times.

But, this intruder may not be a thief. Though they seem a slender, short figure, it could be Mother’s next rescue effort. If the troupe of soldiers failed to retrieve him, her next move might well be a one-man operation. Are they coming for him? Or are they coming to slay the dragon? If this is Mother’s doing, it must be in connection to the women she threw into the chasm. Were the sacrifices supposed to be a distraction, to lure the dragon away and get her to leave him? If that is the case, then this intruder must be here for Henry. 

But, the question facing Henry now, is whether to go with them or not. The most honourable choice would be to go with them. If he does, then he can face Mother and announce to the kingdom that the need for sacrifices is over and the dragon’s hold over their kingdom is gone. That is the brave thing to do. But it would mean finally condemning Mother and Father to death, payment for the Crown’s deception, and payment for sending three women into the chasm. There is no escaping Mother’s crimes now. But, it would also mean facing her again, even if he had the backing of a dragon. And despite what Mahaut believed, Henry knows he is a coward at heart.

He wants to stay. He wants to remain hidden in his den, in Mahaut’s lair, and let the outside world move on without him. If the women are no longer killed by the dragon, surely they will stop sending them, and without him the royal line is at an end. Mahaut will feed him and keep him safe. In the mountain, Henry need not concern himself with anything but Mahaut and the three babies.

With bitter cowardice in his heart, Henry cowers down behind the rocks, listening in vain for the intruder’s approaching footsteps. He hopes Mahaut will return quickly. She must be attempting to calm the women and take them out of the mountain to somewhere safe. Deep in his heart, Henry knows it will take more time than he has, but he prays that she will come back.

Henry looks up, to search for Mahaut’s return, and instead locks eyes with the intruder. And she is not what he expected.

The intruder is a woman. Young and beautiful, to be sure, but wearing fitted leather armour and wielding an axe, of all things. Her thick auburn hair hangs in a long braid down her back. She looks at him with unconcealed kindness and, dare he think, something tender. He does not understand. If Mother wanted him brought back, she would not have chosen someone so… beautiful.

For that is what this young woman is: beautiful. She has a lady’s face, and a regal bearing. She carries herself like someone with the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders, someone used to responsibility. Why would Mother choose this woman? Surely a seasoned knight, or even a sneak-thief would be a better choice for infiltrating a dragon’s lair?

Henry stares, slack-jawed, at the intruder. He does not understand Mother’s logic, which means there is something much worse at play.

The woman smiles, a reassuring expression suited to soothing a frightened animal or a scared child. She speaks quietly, a low whisper, “You are Henry, are you not?” Henry nods dumbly, mind still stalling over Mother’s plans. The woman’s smile grows sweeter. “My name is Elodie. I am here to rescue you. Your mother will be so relieved to have you home.” Then she reaches her hand out for him, and Henry sees it.

His heart begins to pound. Sweat gathers on his palms and on his forehead. His breath comes in shaky bursts. He stares at the young woman with unconcealed dread. There, across her palm, is a thin red scab. And she said her name is Elodie. This must be the same Elodie who wrote to him and started all of this. This very woman, come to save him, inspired him to save her. It is because of her words, her innocence and eloquent prose that he tore from tradition and refused to murder innocents. She is not what he imagined. To start, he never imagined seeing her in leather armour and wielding a weapon he could not hope to even swing himself. He certainly never imagined the writer of romantic words to be brave enough to infiltrate a dragon’s lair alone. Yet, here she is, the unknowing pawn in Mother’s game.

And it is a game, but only Mother knows the rules. Mahaut smelled the sacrifices in the chasm, their blood mixed with royalty, and yet here one stands, come to rescue him. Mahaut said there was more than one, so there must be two. But why did Mother not throw all three in at once? Why send a third in as a rescue party? Mother does not know that the sacrifices will not be killed, but she will want Henry to be rescued. Is she hoping all three will be casualties?

“Are you coming, Your Highness?” Elodie asks with a sly smile. “I do not know when the dragon will return, but it may be sooner than we’d like. We must get you home.”

Oh, Mahaut, where are you? Henry prays.

Henry shakes his head, and finally unsticks his lips. “No, no you cannot. You do not understand, there are things you do not know.”

Elodie takes an impatient step closer, hand still outstretched to him. She sighs, “What I know is that I see a prince cowering in a dragon’s lair, and we are running out of time.” 

She finally loses her patience with him, reaching out to drag him with her. Henry flinches away from her touch, but her grip on his arm is firm. She starts pulling him harshly towards the rope she used to enter.

“No, let me go!” Henry cries. “You cannot take me back! You should just leave Aurea and never come back. Please, Elodie, listen to me!”

His begging falls on deaf ears.

“Be silent.” Elodie chastises, shaking his arm. Henry’s jaws close with a click and his shock allows her to drag him the remaining distance to the rope. “Climb, Your Highness.”

Henry shakes his head, “I cannot. Please, Elodie.” He reaches for her hand, and gently runs his thumb over the scab. “This cut on your palm, it means you have been betrayed. They want to kill you. Mother—“

“Your Highness,” Elodie shakes her head and turns her hand to clasp his beseechingly, “I do not know what you are talking about, but come with me and we can get help.”

“The help we need is in here,” Henry reasons. “Mahaut—“

“What?”

“Mahaut, the dragon, she can—“

“You think the dragon can help? I do not know if you saw from inside here but it burned the sky for a whole night! It is dangerous! It will kill you!” Elodie thrusts the rope towards him.

Henry pushes the rope back to her. “She would never. Trust me.”

Elodie stares at him for a moment, then looks up at the top of the rope and the crack in the rocks above. Finally, she gives a heavy sigh and says, “I’m sorry.”

“Wha—“

Things go black when Elodie hits him in the temple with the handle of her axe.

Chapter Text

Isabelle is not looking at her son when it happens. But she sees her lady-in-waiting’s gaze flick over her shoulder, sees her mouth fall open and her eyes widen. Isabelle sees the Red Priestess jerking towards the edge of the bridge. Then she hears her son screaming. It comes from far away.

When she turns to look at what has captured everyone’s attention away from their Queen, she admits its takes far too long to realise what has happened. Henry has fallen down the chasm. Her heart lurches within her chest and a freezing chill spreads through her body. A raw scream tears from her throat as she rushes to kneel at the edge of the bridge. Hands on her arms keep her from following her son down.

“Henry!” She cries. His scream has stopped. Has he landed? Is he still alive? Can he hear her? “Henry! Henry!”

There is no reply. She hopes it is merely that the hole is too deep, and not the alternative. Her only son at the bottom of that hole, and she knows not if he is even alive. He must be rescued.

Turning to the guards that accompanied their entourage up the mountain, she becomes the Queen again. The Mother can wait; her weakness is unnecessary now.

“Get down there and save your prince.”

For a moment the soldiers hesitate and it boils Isabelle’s blood. How dare they consider her words to be optional! How dare they consider leaving their only prince in that hole! Henry could be dead, or very soon to be! If she did not need them to retrieve her son, she would have their heads separated from their bodies here and now. 

“Now.” She commands, firmly.

One soldier shuffles on his feet, “How, Your Majesty? The fall—“

“Rope, you fool! Fetch some from the village, send a runner to the palace, or use the damned barriers! Just get down there and bring my son back up!”

One of her ladies approaches tentatively, placing a gentle hand on her arm, as if to calm her. Isabelle pushes the woman away. What fools are they to think she could be coddled and soothed like a baby! She is no child, no weakling. Her son has fallen into the mountain and he must be saved, before everything is ruined.

The soldiers, finally inspired to action, have unhooked one of the long ropes marking the side of the bridge. It looks to be long enough to reach the chasm floor, though in truth none have ever gone down there to check the distance. It is not as if any wish to bring the princesses back to the surface. Oh, how could this tragedy have happened, and so close to the weddings!

The soldiers dither, casting glances between themselves. Isabelle wonders how far they will test her patience. Do they even know how close they come to bathing in their own blood?

“Do not hesitate! Do your duty and save my son! Your prince is dying!” She takes steps towards them, and the men finally begin to move. Useless creatures, Isabelle thinks, why do we need them?

One soldier begins to clamber down the rope. His slow pace is aggravating. Pacing up and down the bridge, Isabelle fumes. Some might mistake her for the dragon, she muses, for she is certainly ready to breathe fire and eat these foolish men alive. Her breathing is laboured and she feels the stiff press of her corset with each expansion of her lungs. Fists clench and unclench, nails dig into palms for lack of a true target, and the pristine braids holding her crown secure are soon fraying. Yet despite the signs of stress and anxiety, she still holds herself with proper poise and her gaze scrutinises those remaining on the bridge like a commander reviewing the troops.

It takes too long for the soldier to come back up the rope. The sun, which had been high above the mountain when they arrived, is now making its descent toward the horizon. And yet the man returns empty-handed.

Isabelle’s hand strikes the man’s face with a sound like the crack of a whip. He had discarded his helmet somewhere, so she has easy access to assault his cheeks, his eyes, his throat as she expresses her deepest displeasure.

“You return without him! Where is my son? Where did you abandon your prince?” Her tirade continues, unrestrained by her ladies-in-waiting or the Red Priestesses. Until finally, she exhausted her rage, and now simmers with quiet fury. “What happened?”

The soldier, blood running from his lips and nose, shadows forming on his cheeks and around his eyes, stands timidly in front of his Queen. “It took some time to reach the bottom, Your Majesty, but I didn’t see the prince down there. There was blood that wasn’t dry yet, but I couldn’t see a trail or anything. It’s like he just vanished.”

The Queen grits her teeth to keep from pushing this excuse of a man down into the chasm. He would deserve it for failing her.

“There must be a way deeper into the mountain. Henry must have thought he could find a way out if he could not climb.” Isabelle’s stupid little boy clearly does not realise that there is no escape. How else did he think they kept the princesses from escaping? Why could he not just wait down there for them to rescue him? “We would have heard if the dragon came for him. Did you look deeper?”

The soldier cannot look his Queen in the eye. That is understandable; no one should be able to do so. But it is more than understanding his position, this soldier is admitting his failure.

“Well? You were down there for a long time?” Isabelle demands, voice ice cold.

The soldier nods, which is a surprise. “There was a small passage going deeper. I went through, but I still saw no sign of the prince. The cavern at the end was huge - I couldn’t search it all. But it was empty - no prince and no dragon. I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” The man bows his head, as if in condolences.

Queen Isabelle scoffs, “My son is not dead, not until I see his body. Why did you come back without him?”

“W-Well, I-I couldn’t find him, a-and the dr-dragon—“

Another scoff comes from the Queen. She turns to the rest of the guards waiting at the mouth of the cave. Lifting her chin, she stares imperiously down on them. That fear they have of the dragon, should break in the face of their fear of her. They will know what to fear, and if not, then they will beg to go into the mountain.

“Assemble the rest of the guard. One company will be stationed within the cave, men on the bridge and down in the chasm. They will keep a keen eye out for the prince, should he make his way back to the chasm. Then they will escort him back to the palace. Another company will monitor the pathways around the mountain, searching for alternative entrances through which teams will be sent to retrieve the prince. You will keep constant watch. There will be no risk of losing the prince.”

Commands given, the Queen strides from the cave. It burns her gut to leave with Henry still in the mountain. But her place is not crawling through rocks and grime, it is in the palace, ensuring that her kingdom does not fall to ruin at this crucial time. Without Henry, the planned weddings are at risk, and with them, the sacrifices. The longer it takes to retrieve him, the greater the chances of everything falling apart. She will make every effort to get Henry back, and carry on with their plans. But there may come a time when decisions must be made. And to do that, she must be on her throne.

*

The sky is on fire. More specifically, the sky around the mountain is on fire. Like a demonic crown, burning clouds circle the mountain peaks, announcing to all who rules there. All of Aurea is bathed in orange light, a midnight sun to keep them in a waking nightmare. The dragon is circling within the clouds, adding fire to more fire and sending drops of pumice hurtling to the ground like shooting stars.

From her balcony, Queen Isabelle can hear the distressed cries of her people echoing up to her, as she stands in her place above them all. They fear the dragon and the fire. In truth, they should fear her. Henry has been gone for two days now. Two days in which the entire kingdom’s future has been hanging by a thread. If Henry is not returned, and their future restored, then she will do something drastic.

Isabelle sips her wine and seats herself on the stone bench.

Two of the brides have arrived, the ship carrying the third is due into port at sundown tomorrow. They were placated upon their arrival with stories of an unfortunate sickness plaguing the prince. It has rendered him bedridden, but the doctors insist that he shall be hale and whole for their wedding, which will will be imminent. In the meantime, the brides were encouraged to make themselves at home, in their chambers, lest they too succumb to the prince’s sickness. After all, foreigners are not so prepared for Aurean illnesses.

Servants and seamstresses and books and jewellery and fruits and sweets and anything their hearts could desire, have been provided in abundance. One bride is content with this. She is a nervous thing, Isabelle gleaned as much from their short conversations. She nods politely and accepts what she is told without additional thought. Isabelle rather thinks there is nothing between the girl’s ears but empty space. She would be an easy one to manage.

The other, however, is already proving troublesome. Her step-mother, a glorified rope-maker, tried to befriend the Queen, but was easy enough to rebuff. And the little sister is easily dazzled by shiny things, of which there are many in Aurea. But the girl, who would be already on her way up the mountain in any other circumstance, is involving herself in matters that do not concern her. She seems to believe that if she cannot see the prince, then she can write to him. She wrote long, rambling letters to Henry, passed through servants, trying to forge a connection with her future husband.

Those letters, of course, came to Isabelle’s hand instead. Henry would never see them, not even once he is returned to the palace. That first letter from the girl was acceptable, containing flowery prose and platitudes. But these letters are honest and open, far more reflective of the woman herself. The prince need not concern himself with the mind of a sheep. Manufacturing responses is beneath the Queen, so she has directed her son’s manservant to tell the bride that Henry sleeps the day away and will be glad enough to discuss her letters once he is well.

But this display in the sky will disrupt everything. The brides will wonder what it is, though their fathers should be able to soothe them; the gold Aurea is paying them will ensure that. But it may make the brides suspicious of the mountain, and getting them up there when the time comes will prove more difficult.

The greater problem, however, is the dragon. The dragon that is angry enough to light up the sky from dusk til dawn. The cause is clear enough. The creature is displeased with a prince instead of a princess and demands the sacrifices be fulfilled. Whether that means the dragon has killed Henry for the crime of being male, or if it has spared him for not being of interest… that is unclear.

None of the rescue parties succeeded in seeing Henry, let alone rescuing him. Some never found a way into the mountain. Some were burned and boiled alive by the dragon. Another approach must be found.

The sacrifices must be made, wedding or no. Isabelle already has the beginnings of a plan.

And Henry must be found, dead or alive. Without soldiers leading a rescue party, perhaps a smaller mission might succeed. Someone brave, someone heroic, someone with something to lose if Henry is not found.

Isabelle knows just the girl.

Chapter Text

Tears slip down her face in a constant stream of sorrow. Her heart is breaking in the absence of her son. One could even hear the organ cracking apart in her sobs and hiccoughs. Head bowed away from prying eyes, forearms braced on her knees, she cradles her head in her hands. The golden crown, usually proudly displayed on her head, is tossed to the floor. The pristine braids of her hair are no longer, hands having mussed them in anxious fits. Streaks of blood cling to strands of hair, her painted nails having cut open her own palms.

The Queen of Aurea does not look so queenly, sobbing in the palace gardens. She looks like a mother lost to grief. The weight of a kingdom relying on her pushes her down.

This is what draws Elodie to the Queen.

The young woman was being escorted by palace guards through the gardens, one of the few times she is permitted from the rooms she and her family were assigned. The King and Queen fear that their foreign constitutions will not withstand an Aurean illness, not so soon after travelling by land and sea. The Prince, Elodie’s betrothed, is ill. It is serious enough to postpone the wedding, but everyone says he will recover soon. But until then, Elodie and her family are quarantined away, save for a few supervised moments in the gardens.

Step-mother and Floria have been distracted by the seamstress and her latest creations, leaving Elodie to continue her stroll. She has never much cared for extravagant gowns or finery. They do no good when your people are freezing and starving. Elodie is much more concerned with survival and hard decisions. Though, of course, she can still admire a beautiful garden, so unlike the barren lands of her home. Though, she supposes, Aurea is her home now.

Elodie is contemplating a life in which beauty is abundant and not slowly fading beneath weathered skin and hardship, when the wretched sobbing reaches her ears. At once, she turns to seek the source, and sees the Queen curled into herself. She clutches her chest, as if in physical pain.

I hope she is not succumbing to the prince’s illness, too, Elodie thinks, that would truly be a blow to Aurea. 

Glancing around, Elodie is surprised to find the Queen separated from her usual entourage, but glad that the Queen has no witnesses to her moment of emotion. Such things are private, especially for a noble or royal.

Cautiously approaching, she asks, “Your Majesty, is everything alright?”

The Queen startles, moist eyes darting around to find her audience. When her eyes alight on Elodie, a falsely cheery smile appears on her face.

“Oh, Elodie, it is just you. How can I help you?”

“I feel I should be asking you that, Your Majesty.”

The Queen waves a lazy hand at her face, still streaking with tears and forcing a smile. Her complexion is still even, and Elodie envies her. Her own face goes startlingly blotchy when she cries. “Oh, this? It is nothing of concern to you. I am sure there are many other things for you to contemplate.” The Queen tidies her skirt, smoothing out the scarce wrinkles and brushing off the invisible dirt.

Elodie gives a faint laugh. “You mean the wedding? Yes, I suppose that should be my priority. But you and your people have already done much of the work, there is little for me to do.”

She expects the Queen to share a laugh, or tell her that dress fittings and being happy are all the tasks she needs. But the Queen is silent. When Elodie looks over at her future mother, she sees a deep, overwhelming melancholy in her eyes and fresh tears on her cheeks.

“Your Majesty, what is it?” Elodie pleads, “I am to be your future daughter, you can let me in.”

“You may not be,” replies the Queen, cryptically.

“I do not understand, Your Majesty.”

“You may not be my future daughter, for you may not marry my son.” The Queen chokes on a sob, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve. “My son is not ill. He has been taken.” More sobs shake the Queen’s shoulders and she reaches to clutch Elodie’s hands. Elodie holds on just as tightly.

The Queen is not making much sense. Why would she not marry Henry? And everyone in the palace has been adamant that he has been ill. His manservant has even taken her letters to him and promised a response. And who would take the prince? Everything that Elodie has witnessed in Aurea has been prosperous, vibrant and truly golden. There is no evidence of insurgency or political unrest that would threaten a prince.

“I do not understand. What do you mean, taken? Who took him?”

“It was the dragon.”

“A dragon, but those are—“

“A curse on Aurea.” The Queen interrupts harshly. “One lives in the mountain, and it has decided to take umbrage at our peaceful living here. Not long before you arrived, it stole Henry away while he was out riding. We have sent search parties through the mountains to find and rescue him, but he has not been returned to me. My darling boy!”

The Queen dissolves into sobs, burying her face into her and Elodie’s clasped hands. Her grip is fierce, her ornate rings cutting into Elodie’s palm. In the face of the Queen’s agony, Elodie sets her momentary pain aside to console her future mother.

“I am sure they will find him. These men, they must be searching so very hard to find their prince. Everyone I have spoken to has only wonderful things to say of your son. He is beloved, they will do everything in their power, I am sure.”

But if they do not, Elodie thinks darkly, if there is no prince for her to marry. Then there is no bride-price, no gold to save her land and her people. If Henry is not found, and if Elodie does not marry him, then all of her people will succumb to the winter and die.

“There must be something that can be done. There must be something I can do. He is to be my husband, it is my duty to help him.”

The Queen gives a humourless laugh, “Unless you can infiltrate the mountain and bring him back single-handedly, then I do not think so. My son is lost, my heart is simply struggling to accept it.”

The emotion in the Queen’s voice reminded Elodie of her own mother. Her mother was brave and strong, a fierce woman who inspired her daughters with a love of adventure and heroics. Every night she would narrate stories of daring knights and brave princesses, of wicked witches defeated by the cunning of a plucky young girl. She would take Elodie riding through the countryside, to speak with her people, hear their woes and offer whatever help she could. That is the commandment that Elodie has sworn to live by, to help her people however she can.

And her people need Prince Henry alive.

“Perhaps,” Elodie replies to the Queen. She offers her a comforting smile and presses their palms together. “Perhaps something will be done.”

“I do not hold much hope. But I can pray.” The Queen stands, wiping her tears away and collecting her crown from the ground. “Thank you, Elodie, for your kind words and support. You would have made a lovely daughter. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I shall pray for my son.”

Elodie curtseys deeply for a woman whose strength she cannot but respect. Such stoicism when duty calls for it. Elodie can only hope to be a pillar to her people, as the Queen is to hers.

Leaving the gardens in the company of the Aurean guards, Elodie seeks her father’s men. They are good, honourable people, and they will understand what needs to be done. While her father will forbid her from going, the men, alongside whom she chopped wood, defended against starving wolves and forded flooding rivers, will support her.

“Gather the rest of the men,” she orders. “We are going to the mountain.”

*

Corrinne sits on the couch, embroidery poised in her lap, and wonders how long it will be until she marries the prince. His illness must be terrible, for him to be confined to his rooms and for her to kept away. But the royal doctor says he will be well enough soon, and she must concede to his expert knowledge. That is the mark of a true queen, she says to herself, to know when others are smarter than you.

A true queen also offers support to her husband, her King, in whatever he decides. Which is why she waits patiently for his health to permit their wedding, even if she does stare longingly at her wedding outfit. She will wait and she will pray. There is no space for her religion in Aurea - no sanctuary or pulpit - so she must make do with kneeling at the end of her bed and clasping her hands in supplication. Will her husband require her to convert, to whatever religion they hold to in Aurea? She hopes she will be allowed to maintain her faith, if she performs theirs well enough in public. Thankfully, Corrinne has never been the pious sort that scorns the views of others. For she knows that so long as a person has faith and follows the righteous path, they will reach Heaven, even without the Great Lord’s guiding hand.

A knock at the door tears Corrinne away from her musings. It has been so easy to fall into her thoughts while sequestered in her chambers. Not even her mother and father have visited much. She supposes they have much to discuss with the King and Queen about the wedding, especially with the date so unclear.

A knock comes again, insistently, and Corrinne calls for them to enter, a blush rising in her cheeks. She should rid herself of that physical reaction; a queen is not beholden to the judgement of servants, after all.

It is indeed a servant who enters, bearing a letter on a silver tray. They hold it out for her. The seal on the wax is the symbol fo Aurea, one she has seen emblazoned on nearly everything possible. The standards, of course, and the drapes and tapestries; the servants’ uniforms and carved into walls; the golden filigree around her windows and doors. The golden dragon of Aurea is everywhere.

“Is it from the prince?” Corrinne asks the messenger.

“From the Queen, my lady,” they reply.

Breaking the seal and opening the letter, Corrinne reveals a summons from the Queen. She wishes for Corrinne to join her in prayer in the holy grounds up in the mountain, so that they might wish for the prince’s health and their upcoming wedding.

The mention of the mountain sends a jolt through her stomach. She is wary of that mountain, looming over the kingdom like a portent of doom. The red clouds a few nights ago did not help her feelings. Everyone said it was a phenomenon unique to Aurea, something about gases from the earth being released into the air and reacting with the clouds. In truth, Corrinne had nodded through the explanation, lost amid the sophisticated words and smooth claims that it is a regular enough occurrence.

Yet, no one had seemed particularly concerned, and, as a future queen, Corrinne will bow to another’s superior knowledge. And prayer is hardly troubling. In fact, it is comforting. Prayer and religion are of paramount importance to Corrinne, and to the Queen as well. Though they may not share beliefs, they can share this practice together. It is good to bond with one’s future mother. Many a marriage has been sullied by a poor relationship between new mother and daughter.

Decided, Corrinne will join the Queen in the mountains, and together they will pray for Prince Henry’s health and for a prosperous future together.

“Send word ahead to the Queen, I would be most glad to join her.”

As Corrinne turns to retrieve her cloak and boots, she does not see the messenger leave the room, placing another envelope on his silver tray.

Chapter Text

Prince Benedict of Aurea leans heavily on the palace parapet. Down below runs the Caerul river, which snakes through the Aurean countryside and separates the palace from the lower town. The moon shimmers on its crystalline waters in a most elegant and artistic dance. Much like the revellers dancing in the courtyard behind the prince. Out of his view, but still within earshot, every noble in the kingdom has gathered to celebrate, to drink and feast and cheer. And why would they not? After all, a new prince will soon be born.

Benedict’s elder sister, the Crown Princess, is pregnant. Her child, already predicted to be a boy, will come as the leaves start to fall and the chills come in from the sea. His first few months will be cold ones, but he will be warm enough in the palace. Isabelle will pamper her boy, Benedict knows, for as long as he lives up to her expectations.

Taking another sip from his flask, the prince recalls the price for falling short of her expectations. That poor boy, he thinks. If he could, he would shield him, perhaps even take him from this cursed place. But there is no escape from this fate, save by death. Only death can free an Aurean prince.

The drink is finally reaching Benedict’s head, blurring the memories that plague him always. The weight in his arms, the screams in his ears, the pleading, the begging, the ghosts that come to him in his dreams. Only alcohol affords him moments of respite.

He is supposed to be in the courtyard, celebrating with the rest of the kingdom. His wife is waiting for him to lead her in a dance. His sister is expecting him to bestow a gift on her, in honour of her pregnancy. Nobles want to talk politics and farming with him. Haggard scholars want to discuss tradition and honour. His stomach boils at the thought. he washes away the taste of bile with another swig of alcohol.

He is not even sure what is in his flask. Is it whiskey, or brandy? It cannot be wine, for he drank his last bottle yesterday. There is a strong scent of lemon, so perhaps he has finally opened the bottle of liquor the merchants’ guild gifted him last month. Whatever it is, it works. 

Benedict drops his head to rest on the low wall, and feels something shift and grind beneath him. Curious, he pushes on the stone. It gives. Looking closer, he sees a crack running up and along the wall. He scoffs at the thought of the grand palace crumbling about their heads while they dance. That would certainly cheer him. Pushing again, Benedict enjoys the thrill of breaking something so fundamental.

What if the parapet fell? What if it hit someone? If it hit Isabelle, Benedict might just dance with his wife in true joy.

Though he would be sad at the loss of his nephew. The unborn child is innocent, undeserving of such a fate. He thinks of the gift he commissioned for the baby, still tucked away in his pocket. Brushing his hand over where it lies, hearing the muffled jingling and ringing of tiny bells, Benedict laments the boy’s fate. One day, he may very well stand where he is, wishing to fall to the earth like the stone of the parapet. Or maybe into the river, to float downstream and into the wide ocean beyond.

Now, that is an idea, Benedict thinks. Perhaps a fall from this height will succeed? Perhaps the fall will spare him from attempting to conceive a child with his wife and pretending to partake in Aurea’s joy? If he truly falls, he would not survive. If he is dead, then he is free. Freedom could take him anywhere, everywhere.

*

Henry wades through muddied dreams to reach the waking world. Clarity and wakefulness seem so far away when he is caught amid blurred images and ever-changing faces. But soon he breeches the surface and opens he eyes. He immediately startles, not expecting what waits for him.

He is no longer in the mountain, surrounded by Mahaut’s comforting embrace. Heavy drapes of gold and blue embroidery hang above his head. The dark, oak wood bed frame is polished to perfection, reflecting light from the candles in the room. Henry himself is tucked tightly under blankets and quilts, familiar ones. This quilt was a gift from his paternal grandmother when he was a very young child, and he remembers spending many hours tracing the intricate flowers and patterns she had stitched.

This is his room. He is back in the palace. Henry struggles to remember how he got here, having no memory of the journey, or of being tucked in bed. He is sure he would have left the mountain so soon, and certainly not without Mahaut. Was he taken in his sleep? He hopes he fought, at least, and did not go meekly with the soldiers. And where is Mahaut? Why did she not come with him? He would surely know if she were in his bedroom, or hanging off his balcony.

I must remember, Henry thinks.

There is an ache in his temple, though he is otherwise unharmed. Perhaps that is the cause of his amnesia? His head shoots with pain when he tries to recall how he came to be here.

Henry remembers singing to the eggs, hoping to welcome them into the world. Oh, what will happen to them now, if Henry is not there? Of course, he chastises himself, they will have their mother, the only one they truly need. But he had hoped to be able to meet them, to explain to Mahaut what he had done. Hearing their first cries, seeing their first steps and first flight, curling up with them alongside their mother, they were dreams that he had harboured deep inside and barely recognised before now. Henry had tried to bring them back, not only for Mahaut, but for himself. Of course, that is assuming they will return at all.

Pushing his mind further, he hears the echo of screams. Mother made the sacrifices! She had grown tired of waiting and thrown them into the chasm. Thankfully Mahaut had gone to save them, and that was when…

The intruder, the woman with the axe, the… the sacrifice! Elodie. Elodie came to rescue him, on the orders of Mother. And her palm was cut, though Henry cannot fathom why, when Mother had already sent the sacrifices down. Did she only send two into the chasm? Or perhaps Mother made four sacrifices, just in case, using another as a candidate? And why send a woman who was supposed to be his bride to retrieve him? Mother’s plans rarely made sense to him. He would have to wait until she revealed her genius to him.

But now his head wound has been explained. Elodie struck him because he did not want to go. Quite the bold move for a noble lady. He presumes she tied him to the rope and pulled him up, or had support at the top to pull them both.

Henry casts his gaze around his bedroom. Not much has changed since that last morning. Though he notes that no food has been left out, not even a fruit bowl, and his balcony door is locked, though he prefers the breeze at night. It makes him feel cosier and safer tucked in his warm bed.

A polite knock on the door precedes the turning of the lock. His manservant, Joseph, enters, and a bright smile engulfs his face when he sees Henry awake. Though his expression turns to one of good-natured fretting when Henry tries to sit up.

“No, Your Highness. Lay down, lay down.” Joseph places his hands gently on the prince’s shoulders, encouraging him back to the mountain of pillows. In truth, Henry is grateful, for his head has protested the movement. “Lay down, Your Highness. You have suffered quite the ordeal, you must rest.”

Henry nods, closing his eyes until the pain in his head subsides. It feels as if his brain is a boat being tossed about on rough seas, rocking and swaying and sinking. Once Henry stops moving, so too does his boat.

“Joseph,” Henry murmurs. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, Your Highness. The kingdom has been most aggrieved by your captivity, and we rejoice now that you are returned to us.” Joseph’s smile is the widest and brightest that Henry has ever seen. The man is usually so professional and, barring moments of kindness and compassion, is always the picture of propriety and respectability. “Can I get you anything? You must be thirsty; perhaps some water? Or milk? Or juice, we have orange and cranberry, or perhaps pear? The kitchen will be happy to provide whatever you wish, my prince.” Joseph is beside himself, offering anything to make his charge more comfortable. He offers food, beverages, more blankets, more light, less light. Henry requests something to drink, for his mouth is dry, but more to put Joseph at ease.

While his manservant sends for enough juice to water all of Aurea’s fields, Henry muses on the situation. Clearly, the people have been told that he was held in the mountain by the dragon. That cannot be what his brides were told, lest they start to wonder at the presence of a dragon in their kingdom. And yet, Elodie had been the one to come for him, so she must have known.

The servants arrive with the requested drinks, placing them on the table. They each cast curious looks over at the prince lying in his bed. Henry need not worry about their responses, for they all smile and share relieved looks with each other. It is pleasing to know that his people wish him well and are happy he is here.

Once it is only he and Joseph, Henry asks, “How long was I gone? What were you told?”

Joseph brings the vanity stool to the side of the bed and sits down. It is not usual for manservants to sit in their master’s presence, but this is a familiar arrangement between them. When Henry was young and would ask Joseph for a bedtime story, or when he had a nightmare and required a distraction, or when he was ill and needed a familiar presence, they would always bring the stool to the bed.

“It has been almost six days, Your Highness. We were told of the accident in the mountain, and that the monster likely had you. Everyone prayed night and day that you would be safe, my prince. The search parties and rescue missions have been near constant since you fell. And when the fire lit the sky, we thought the worst. But the Queen never gave up hope, and thank goodness she did not. You have no idea how overjoyed we are, my prince.”

Henry nods, mulling over Joseph’s words. Almost six days spent in the mountain with Mahaut. Recalling the time, it does not feel so long, not nearly enough time. And yet, when he was with her, speaking of distant worlds and dragon-kind, time could have been frozen. Six days was not enough.

“And,” Henry asks cautiously, “the brides? Corrinne, Elodie and Teresa? What were they told?”

“When they arrived, they were told you were ill and quarantined in your chambers.” Joseph responds plainly. “The weddings were to be postponed until you were well. It was difficult to host all three at once, but we knew it was our duty, just as you have yours.”

Henry swallows nervously. His duty was supposed to be the deaths of three innocent women. He has changed that. Instead, three women have been saved and his parents will die in their place, paying the penalty for centuries of deceit.

“But all that has changed now,” says Joseph.

“What do you mean?” How could he know? Henry thinks. He twists his fingers together under his blankets.

Joseph smiles. “When we saw the dragon-fire over the mountain, the Queen realised there wasn’t much time. She took two of the brides up the mountain and completed the ceremonies. She sent the last into the mountain after you, an alternative strategy, a stroke of genius, really.”

Oh, he is talking of Mother. So she really did throw the women into the chasm. How easily Joseph speaks of murder. How easily the servants of the palace manipulated and deceived three innocent women. Henry hopes there is not too much retaliation against the end of the sacrifices.

“Do you know what will happen now? How long am I on bedrest?”

“Just until the doctor clears you. Once you have recovered your strength and your head no longer hurts when you move, things will proceed as planned. There will only be one wedding now, of course, but all of the preparations are still in place. It will happen just as you rehearsed, Your Highness.”

Henry nods, a queasy sensation in his stomach. Though he knows that the sacrifice is futile, as Mahaut will never kill another innocent again, the feeling of dread that his weddings inspired has returned. Yet another woman is being tricked, a pawn in Mother’s game. Henry can hardly stand to hear any more of the morbid enthusiasm.

“Joseph, might I have something to eat?”

As expected, Joseph leaps to his feet to accommodate his prince’s request. “Of course, Your Highness. Something light for your stomach, perhaps some broth, or bread - we can toast it for you, if you prefer.”

“Anything, Joseph. Whatever you think best.”

Joseph relays the message to the servants beyond the door. Henry turns his face to the windows. He usually has a clear view of the mountains, and even at night the colossal peak towers in the sky, darker than even the darkest night. But now, thick drapes obscure most of the window, and gossamer curtains blur what little view there is. While Henry’s body and eyes are kept far from the mountain, his mind and heart turn back to the one place he felt safest, the lair of a dragon.

Has Mahaut returned yet? Does she know he is gone? Does she care? Worse, does she think he left of his own accord and betrayed her again? Have the babies improved? Has muscle grown over bone? Has petrified stone receded? Have they woken, ignorant to his existence? Their absence cuts deep in his heart. A single tear slips down his cheek.

“Her Majesty, Queen Isabelle!” The guard outside the door announces, moments before the woman herself invades his bedroom.

Chapter Text

“Her Majesty, Queen Isabelle!”

Mother strides into the room, her presence filling the bedchamber. Her golden hair wreathes a golden crown, and her dress is one of her more extravagant. Golden metalwork adorns her chest. Elaborately constructed belts and chains hang from her waist. Despite the weight of all her finery, she stands strong and tall.

Henry cowers back into his pillows. She cannot yet know what he has done, thus the anger she aims at him will be of a lesser degree. Yet he fears it anyway. He ruined her plans. The kingdom was supposed to have a week of celebration as they placated the monster for another generation. They were promised three weddings and three sacrifices. But Henry has deprived them of that. Because of him, there has been no celebration, only stress and panic, and two of the three sacrifices were rushed and spontaneous affairs. Mother has always disliked being forced to change her plans, and she hates when things do not go her way.

So Henry braces himself, wary eyes affixed on Mother. She dismisses Joseph with a firm wave of her hand. Her eyes never stop assessing her son. The closing of the chamber doors rings through the chamber with dreaded finality.

For a time, neither Mother nor her son say or do anything. Then Mother approaches, sitting delicately on the bed by his side. She surveys his face, then reaches out to touch his cheek. Henry stalls his flinch and allows her long, painted nails to scrape gently across his skin. There is something lurking behind Mother’s face, hidden by a veil. He cannot make it out, but it chills his blood nonetheless.

Running his tongue over dry lips and swallowing once, twice, Henry wonders, “Are you angry with me?”

Mother pulls back and instead clasps his hand in hers and places it in her lap. Her thumb runs over his knuckles, back and forth. “Why would I be angry, my son?”

“I have been a nuisance to you. All your plans… they are for naught.”

“Well, I admit I had hoped the dragon would kill that Eloise and complete the triad, but I suppose a wedding is the least our people deserve after all they have been through this week. We should have a celebration after thinking our future was ruined.” Mother looks pointedly at him. 

She knows. It is the only explanation for her targeted look, but Henry cannot fathom how. How does she know that he spoke with the dragon, that he has saved their kingdom once and for all?

Mother squeezes his hand, painfully tight. “When she returned with your body slung across the back of a horse like a sack of grain, Eloise had quite the tale to tell. She said you did not want to leave the mountain, that you believed I had betrayed her and that the dragon was good. How do you think I felt hearing that, Henry?”

His jaw locks. The bones of his hand grind together under the pressure of Mother’s hold.

“Of course, I dismissed your words as the twisted work of the dragon. I said your fear of the creature had turned into a need to please and placate it. The dragon had fed you lies, of course, and with no other option left, you were forced to believe it. It is simply a response to captivity, perfectly natural and easy to cure.”

A spark flickered to life in Mother’s eyes as she mentioned a cure. The corner of her lips ticks upwards.

She continues, “I have assured our future princess that the wedding will take place as soon as you are recovered and in your right mind again.” Mother’s hand shoots out to claw at Henry’s face and pull him towards her. The sudden movement sends a splintering pain through his temples. “Trust me when I say, my son, that so long as your harbour foolish notions of breaking tradition and saving her life, I will do everything in my power to purge you of it.”

Mother throws him back, and he is thankful to still be abed. She stands and dusts off her skirts.

Rage suddenly burns through the prince. Henry succeeded where all before him failed or never even attempted, and brought an end to the curse on their land. He has spared his line from the sin of ritual murder, and saved three innocent women. The dragon will no longer terrorise his people, nor any other. He was willing to give his life for his cause, for the lives of others. And yet, Mother clings to tradition and sacrifice and will punish him for his good deeds. Henry cannot fathom accepting that this is the only way, nor can he accept her punishments without protest anymore.

“No. I will not let you.” Henry clenches his fists, steeling himself for what is to come.

Mother turns to face him, her shock plain to see. Henry has so very rarely stood up to her, and never with such conviction and determination in his voice. “Excuse me?”

“I said, no. I will not be marrying Elodie - and her name is Elodie, not Eloise. I will not be throwing her to a dragon. And you will not purge me of anything. You will do nothing of the sort, for I have succeeded where you have failed. I have saved Aurea, now and forever.”

Henry pushes himself to sit up in bed, gritting his teeth at the throbbing in his head. Mother stills in surprise at his boldness.

“I did not fall down that chasm by accident. I fell on purpose. I went to speak to the dragon, to renegotiate as I suggested to you that we do. It took some time, but the dragon listened. I told her of the trick that our ancestors curated and have committed for centuries. She agreed to never kill one of the supposed princesses that were sent into the mountain. So those two women that you threw down this morning, they are still alive. Mahaut - the dragon - rescued them and has taken them somewhere they will be safe from you. The curse on our kingdom is ended. Never again will we condemn innocent to burn alive. And I will not be your pawn anymore.”

A proud smile breaks across Henry’s face. He cannot believe he just did that. Standing up to Mother has been a near impossible task. It seems success is coming easier to him now.

But to his surprise, Mother laughs. “Oh, my dear son. You have much to learn about negotiation. No one agrees to anything, if they do not get something in return. If this dragon has told you that it will not kill the princesses, then it was lying. It was playing you, the foolish prince. You were an entertainment to liven its days. That dragon cares not for the trick, so long as it has fresh meat on which to feast.”

“That is where you are wrong, Mother. She asked for something in return, and I accepted her condition. I felt some hesitance, some remnants of natal loyalty. But the longer I spend in your presence, the smaller that remnant becomes. She agreed to free us, if she could kill you.”

“You would kill me, your own mother?”

No, she is not my mother, Henry thinks. No mother hurts their child as she has. No mother forces their child to commit unspeakable acts. A true mother cares for their child, feeds and clothes them. A true mother comforts their child through the night and listens to their hopes and dreams. Queen Isabelle is his mother no longer, if she ever had been.

Henry hardens his heart to her words, “And you would purge and punish me, your own son. You once said, that a prince protects his people, without hesitation or complaint, no matter the cost. Take comfort, Your Majesty, that I am finally being the prince Aurea deserves. I hope that thought comforts you as you burn.”

The Queen looks desperately towards the balcony, as if she could see the dragon approaching. The night sky is clear and dark. No winged creature soars towards the palace, throat glowing with restrained fire. Henry does not know where Mahaut has gone or where she has taken the two sacrifices. But he knows that she will return, and she will come to the palace once she sees that Henry is gone. The Queen may not be dying now, but her time is running out. A fact she seems to have realised.

“You send a dragon after your own mother? Then you shall regret such an action.” She forces her gaze from the balcony, back to the prince. “I am still Queen. I will not relinquish my kingdom so easily.”

The Queen storms towards the door, calling to her entourage waiting beyond. “Priestess, gather your Order. The prince is in need of your religious guidance. Guards, send word to the barracks. All available forces will be called to the palace to defend against attacks from the sky. Ready the catapults.”

Chapter Text

Delicate streams of incense float up from the brazier and fill Prince Henry’s senses as he breathes. The scent reminds him of the woods and trees in the countryside, and of the lemons and oranges that grow in the orchards. Golden nuggets of resin fill the brazen bowl, encircling a few lit coals. It is frankincense, he knows, that fills the brazen bowl set before him. Frankincense is much favoured by the Red Order in prayers and ceremonies. A small piece is even given to the sacrifices to take into the mountain.

Now it is being used to purge him. Placed beneath his face as he kneels before the High Priestess, the incense consumes all the air that Henry can breathe. He takes in lung after lung of smoke, enough that his nose and mouth have started to tingle. The heat of the coals causes sweat to bead on his face. It mixes with the tears slipping from between his lashes.

The incense has started to affect him. In small doses it is little more than a pleasant smell. Inhaled like this, Henry’s mind starts to loosen and unravel. The red robes of the priestesses surrounding him seem to dissolve into the air around them, flickering and reaching like the fingers of flames. Their grand headresses grow and grow, morphing into horns and wings, stretching to the ceiling and beyond.

A sudden spike of fear pierces Henry’s heart. Red monsters. Don’t touch me, monsters. Red monsters, red, red, monsters. He jerks backwards, but strong hands on his shoulders force him back into the smoke.

The High Priestess’ musical recitation of the Holy Histories continues. Henry knows not what part of the book she is reading, only that she started at the beginning and will not stop until she reaches the end. Her words slip in and out of his mind, like needle and thread through cloth. Some words are lost. His mind is too fluid to capture them all.

… thou… mercy of the… beast… take heed… for ours is the right… then the first king said… do not give in to evil… blood with blood… brazen knife… second queen… the third… count the number… three holy nights… all… honoured is he who obeys… he who respects… shall not.. mercy… venerable princes… duty… incense shall make…. coin to stand for payment due… rejoice… rejoice… rejoice…

The words twist and deepen. The High Priestess’ voice becomes a growl reverberating around his head. Henry’s temple thums with pain shooting agony acroos his forehead. The red monsters and their robes of flame dance to the music of their histories. They intone a deep chorus to accompany their leader. Behind them all the walls are melting from the heat. Stone drips and drops down. So thirsty. Can I drink, please? Henry reaches out his hand, or tries. Then he realises his hands and feet are bound. Gold slips and slides up to the sky. The ceiling tiles are floating. I can see the stars. Pretty, shiny, shiny, shiny, stars. Planets and nebulae and comets and stars. Let me eat you. Tickle my tummy, tickle, tickle. Shiny, shiny.

The balcony doors stand firm, locked tight against the world beyond. But through the glass panes move tiny little shadows. Shadow creatures wait, nails scratching at the door. Stritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. Their wails join the music of the Order, lifting it from cacophany to symphony. The shadows want in. Shadows move through the glass, taunting and teasing.

… behold… rejoice… for three holy… and the people crowned him… mercy… do not give… of the beast… dragon-fire… take the symbol of evil… turn it to the cause of righteousness… rejoice for now… freedom through… honoured are those… sacrifice… the number shall be three… blood… knife… fall… mercy… mercy… no mercy…

Something is crawling on Henry’s face. It is going down his shirt, across his skin. It burns. It itches. Get it off! The embers below are fizzing and sparking, popping. Flying upwards like baby fireflies, they brush his face and pierce him with their stingers. They attack him. They hate him. They want to kill me! Get them off! Let me go! Get—

“— them off! Let me go! Please! I burn!” The prince’s cries are ignored. His thrashing and twisting only makes the priestesses’ holds stronger as they wait out the High Priestess’ recitation. His tears break from his lashes to land on the coals with a hiss.

“I beg you! I beg you! Red monster! Monsters growing, burning, floating. Stars and stars and planets.”

The High Priestess grows weary of his complaints, and, after a quick gesture, the prince is gagged. Now only the rag between his teeth will hear him.

… and so… forever… three is the number… holy is the… honour… duty… rejoice… from the first… last… let no man… betray… sacrifice… monster… no end.

When the High Priestess intones her last word, the prince is staring towards the balcony doors, body finally still and mouth silent. She scoffs at the sight of him and orders her priestesses to prepare the next stage. They remove the brazier, dousing it with cold water, and set the prince to kneel with his weak body leaning against a stool. His vacant eyes continue to stare.

Henry feels his body being moved and positioned, like a doll or a toy for the Queen’s games. But it is as if he stands five feet behind his eyes. There is a distance between his mind and the real world. For though his lungs take in clean air, his mind still swims amid the incense’s fog. Walls melt upwards, robes dissolve into flame. Dawn light is coming through the glass panes, stretching skeletal fingers towards him. His breath quickens, but his restrained body cannot escape them.

The skeletal dawn floods the balcony, but the shadows remain. They cry and wail to come in. They claw and beg at the door. Tiny, little, baby shadows. Henry’s heart begs to let them in, but then they would die in the fiery robes, or melt into puddles of shadow. No, do not enter! They will melt—

Henry screams through the cloth in his mouth. A thin black whip rises only to crack on his back again.

“Repent your sins, Your Highness.” The High Priestess commands. “See the error of your treasonous ways.”

Though the world is blurring around him, Henry has enough presence of mind to furiously shake his head. What he did was good and right. He will not regret his actions, not when they saved the lives of three innocent women, and countless others who would have been murdered in the future. And he certainly will not forsake Mahaut. The dragon showed him more kindness and compassion than anyone else he has ever met.

The whip cracks in the air again, and cut a burning strip across his back. It is agony. It is worse than the tree branch piercing his leg. It is worse than being thrown across a cavern by a dragon’s tail. But it is not worse than knowing that this torture is at the Queen’s behest. Biting down on the gag, Henry resolves not to do as they ask. He knows hwo to push through this kind of pain. He knows to take his breathes between hits, knows that, while tensing prepares for the pain, it is better to relax. No matter what they do to him, he will not repent or regret.

“Confess and repent, Your Highness.” The whip rises again, and Henry braces for the hit.

A sharp knock at the door interrupts.

“His Grace the Archduke of Arach!”

Chapter Text

“His Grace the Archduke of Arach!”

At once the priestesses haul Henry to his feet, cut him loose of his bindings and throw him onto the bed. The wounds on his back flare when they touch the bedding, but he is only glad that he has been allowed to keep his pillows and blankets. He watches through exhausted eyes as the women calmly but efficiently clear the evidence of the night from view. Once everything appears perfectly respectable, the High Priestess allows the Archduke entry.

The man enters with natural grace and elegance, and with the demeanour of one who knows he is the power in the room. And yet, Henry cannot help but notice he is not the arrogant or conceited sort. There is no cocky swagger to his walk, nor an imperious lift to his chin. The man commands because it is his right, but the weight on his shoulders is one he bears with dignity and respect.

The Archduke approaches the bed and bows politely, “Your Highness, I apologise for intruding in your moment of rest.” He looks at the priestesses as if seeing them for the first time. “I had not known you were occupied.”

“We were helping His Highness with spiritual matters.” The High Priestess responds to the unvoiced questions.

A moment of awkward silence falls upon the chamber. Neither the Archduke nor the High Priestess break eye contact, nor concede their presence in the room. They could be statues for all the movements they make.

Finally, the High Priestess loses the battle and, with a sour pinch to her expression, leaves the room, her acolytes in tow. Thankfully, the Archduke does not comment on their lack of etiquette towards the prince.

Henry braces himself. Now is not the best time for greeting foreign dignitaries, not in his state, though thankfully the haze of incense is waning. The walls have regained their physical form, and the ceiling is slowly reforming, though the shadows still remain.

And he is not well prepared for this conversation, knowing little of Arach. It is not a region of Aurea, that much he knows. But its approximate distance from his kingdom, the state of its currency, its government, its imports and exports, are unknown. Presumably, the Archduke holds a significant position in the land, to have been invited to the ceremonies. And if he accepted and came, then he must know some element of the truth. He must know why there was to be three weddings. He must know what princes do in Aurea.

“How can I help you, Your Grace? It must be quite urgent to have come so early in the morning.” Henry manages to speak clearly, pushing the pain from his voice.

“Indeed,” the Archduke smiles. With his golden curls and chiselled facial features, Henry thinks, he must be excellent at securing favourable trade deals. “I wish to offer my well wishes to you, and present you with a gift.” The Archduke reaches into his pocket and retrieves a small velvet pouch. He places it carefully into Henry’s trembling hands.

“That is most kind of you, Your Grace.” Judging by the way the Archduke’s eyes linger on the pouch, Henry can only guess that it holds great importance for him. But why would he give it to foreign prince? Why give it to someone he may never see again?

“Won’t you open it, Your Highness?”

Suddenly nervous, Henry loosens the drawstrings. The pouch is small, the item inside small enough to fit in his palm. He tips it out. It is a rattle. Though meant for a baby, it is made of solid gold, more expensive than some of the Queen’s jewels. The handle is scaled and coiled, ending in a triangular point, ironically rather like a dragon’s tail. Small, golden bells hang from the handle, ringing with the smallest movement. The top is shaped like an egg, with beads inside that ring like the finest crystal. The craftsmanship is exquisite, so detailed and intricate. It enchants Henry at once.

“It is beautiful,” Henry whispers. “But, I do not understand. A baby rattle as a wedding present?”

The Archduke chuckles awkwardly, casting his gaze away for a moment. “It was meant for another occasion, Your Highness. But now seemed an appropriate time.”

“Because marriage leads to children?” The men share a laugh.

“Because the rattle was a gift commissioned for your birth, Prince Henry. But I was unable to give it to you.” The Archduke approaches, seating himself presumptuously on the prince’s bed. “I have wanted to meet you for so long. Seeing you now I am both pained and overjoyed. I wish you had not endured so much in your young life, and I curse myself for my cowardice. But I am here now, and I will not let you down again.”

The man speaks so honest and earnestly. The tremor in his voice when he called himself a coward cannot be faked. But there is no one beyond Aurea who should care so much for Prince Henry, and certainly no one cared for him before he was born.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Benedict. I am your uncle.”

“But,” Henry sputters, “I was told you were dead. Mother said—“

“She would have. Isabelle believes what everyone else is Aurea believes: that I threw myself from a parapet, drunk and depressed, a year after my fourth wedding, on the night we were to celebrate your impending birth. In truth, my demise was fabricated. I released a criminal from the dungeons, a blond and of a similar build to myself. I smashed his face to pieces and placed him at the bottom of the parapet. Then I fled on the river’s current, with only what I could carry on my person to secure my future. Away from Aurea, I was afforded the chance to heal. I built a life for myself as an Archduke - a title, I am proud to say, that did not exist before I created it,” he added with a chuckle.

“You hated it too? You did not want to do it either.”

“I did not, but I did it and it has haunted my life ever since. I may have found peace, but I will never forget them. Georgia, Leila, Rashmi.” Benedict trails off, losing himself to memories. The grief he feels in his heart is exposed on his face.

The betrayal Henry had felt when told his uncle had gladly done his duty and thought his brides mere obstacles to his true wife, vanishes. To have someone know his inner pain so intimately, is a great comfort. Relief washes over him as he realises that he is not a freak or an anomaly among Aurean princes. If he and his uncle hate the tradition, it stands to reason that over the centuries there were more. How many princes cried themselves to sleep at night? How many hurt themselves in recompense, or even truly took their own lives? How many shut down and refused to engage with the world, lest they feel the weight of their crimes?

“Why would you come back? You were free! It must pain you so to walk these halls again, to see people rejoice at the killing of innocents.” Henry could not fathom. If he has escaped instead of falling into the mountain, he certainly would never have come back. In truth, when he was in the mountain he also thought he would never come back to the palace.

Benedict reaches out his hand, but stops short of taking Henry’s in his. The younger prince bridges the gap, feeling a presence that is more than a ghost.

“When I heard that His Highness Prince Henry of Aurea was getting married, I knew I had to come. I could not escape my duty, but I could help you escape yours. I came to help you. Together we can stop this madness. We will tell the world the truth, expose Aurea’s crimes and stop this once and for all.” Benedict’s eyes shine with renewed fervour. “I admit some things have gone awry. I never expected the dragon to steal you away, but you are back safe and sound. The weddings are still being arranged. There is still time to end this.”

Henry beams at his uncle. Finally, there is someone who wants the same things as he. His uncle is prepared to fight against his deepest fears to save him, to save Henry, of all people.

But there is one problem. Henry has already ended it.

“Uncle, thank you. I am sure you know what this means for me, for you to do all this for me. But I’m afraid it is for naught.”

“What do you mean, Henry? You cannot be thinking of going along with this?”

“Listen, uncle. It is for naught because I have already done it. I have already stopped the sacrifices.” Henry finally lets his joy show on his face. His smile threatens to rip his cheeks, and tears of pure happiness pool in the corners of his eyes.

“I don’t understand. How? Henry, if you have done this, then you are a most remarkable young man.” Benedict grasps Henry’s shoulders and pulls him into his embrace.

It should be the best hug in the world, full of happiness and relief and joy, but his uncle is unaware of the open wounds on Henry’s back. When the older man’s hands touch his flesh, Henry cries out in pain and collapses further into his Uncle’s chest.

Benedict cries, “Henry! Henry, what is it?” His frantic hands checking the younger man’s body only make him cry out more.

But before Henry can respond or choke out an explanation, a three-fold, whistling screech sounds from the balcony. Something sharp scrapes against the glass panes of the door. Behind the blurred glass stand the shadows. They did not disappear with the rest of Henry’s visions.

And Benedict can see them too.

Chapter Text

Beyond the ornate glass and gold doors of the prince’s balcony lurk impatient creatures. Shrill screeches and whistles pierce Henry and Benedict’s ears. Claws scrape against glass, emitting a bone-chilling frequency. Something hits the door, as if the creatures are beating and battering it down. The morning light shines behind the creatures., casting huge shadows into the room.

“What are they?” Benedict whispers, voice caught in his throat by fear.

Henry, still recovering from the aggravation to his wounds, leans heavily on his uncle. He fists his hands in the blankets and clenches his jaw. Slowly the throbbing pain recedes until he can manage to speak.

“I do not know. But they must desperately want to be in here.”

As if agreeing with his words, the creatures grow more frantic, keening and crying, beating their limbs against the door. The noises they make sound so tortured and pained, they squeeze Henry’s heart. Discomforted, Henry grunts.

Looking back at his nephew, Benedict suddenly remembers the young man’s pain. “Careful, Henry. Let’s get you settle back down. Won’t you tell me what has happened? Was it the dragon?”

With his uncle’s help, Henry finds a comfortable position in bed, resting against the plush mountain of pillows. This way, his back does not ache so much, and his headache has the opportunity to ease if he does not move.

Henry’s instinct tells him to stay silent. There are many expectations placed on royalty, on Crown Princes most especially. Few have cared for his injuries in the past, not when they came as a result of due punishment. Any that may have sympathised had no power to do anything and knowing only weighed them down with guilt. Benedict is no long a prince of Aurea, now only the foreign Archduke. He has no authority over the Queen and her decisions, no authority over his punishments. And yet, things are going to be changing in Aurea. One day soon, Queen Isabelle will burn in dragon-fire. Perhaps, Henry could finally tell someone.

“It was not the dragon. It was the Queen.” Henry pushes up the sleeves of his shirt to expose the raw and red rings around his wrists. “My ankles, too. And my back is from a whip. It was punishment for ending the sacrifices. They wanted me to repent and forsake the dragon.”

A tear slips down Benedict’s cheek. It shocks the young prince. Is it truly so easy to grieve someone else’s pain? Is this how family should feel? “Oh, my dear boy. I wish you had not suffered so. This is why the priestesses were in here, is it not? Did they make you breathe the incense, too?”

Henry nods. How does he know?

“Then you must drink something, else the smoke will line your throat and cause irritation.” At once, Benedict retrieves the pitchers of water and juice and guides his nephew in clearing his mouth of the lingering taste of smoke. He hands Henry a handkerchief to blow his nose, as well, then checks the size of his pupils. “The effects seem to be fading, but you might have nightmares for a while. It is not easy to forget those visions.”

Henry stills his uncle’s fussing. “You speak from experience, uncle.” Benedict nods grimly. “Thank you. Thank you for helping me, and for the gift.”

Shaking the baby rattle, Henry smiles at the clear chimes of the bells. In his mind, he can see a younger version of his uncle, bowing over a crib to entertain a small baby with the pretty noises and glittering gold. They were both deprived of a relationship, of support and comfort. But they can have it now, Henry hopes.

The noises from outside are louder, as if in response to the rattle’s call. They cannot be ignored any longer. 

“What shall we do?” Benedict asks.

Henry surveys the room, eyes landing on the iron poker by the fireplace. “Take the poker, uncle. Then open the doors. If it dangerous, use the poker as a weapon. On my signal.”

Benedict stands ready, improvised weapon in hand, and at Henry’s nod, he flings open the balcony doors.

At once three small bodies scamper across the room towards Henry’s bed. Nails click on the stone floor, wings flailing in vain attempts to run faster. Their shrieks continue, louder and more excitable than before. At the sight of the creatures heading for his nephew, Benedict raises the poker for a swift swing downwards—

“Uncle, no!” Henry cries. “Don’t hurt them! They mean no harm!” Unable to move from the bed, Henry can only open his arms wide as three baby dragons climb atop the bed and leap into his embrace. Joy explodes in his chest. They are alive! I did it! The babies are alive!

“Hello, babies.” They chirrup and squeal excitedly. They jostle for position in his lap, one climbing his chest to nudge her crown under his chin. “Oh, babies. You are here.”

The dragon tucked under his chin is pale-scaled with golden accents - Krasa. Another looks a miniature of her mother - Tomila. The last, mottled brown hide like the rich soil of fertile fields, looks at him with bright copper eyes - Corra. They are exactly as he imagined - beautiful and so incredible.

“When did you wake, my babies? Where is your mother?”

Did they wake alone? That was Henry’s greatest fear. If Mahaut was flying the sacrifices to safety and Henry was imprisoned in the palace, who was there to help the babies back to life? Were they afraid? At least they had each other. But he would have liked to have seen their first moments. It must have taken them so long to get from the mountain to the palace on their own. Anything could have happened to them. Still small, a dog or a horse could have attacked or trampled them. An angry villager could have captured and tortured them. But they came all this way to reach him.

“My brave little dragons.” Henry whispers, nuzzling into Krasa’s crown.

“Henry,” Uncle Benedict approaches cautiously. “What is going on? Are those dragons?”

“I suppose it is a rather interesting and complicated story. Sit, uncle, and I’ll tell you.”

Benedict retakes his seat on the bed, eyes never leaving the three happy dragons. Krasa seems to have fallen asleep on Henry’s chest, while the other two coil together and play with their tails. They are content to lie on Henry, practically ignoring the other man in the room.

“I was not taken by the dragon. My falling into the mountain was not an accident, I did it on purpose. I wanted to do something about the sacrifices, whether that be to speak with the dragon and convince her to stop somehow, or… let her kill me so my blood could no longer be used. Fortunately, she listened to me. The sacrifices are no longer needed, for she will no longer kill those who are innocent. In exchange, she will get her revenge on the perpetrators, most especially the Queen. I know I should not have condemned Mother, but I cannot deny that she is not a good person.”

Henry pleads with his uncle with beseeching eyes. Benedict takes his nephew’s hand. “I understand. I know my sister well. She has never been motivated by good, only power and believed righteousness. I may not have done the same, but I would have been a wretched coward.

“Now, what about these three?”

“While I was in the mountain, we spoke a lot, about many different things. Her name is Mahaut, and the first King killed her three daughters just as they hatched. Her pain, I could not stand it. There are these little bugs in the mountains. I call them glowworms, though I do not know if they have a proper name. They heal whatever injury is put before them - I think it feeds them, or sustains them somehow. I was injured by the fall, and they healed me. All that is left is a scar. I used them on the dragon’s daughters. There was no indication that they could do what I wanted, only vain hope. But somehow… here they are.”

Henry gestures to the babies, and names them. As he moves his hand, the rattle rings. Little Tomila reaches a paw to bat at the bells, singing happy trills. In revenge at the noise, Krasa turns and nips at one of Tomila’s fronds. Tutting, Henry intervenes, stroking both of the girls’ heads.

Benedict watches it all carefully. Finally, his lips quirk. “They are rather adorable. So long as they do not set fire to the drapes or kill any servants, I see no problem with them. It must be fate, to have brought them back so miraculously. Congratulations, Henry.”

Benedict slowly reaches a hand towards Corra’s keen eyes. He takes his time, as if approaching a skittish, nervous animal, more than aware that they are dragons capable of burning him to ash. Corra takes a tentative sniff. Then another. Then she settles her head back down on her paws. While she may tolerate his presence, she cannot be tempted to leave Henry’s lap.

“It does make me wonder,” says Benedict. “Where is their mother? Mahaut, you said her name was?”

“Yes. When the Queen sent down two of the supposed sacrifices, Mahaut went to rescue them and take them somewhere safe. I imagine it might have taken time to get them to trust her, and finding a suitably safe place for them may take even longer. She cannot simply drop them in a field, or leave them in Aurea where they could be returned to the palace. Maybe the ladies gave her directions to their homelands, but they could be quite far away. In truth, I have no idea where Mahaut is, I only hope she comes soon.”

“When I came to visit this morning, I passed the courtyard and parapets. The soldiers are setting up crossbows and stations for archers with many quivers of arrows. And outside in the fields, they are building huge catapults. When Mahaut arrives, Isabelle will not make her approach easy.” Benedict informed him.

Henry contemplates matters for a moment. He cannot wait for Mahaut to return and defeat the Queen by herself. The danger she poses, not only to Henry himself, but to the babies, is most grave. Henry hears the phantom crack of the whip and feels the wound son his back press against the pillows. Imagining such wounds afflicting the babies, bile rises to his mouth. This cannot be allowed to happen. He must take action now.

“We cannot wait for her. We must stop the Queen, before she can do any more damage. If we take her out of the equation, she cannot launch an attack against Mahaut, and we can announce the end of the ceremonies, and save Elodie and the others.”

Benedict’s answering smile is wide. “Agreed. Now, tell me your plan, nephew.”

Chapter Text

Queen Isabelle stands on the parapet of her palace. Her kingdom stands prosperous and golden at her back. The fields in front of her and the walls to her sides are being prepared for war. None question her decisions, for she is the Queen of Aurea and highly respected and feared. If she says that they will launch an attack on the fire-breathing dragon that has plagued their royal family for centuries, then that is what they will do.

There have been no sightings of the creature. When it appears, the palace shall be ready. The armoury has been stocked with long-range weapons and machines suited for an aerial attack, since the time of the third king of Aurea. He knew that a time would come when the sacrifices and deception no longer worked in Aurea’s best interest, and at that time the dragon must be dealt with. Every crossbow and spear and catapult and ballista in the armoury and storerooms has been uncovered and brought into action. When the dragon attacks the castle, it will find itself dodging assaults on all sides, and the Queen only needs one good hit.

A scrawny messenger, more a boy than a man, hurries to the Queen, “Your Majesty, the beast has been sighted coming from the West.”

Without a word, Isabelle makes for the Western Wall. She will go where the fighting is, to better command and direct her people. That was a lesson her father taught her. A good ruler leads from the front. They will not respect a coward.

On the Western Wall, the captain of the guard obediently hands over a spyglass and points towards a small black dot the horizon. When she looks through the spyglass, the small dot transforms into a miniature dragon, complete with furiously beating wings and whipping tail.

“We cannot yet tell if it is heading for us, or for the mountain.”

“As soon as is it is range,” Isabelle orders, “start the attack.”

The captain sends a messenger to relay the order to the men on the ground. Then they stand to watch the dragon’s approach.

This is the moment that I make my mark in history, Isabelle determines. While there are many illustrious Kings and Queens of Aurea, there have been those unremarkable few through the centuries. Isabelle refuses to be of the latter category. She had been confident that her stable rule and prosperous improvements to the kingdom would earn her place in the Holy Histories. She would be a model for future rulers of how to uphold tradition without stagnating. It is because of her that the lower town, as well as the palace, has fresh, running water straight from the springs in the hills. It is because of her that agricultural production is at an all time high and the treasury is overflowing.

And yet, this opportunity that Henry has presented cannot be ignored. None have ever considered bringing an end to the sacrifices, none except Henry. Isabelle certainly disapproved, and still does, of his intentions. But now that he has what he wants, Isabelle must take advantage. She will not let the dragon burn her, of course, but she will not let her weak, simple excuse for a son be known in the Histories. Renegotiation, she scoffs, killing the beast is a far more fitting end.

So, Isabelle will kill the beast and be credited with ending the curse on their land. She will be heralded as a saint, and her power over the kingdom will be absolute. None would ever consider disobeying the Queen who saved them all. Henry will not be an issue for much longer, not once the High Priestess has done her work. Isabelle has already selected an appropriately dutiful and strong-willed wife for him, a worthy successor of her legacy. Everything is going according to plan.

The dragon flies quickly. It will reach the palace in a matter of minutes. And it is heading for the palace, not the mountain. Perfect, Isabelle thinks.

“Your Majesty!”

The Queen turns, expecting a messenger. She is surprised to see her son, dishevelled with only a simple cloak covering his shirt and breeches. How dar he appear in such a disgusting state of dress! Where are the priestesses? How could they let him out of their sight! And he is seeming far too clear-headed. His slightly widened pupils are the only sign of the incense.

“Henry, what are you doing here? You should be in your rooms, resting.”

“I should be being drugged and beaten, you mean? No, no more. I have had enough.” Henry speaks firmly.

Were it not for his attire, he was finally resembling the heir she had always wanted. His posture was strong and assertive, and his words clear and biting. But it did not escape her notice that the man to her son’s side has placed an encouraging hand on his elbow, a sign of support. Still disappointing, Isabelle thinks. She scrutinises the blond stranger, certain that she has seen him before though she cannot recall his name. Did she invite him to the weddings?

If she does not remember the man, he must be unimportant. She should focus on her disobedient son, instead. How dare he oppose her, after all she has done for him! She gave him life, and a life of wealth and respect too. She asked very little of him, merely that he do his duty and live up his ancestry. Others are not so fortunate, forced to work back-breaking hours in fields or down mines in the pitch black. Some parents hurt their children merely for the enjoyment of it, Isabelle has only ever wanted her son to be better. He should be thanking her for her hard-work and dedication to his improvement. But he has thrown all her gifts away.

“And what will you do, Henry? That dragon you sent to kill me, will die by arrow, by bolt or by stone, all weapons that I have at my disposal. Your treason is punishable by death, but as my only child you may be spared, with some conditions. Now stop this foolishness, you have lost.”

Isabelle gestures to the guards to escort her son away. Hopefully the priestesses will not be so negligent this time. She looks to the horizon. The dragon is close now. Only a couple wing-beats more and it will be in range.

With a manic grin on her face, Isabelle watches as the order goes out and a hundred arrows fly into the sky together, like choreographed dancers. One will hit. One must hit.

If an arrow hits the creature’s eye, its blood will spray onto the ground. Legends say that dragon’s blood is made from pure gold. Isabelle will send out men on the morrow to harvest as much blood as they can from the fields and the carcass itself. Let no piece of the beast go to waste; its blood will become the monarch’s new crown; its skull will decorate the throne room; the scales will be fashioned into ceremonial armour; the teeth, claws and bones can be carved down into hilts for swords, daggers, or even knives, or maybe a whole new throne made of dragon bone. The world will know of Isabelle’s victory, just by looking at her palace.

Beside Isabelle, Henry evades the guard’s reach with the help of the stranger. While the blond man pushes the guards away, Henry rushes to the parapet and shouts, “Mahaut, fly up! Fly up!”

The dragon gives a furious roar, but does as bid. It avoids the volley of arrows, and the barrage of stones that come from the catapults.

“Burn them, Mahaut!” Henry cries.

Isabelle screams in frustration. “Attack the damned thing! Kill it!” She yells at the soldiers and the men below. How can they be so incompetent? The creature is immense, hardly a small target.

Henry continues shouting encouragement at the dragon, making his side perfectly clear. When the dragon obeys him again and launches its own attack on the catapults and ballistas, Isabelle makes her move. While the weaponry and soldier burn below in liquid fire, Isabelle launches herself at her son.

Her nails claw at his cheeks and eyes and throat. Continuously screeching, she leaves bloody marks down his face and throat. The strange blond man tries to pull her off, buts the guards restrain him. No other dares come between the royals. As the assault continues, Henry eventually musters the strength to push her away. But before Henry can even regain his footing, the Queen lands a punch on his cheekbone and send him to the floor.

“Henry!” The stranger cries, struggling against the guards in a desperate attempt to reach the prince. What attachment does this stranger have for the boy? Isabelle wonders. Not that it matters much, seeing as he will be dead and Henry imprisoned before the day is done.

The dragon may have burned the catapults, but there are still archers on the walls, and soldiers in the courtyard waiting to storm out of the palace and attack the creature with swords and spears. They only need one good hit. An arrow will surely pierce the thin membrane of a wing and down the wretched beast. A simple pincer manoeuvre will take it out from all sides. A slice to the tail, a well-placed blow to the leg or wing joint, a decisive thrust into the creature’s heart, and victory will be won.

Queen Isabelle watches from the parapet, as the archers launch another volley. Her stunned son lies on the stone floor, blood dripping from his face and neck. Victory will have many costs, but it will be worth the glory that will come. Soon, future Aureans for generation after generation will know Queen Isabelle the Great, the Dragon-Slayer, the Ender of Curses. Hers will be the final name in the Holy Histories, the last and greatest. For who could be greater than the Queen who slew the dragon?

Ferocious roars fill the sky as the dragon weaves through the air, miraculously avoiding the barrage of arrows. With a bone-chilling scream, it flies above the palace and burns the archers on the walls. They all die screaming. The remaining soldiers in the courtyard and in the fields flee in terror.

Cowards! “Cowards!” Isabelle screams. Traitors! The Queen watches as victory slips between her fingers, like sand in an hourglass. the realisation that this is the end comes slowly. She has lost. Well, if she has lost, then she will lose like a Queen. If the dragon will burn her, she will burn cursing its existence. She will not die a coward!

But, having destroyed Isabelle’s forces, the dragon does not launch its fire at her. It does not take the opportunity to burn the Queen as promised, to make her die screaming in agony. It circles her position, alternatively growling and making strange whining noises. Its orange eyes linger on Henry’s fallen form.

It is him, Isabelle realises. It will not attack because Henry is too close. The Queen moves closer to her son, until she stands above him. There is still a chance.

“Which is faster? The creature’s fire, or my blade?” From the sleeve of her dress, Isabelle withdraws a small ceremonial dagger. This brazen blade, not a day before, had cut her own palm and the palms of two women, up in the mountain cave. Now, it would commit the final sacrifice, the sacrifice of the Queen’s son. Death by fire is an inevitability for the Queen, but she will not be the only casualty in this war.

Isabelle lifts her arm, dagger glinting in the morning sunlight.

The dragon cries in rage, but is powerless to do anything lest it harm the prince.

Something moves under Henry’s cloak.

As she prepares to bring death down on her child, three small, reptilian heads peer out from Henry’s cloak. Baby dragons, Isabelle realises, as grotesque and monstrous as their parent. They crawl over her son’s body, repugnant eyes tracking her every movement. Their bodies are malformed, skeletal things. Hideous little beasts, they screech and cry, sounding almost like human babies. To the Queen, the similarity only makes her despise them more. How far Henry has fallen, she thinks, my true son would never have let them touch him, let alone use him as a human ladder.

The three dragons, repulsive and disgusting to behold, do not deter the Queen. She will simply kill them, as the first King’s knights did once before.

Suddenly, a burst of golden fire startles her. Isabelle staggers back, suddenly assaulted by small blasts of fire. Burst after burst is aimed at her face. The flames singe her golden hair, scorch her elaborate bodice, and blister the fair skin of her cheeks. Isabelle screams in pain. She is forced back step by step, lest the little gnats be responsible for more than facial injuries. Death by dragon-fire may be notable, but not baby dragon-fire.

“You think your little pets scare me, Henry. You go too far.”

Henry lifts himself up to lean against the wall, exhausted and pained. “No. It is you who goes too far. I have wrestled with myself over what I should feel for you. You were my mother, who birthed me and who should love me beyond all else. But even before I entered that mountain you were not what I deserved. Now, I see plainly. I have no doubts or regrets. You want to imprison me, torture me, kill me, even. I deserve better. You deserve death. You deserve to burn.”

Henry looks into the sky, at the dragon still circling. The creature’s throat begins to glow, restrained heat creating ripples in the air. As the fire launches from the monster’s throat Isabelle realises where she is standing. Those little beasts pushed her back with their flames. Now she will burn, and Henry will be unharmed.

Queen Isabelle of Aurea dies screaming in rage and frustration.

Chapter Text

Watching his mother burn to death is strangely relieving. It is cathartic, seeing the cause of so much pain in his life, and in the lives of others, turn to ash and fly away in the wind. When only charred bones and flesh remain, Henry takes his first breath of freedom. There will be no more pain from those who are supposed to love him. There will be no more threats of spiritual purging and whipping. His actions will be his own. Prince Henry of Aurea is free.

Though, he may be King Henry now. But that is a thought for later. For now, he has a dragon waiting for him.

Mahaut has settled herself on the parapet, her burnt orange eyes fixed on Henry’s prone form, and the three baby dragons clinging to him. As still as the frozen surface of a lake, Mahaut could be mistaken for gargoyle. She did not even blink. It seemed she could not grasp what was right before her eyes. Only when the babies noticed her and started whining for their mother’s embrace, did she blink and move closer.

Head mere inches away from the babies, all three rushed to rub their crowns’ under her jaw. Sweet chirps and trills filled their air. Henry could not hold back the grin on his face and the happiness blossoming in his chest. When the babies start to use their mother as a climbing frame, pulling themselves up onto her back, climbing to her crown, walking along her wings, Mahaut finally turns to the prince.

“How?” Mahaut looks helplessly at Henry. “My daughters… How?”

“The glowworms in the cave are quite miraculous. I am sorry that I did not tell you, I was afraid that it would not work and you would be angry. I had no evidence that it would work, but I had to try.”

If anything, Henry’s words only confuse Mahaut more. “Why? You owed me nothing.”

“It is not about owing you or paying the price for something. I did it because it was the least I could do. After all the pain you have suffered, you deserve happiness. And I suffer nothing from reviving them. I had to try.”

Mahaut carefully, as if he is made of the finest glass, presses her nose to Henry’s chest. She rests there for a moment, letting him feel her great affection for him.

“Hen-ry,” She croons. “There has never been anyone so selfless and good as you.” The babies sing prettily, in agreement with their mother.

Henry reaches out to touch Mahaut’s cheek. Her hide is thick and warm under his hand. When she presses into his touch, Henry begins to stroke her cheek and jaw. He lowers his head to rest his forehead on hers.

“Thank you.” Henry whispers against her hide. Thank you for seeing me, for listening to me. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for looking after me, feeding and protecting me. Thank you for loving me. He feels her answering purr in his heart.

They stay in their embrace for as long as they can. The babies continue exploring their mother’s back, nibbling at her spines and tackling each other. But neither Tomila, nor Corra, nor Krasa interrupt Mahaut and Henry. Already so intelligent, they understand it is a personal and private moment.

Benedict has no such realisation. He clears his throat and startles the prince out of his focus.

At once Mahaut growls and rounds on the older man, teeth bared mere inches away from his face. “How dare you! Who are you?”

“No, Mahaut. It is okay. He is a friend.” Henry intervenes, resting a calming hand on the side Mahaut’s neck. “In fact, he is more than a friend. This is Benedict, my uncle.”

“Un-cle? Mother’s brother.”

“Yes.”

Mahaut’s growl grows louder, “He has royal blood. I know his blood. Many years ago, I killed three princesses who smelled of his blood,” she accuses.

Benedict flushes and looks away in shame. Henry opens his mouth to speak, but it is his uncle who answers.

“It is true. I am Henry’s uncle, his mother’s brother. Many years ago, I took part in my generation’s sacrifices and sent three innocent women to their deaths, tricking you in the process. If you wish to punish me for my sins, it is within my right. But know that however you wish to punish me will pale in comparison to how I have punished myself over the years, and how I continue to punish myself. I left Aurea not long after the sacrifices, and I have only returned now to support my nephew, however I can. I love my nephew, and I know you do too.”

Mahaut deliberates. The air is tense between them. Finally, she takes her piercing eyes away from Benedict and surveys the palace. She takes in the burning fields and corpses, the crumbling parapets and finally the charred remains of the former queen.

“You love Henry? Yes?”

“Yes,” Benedict confirms. His confidence and assuredness makes Henry feel fluttery inside. Though he has only known his uncle a short time, the depth of his affection is startling.

“Then let him go.”

“What?” Henry cries. Mahaut cannot force his only true family member to leave him! Do not force me to be alone! What if Benedict agrees? Is this a test? Will he abandon me in the face of a fire-breathing dragon? Fear chills his blood.

“What do you mean?” Where before Benedict’s voice was contrite and honest, now it is hard as stone and cold as ice. He glares at mahaut as if she were a disobedient vassal, and not a gigantic, centuries old creature. “I will not leave him, not even for you, Mahaut. I left him to fend for himself for seventeen years, and I regret every single one. I will not do so again. You will not deprive him of another who loves him.”

Benedict stands ready to face fire. His shoulders are pushed back, his back straight as a ruler. He lifts his chin and glares fiercely into the dragon’s eyes.

Henry stands torn between the two who mean the most to him. Mahaut, who protected him from his mother and her soldiers, who fed him and nurtured him, who helped him to save countless innocent women from a terrible fate. And Benedict, his dear uncle who has returned to him when he needs him most, who has offered unconditional support to do the bravest thing he has ever done. They face against each other, an exiled prince and a dragon. The anxiety gnaws at his stomach.

But Mahaut does not turn his uncle to ash. She does not reduce him to little more than bones and meat. He does not join his sister on the cold stone floor. Instead, Mahaut hums appreciatively.

“You are deserving of him. But if you love him as you say, do not force him to stay.”

“Explain, Mahaut, please.”

“With that woman dead,” Mahaut drags a claw through the queen’s remains, “Henry will be King. That is a fate worse than death. He wishes to travel and see the world. Do not condemn him to that life. If you love him, let him be free.”

Benedict looks at Henry, who strokes Mahaut’s neck in thanks. “Is this true, Henry? I know you stopped the sacrifices, and I had believed it was because you wanted to rule a better kingdom. Do you want to be King?”

“It is my duty.” Henry mumbles, ignoring the voice whispering in his mind that it is unbecoming of him to mumble. “I am an only child. There is no one else who can rule. I suppose this is the price I must pay for freeing Aurea from my mother.”

“Not exactly,” says Benedict, a pensive look on his face. “That may have been true when you had no other family. But now you have an uncle. I may not have been raised to rule as my sister or you have been, but I have received my own form of education beyond this kingdom. I had my share of adventure, now I am ready to return home. If it pleases you, nephew, I could be Aurea’s new King, and you could go see the world.”

Henry launches himself at his uncle before he even finishes speaking. His arms wrap around Benedict’s neck, his face burrows into his shoulder. Gratitude pours from him in waves.

“Thank you, uncle, thank you.”

Benedict chuckles, wrapping his arms around his nephew, mindful of the wounds on his back. “You will be visiting, of course. There will be no forgetting your dear uncle. And should you ever want the throne back, it is yours.”

“No, keep it!” Henry practically shouts. “I will come back often, I promise.”

Uncle and nephew embrace for a moment more, before reluctantly separating.

“I suppose,” Benedict says, “we must inform the people of their new King. And as King I already have many changes to make.” He looks around the palace walls, at his sister’s remains. “We shall start here. Guards, find a suitable container for these. They will be interred in the dungeons. Have your men retrieve the remains of the soldiers in the field and on the walls, and make sure they are handed over to any family.”

The guards, who had been fearful bystanders in the face of the dragon, hesitantly obey. Their actions grow in confidence when Mahaut does nothing to stop them. A box is brought up for the late Queen Isabelle’s remains. Henry smiles when the lock is shut and his past finally laid to rest.

“Mahaut?” The new King Benedict asks. “Where did you take the two women, whom my sister tried to kill?”

“One wished to return to her home, the other did not. Both were taken there, where they would be safe. It is East, a day’s flight.”

“Thank you. We will see to it that whatever was promised to them is delivered, in recognition of their suffering.” Benedict nods decisively, gesturing for a guard to summon a servant. He has many important decision to make, and the sooner the better. It seems Henry’s uncle is a proactive King. A perfect fit, he thinks, for an evolving kingdom.

Just as Henry begins to wonder what to do now, something in the corner of his eye catches his attention. Down in the courtyard below, a young woman stand, staring in shock at the dragon perched on the palace walls. She is dressed far more elegantly than she was the last time he saw her, though she still holds an axe in her hand. How long she has been watching, Henry does not know. But he must speak with her, sooner rather than later.

“It seems I have my own job to do.” Henry gives one last stroke to Mahaut’s neck, and a wave to the babies, now settling to nap on their mother, before heading towards Elodie.

Chapter Text

While his uncle establishes order in the palace once more, Henry makes his way down to the courtyard where Elodie waits, watching everything with the keen eyes of a hawk. Her grip on her axe flexes, ready to swing at a moment’s notice. Though she is dressed in finery befitting a future queen, she has the bearing of a true warrior.

Henry approaches carefully. He does not wish to seem aggressive and trigger her fighter’s instinct. He know well what she can do with the just the handle of her axe.

“Lady Elodie?” He asks tentatively. “Perhaps we might walk a while in the gardens. I fear there is much I need to tell you.”

“I am not going anywhere with you until you tell me why you just stood by and let that monster burn your mother. Your own mother!” Elodie does not shout, but her voice is firm as iron.

“I am afraid it is a long story, as long as my life, to tell the truth. But in short, Mahaut - the dragon - is not the true monster in Aurea, it was the queen. If she had not died, you would soon be dead. If she had not died, countless innocent women would die in the future.” Henry, looks around at the servants beginning to rush and hustle about the palace, and gestures in the direction of the gardens. “Please, Elodie, the gardens will give us a place to speak privately.”

With a stiff nod, she motions for him to walk in front. Understanding that her trust will not be so easily given though curiosity is compelling her, Henry leads the way.

The palace gardens are immaculately maintained by a horde of gardeners. Neat hedgerows and flowerbeds filled with a riot of curated colour are divided by needle straight paths. Stone benches litter the areas, arranged seemingly at random, but always near a place of shade or especial beauty.

It is to one of these benches that Henry leads Elodie. She refuses to walk beside him, preferring to keep him in sight. The feeling of stern eyes on his back, scrutinising his every move, remind Henry of many childhood moments. Subconsciously, his back straightens, tugging uncomfortably at his scabbing wounds. Perhaps Mahaut can retrieve some of the worms from the mountain, he thinks, I would rather not suffer this for weeks more.

Reaching his favourite place in the gardens, beside the towering pillars of purple delphinium, Henry takes a seat, hesitantly followed by Elodie.

“Speak.” Elodie demands.

Henry takes a deep breath. “Once upon a time, my ancestor, the first King of Aurea, established his kingdom in this land. However, another had already made its home here, in the mountains. It was a dragon, the only one of its kind in the kingdom. The first King did not want the dragon in his kingdom, fearing the damage and destruction it could bring in its anger. So he lead his men into the mountain to kill it. While in the mountain, he came upon the dragon’s nest, and three dragon eggs. Without thought, he ordered the newborn babies be slaughtered. Summoned by her daughters’ death-cries, the dragon attacked the men, and killed all except one - the first King. She demanded that the first King feel her pain, as death was not enough. So, the first King owed three of his daughters to the dragon.

“When he returned to the palace, the King devised a trick. He would not give up his daughters, but he would use the dragon’s sense of smell against it. By cutting the palm of another woman and tainting it with the blood of his daughter, the dragon would be fooled into believing the woman was royalty. When his trick succeeded three times, it was cemented as tradition.

“Every generation, three sacrifices must be made. The dragon believed that my family was giving up three princesses each time, but in truth they were innocent women, from distant lands.

“You were to be one of those women, Elodie.”

Henry slowly reaches out for Elodie’s hand. Mind still turning over the story, Elodie allows his touch. He turns over her palm and exposes the healing cut on her palm. It is small; certainly it is not the long, sweeping slice his mother enjoyed. Elodie gasps, realising the danger she had faced.

“When I came of age, three women were found, whose families were either in need of gold, which we could provide, or who did not care for their daughter’s life. I was to marry each one, and then take her up into the mountains where she would be sacrificed to the dragon. You were to be the second.”

Elodie shakes her head, snatching back her hand. She shoots to her feet and begins to pace in front of him.

“Your mother’s ring caught on my hand. I think… yes, her palms were bleeding, too, from her nails. I never thought. You were going to kill me?”

Henry can only nod. That is what was planned for her. Once she calms, he can explain why things did not progress that way.

“My father… Our kingdom needs gold. Our people are starving and will not survive until the thaw. Did he know when the letter came? When did he agree?” Elodie looks to Henry for answers, but he has none.

“I am sorry, Elodie. My mother was the one to make all of the arrangements. I do not know your father’s thoughts.”

A bracing hand on her stomach, Elodie looks close to sickness. “Your mother, The other two women, where are they?”

“Things went awry not long before you arrived. My mother had to improvise. She tricked you into going into the mountain after me, she hoped you would die in there. For Corinne and Teresa, she tricked them into coming to the mountain to pray. The cave is where our prayers take place. I assume she used force to cut them and throw them into the mountain. They—“

“They are dead!”

Tears pool in Elodie’s eyes. Henry hurries towards her, taking her hands in his. He gently rubs his thumbs over her knuckles, calming her ragged breathing.

“No, they are alive. The dragon took them somewhere safe. I promise they are safe.”

“The dragon that wants to kill them, spared them? How? Why?”

“That is the second part of the story. Come, sit.” Henry leads her back to the stone bench. Neither of them move to take back their hands.

“When my mother told me I was of age to wed, I started to grow anxious. At first, I thought it was simply nerves about taking such an important role in the ceremonies. I am ashamed to say that for much of my life, I thought nothing of the prospect of killing three women. It was all I had been raised to know, it was perfectly natural to me, and to the entire kingdom. No one had ever suggested that the princesses were living people. It was your letter that changed that.” Henry adds with a smile.

“My letter?”

“Yes, the one you sent after the wedding was arranged. Things suddenly became real. I was not marrying and killing some faceless, emotionless doll whose life meant little. I was marrying and killing a real person, with feelings, likes and dislikes, family, and personality. I could not kill you.”

Surprisingly, Elodie gives a small giggle, somewhat hysterically.

“What is it? What is funny?”

“It is just that my stepmother dictated most of that letter. So perhaps it was she who changed your perspective?”

Henry joins her laughter. “Is your stepmother also a very talented artist? Because imagining a young woman sitting at a desk, drawing such a painstakingly beautiful heart, helped me to see things clearly.”

A soft blush rises in Elodie’s cheeks. Coughing to clear the moment, Henry continues his tale, “I did what I could to delay the wedding or put it off, but nothing worked. Everyone around was quite insistent that it all happen as planned. My only option was to do something drastic. I threw myself into the mountain, hoping to renegotiate or placate the dragon, in some way. We spoke, Mahaut and I, about many things, and came to an agreement about the sacrifices. They would end and the one responsible for continuing the pain would die.”

“Your mother.”

“Yes.”

“Do not think I do not know you are omitting many things that happened in that mountain. If you recall, I did rescue you.” Elodie teases.

“I did not need rescuing.” Henry retorts, “I was exactly where I wanted to be.”

Elodie’s smile grows. “You may keep your secrets, so long as they do not affect me or my family. Do they?”

“They do not,” Henry rushes to confirm. Elodie need not know the depths of his relationship with Mahaut, nor of how the babies came to be revived. Those moments are private.

“Let me clarify. The dragon, Mahaut, killed your mother, the Queen, as recompense for centuries of broken oaths and the deaths of countless innocent women. I understand now. I must thank you, Henry, for saving me from a danger before I could even know of it. You have spared me and my family from great hurt and trauma.” Elodie leans in and places a gentle kiss on Henry’s cheek. His skin warms. “What happens now, Your Majesty?”

“Oh, no, Elodie. I am not king. I am just Your Highness, or just Henry, not Your Majesty.”

“Are you not the Queen’s only son, the Crown Prince? Surely you inherit now?”

“I do, but I am abdicating. I do not wish to rule, it has never been my desire. My uncle, Benedict, has returned to Aurea and will become the next King. As for what happens now, whatever was promised to you, whatever bride price was agreed upon, you shall have, and more. You and your family may stay in Aurea for a time, or return home immediately, whatever you desire.”

“You,” Elodie hesitates, ”You are not marrying?”

“No. Besides the complication of currently have three betrotheds, I do not wish to marry at this time. My greatest wish is to travel, and without the threat of a crown hanging over my head, I am finally free to do so.”

Henry hopes that Elodie will not begrudge him this. She may harbour particular hopes of being a Queen, or marrying him, but she must learn to let them go. And she certainly should not wish to marry him out of gratitude for his actions, for that was not why he did any of this.

Yet, instead of forced pleasantries or small talk, Elodie surprises him with a vibrant laugh. She sees Henry’s confused expression. “I do not laugh at you, Henry. It merely occurred to me that, were we to marry, we could be great friends, for both of us wish to travel. I have seen little of the world beyond my father’s lands, but I have read of so many wondrous things that I long to see with my own eyes. If we had married, we could have seen them together.”

For a moment, Henry wonders what that would be like. If he married Elodie, the two of them could traverse the lands, through deserts and tundras, forests and jungles. They could have seen whales, and tigers, and lemurs and elephants. They could meet new people, learn new languages, explore new tastes and smells and sights. It would be a future full of excitement and novelty.

But it would also be a future of duty. Marriage brings with it certain responsibilities. Henry would forever bear the weight of ‘husband’, the obligation to provide and defend. He would, sooner rather than later, bear the name ‘father’ and be responsible for young, innocent and vulnerable lives. Perhaps these roles will entice him one day, but for ow they fill his stomach with stones and his veins with dread.

“My lady, I hope I do not offend you when I say that I do not wish to marry. Marriage would suit me ill at this time. Perhaps one day that might change, but not now.”

“I understand completely. Marriage would likewise suit me ill. My duty is to my family and to my people. I must see them through this winter and the thaw, and establish certain safeguards for the future. I must have no distractions.”

Henry sighs in relief. He and Elodie share a smile. A kiss is placed on the back of her hand.

“Then I hope that you will accept Aurea’s support in this matter. We have plenty of gold, grains and cloth that could help your people. I will speak with my uncle and ensure you are given all we can spare.”

Elodie places a kiss on his cheek.

“Do visit, if your travels allow. I would be glad to host a dear friend in my home.”

*

They gather in the field outside the palace, where not two days ago siege weapons were stationed to attack a dragon. Now, instead of burning everything in sight, Mahaut stands patiently, allowing trembling servants to attach a sturdy trunk to her flank. Inside are the essentials that Henry will need on their travels.

Most of the palace staff are gathered in the field to see their prince off on his travels. Elodie and her family, moments away from their own journey home, watch from he edge of the crowd. Joseph surreptitiously wipes a tear from his eye, and double checks that the luggage is secure and that he has not forgotten to pack anything for his charge. Many in the field watch the dragon warily, remembering the stories they were told in childhood, and the fire that rained down only days ago. But none deny the importance of this moment, nor the sweetness of the three baby dragons.

Tomila, Corra and Krasa tumble and frolic in the tall blades of grass. Their game seems at times to be a simple chase, at others a game of tag, and occasionally a bout of wrestling. But despite the changeable nature of their play, the girls emit such happy, joyful noises that neither Henry nor their mother intervene. Mahaut watches fondly, allowing her limbs to be used as hiding places.

“You can come back any time, Henry.” Uncle Benedict, now officially King Benedict following a grand ceremony the previous day, repeats. He has made the same offer countless times, as if Henry could forget. While he wishes to leave Aurea behind and see the world, the kingdom is no longer the hostile place it once was. Henry would be glad to return and visit.

“I know, uncle. And I will write when I can. This is not the last you will see of me.”

Benedict pulls Henry into a firm, tight hug. His embrace is always strong now, no need to beware of hidden wounds. Henry’s back had been healed by the glowworms, some of which now reside in the doctor’s chambers, as well as his cheek, which bears only faint, pearlescent scarring from his mother’s nails. In time, even they would fade even more, to be only a memory.

“You had better, Henry.” Benedict attempts to be stern, but the affection in his voice betrays him. “I will miss you, nephew.”

“And I you uncle. But this is what I have wanted my whole life. And before you worry, Mahaut will protect me.”

Mahaut rumbles in assent.

“Then I suppose you must go.”

With one last quick embrace, Benedict allows Henry to approach Mahaut. With his luggage secure, all that is left is for him to take his place. The dragon lowers herself so that he can climb more easily. It is not quite the same as mounting a horse, more akin to scaling a rock face. Once atop the dragon, Henry finds a comfortable seat just behind her wing joints, where there are no spines in the way. He will need to hold on to something as they fly, but Mahaut will pull no dangerous stunts with him on her back.

“Ready, little prince?”

“Absolutely.” A grin stretches across his face, threatening to split his skin. His cheeks ache, but he cannot stop. He is finally achieving his dream of seeing the world, and he is doing so with someone he loves more than anything, and her three daughters.

“Tomila! Corra! Krasa!” He calls, summoning the girls from their play. “Come up, we are leaving!”

At once they race up their mother’s leg, fighting to be the one to sit in Henry’s lap. Krasa wins, and she puffs out her chest, lifts her chin and trills. She sits regally, as if he were a throne. Tomila and Corra strop slightly, but soon position themselves between Mahaut’s wings.

“Goodbye, uncle!” Henry calls. “Goodbye, everyone!”

With one firm push, Mahaut launches herself and her four passengers into the air. One strong beat of her wings propels them up and up, closer to the clouds. Two more wingbeats and they are flying over the harbour, following the winding Caerul river. A moment later, the open ocean greets them. The whole world is before them, and with the speed of a dragon, nowhere is out of their reach.

“Where to, Hen-ry?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere.”