Chapter 59: _ Getting Smitten by a Dragonless No-One

My cheeks flushed hot.

I dunked my entire head under the ice-cold water, spluttering as I broke the surface.

"Get a grip, Remus," I growled aloud to the empty bathhouse, slapping a hand over my reddish face. "You’re a Dragon Prince, not a rutting stray."

It was pathetic. I was letting myself get thoroughly smitten by a girl I hadn’t spoken more than five sentences to in eight years.

Was it the years of waiting? Was it the moment in my life—at my utmost vulnerability that our first encounter had been? Or was there something inherently intoxicating about her that I couldn’t fight?

A sudden memory flashed through my head, breaking through my embarrassment, and a loud laugh burst out of my chest before I could stop it.

I had never laughed out loud since my mother’s death but Elira and Ivar had me throwing my head back in laughter.

Elira had known Ivar was the one stalking her. For some reason, she had assumed the Wolf Prince was her attacker even though he was the one who clearly saved her, and she had humiliated him so thoroughly that the wardens had to intervene.

The irony was delicious. First, a dragonless trench girl had dared to accuse one of the primary heirs of the Five Realms. Second, I was the one who had literally forced Ivar down into those foul, unmonitored drainage sewers in the first place, using a blood oath and fear illusions to make him protect her.

And for all his arrogance, Ivar had ended up publicly embarrassed by the very girl he was supposed to keep safe.

Watching Ivar Wulfram and Zev suffer was my third favorite pastime, right behind flying Vaelor and painting.

My laughter slowly faded as the reality of the Sunken Arch incident settled back in.

I had been flying high above the academy grounds that afternoon, keeping watch from Vaelor’s back, when I’d spotted Ivar sprinting out of the lower arches like a scolded hound. A few minutes later, wardens had marched in and escorted Elira and her roommates out of the ruins.

She had been attacked. Someone had trapped her down there.

I hadn’t gotten the full report yet, but my mind instantly flashed to the Sylven boy who had been apprehended by academy guards during the ball.

My pupils thinned into two razor-sharp lines of bleeding crimson flame.

If that Sylven trash—or anyone else in this wretched academy—had laid a single dirty finger on her, I was going to tear their magical core out through their throat and feed it to Vaelor.

I dried off, wrapped a dark robe around my waist, and stepped back into my study. I picked up my father’s letter, locked it inside my iron safe, and went to bed.

.

The pounding on my bedroom door shattered the few fleeting hours of restless sleep I’d managed to catch.

"Remus! Get up!" Veyra’s muffled voice barked through the thick oak. "Classes resume today and if the Heir to the Throne is late on the first day of the session, Father will hear about it before noon! Also, Olda made honey cakes and she’s threatening to throw them to the stable drakes if we aren’t at the table in five minutes!"

I dragged a hand over my face, groaning internally as the morning sun poured ruthlessly through the arched stained-glass windows. My head throbbed with the weight of my father’s letter, the threat of the Borrowed, and the ghost of Elira’s face in my mind.

"I’m up. Go away, Veyra," I shouted back, my voice still raspy with sleep.

I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and stood up. A quick, scalding bath washed away the last traces of exhaustion, leaving my skin tingling.

Returning to my bedchamber, I pulled on the silver tailored Dragon Academy uniform. It was heavier than the standard issue, crafted from fire-resistant wyvern leather and gold-trimmed silks.

Across my chest, a row of crests gleamed under the sunlight. One was the crest of the Crown Prince, two shimmering rubies signifying my victory as the top warrior in the yearly tournaments for the past two consecutive years, and four silver pins awarded for classified Academy missions I’d successfully led.

Every crest was a mark of honor and excellence but also a reminder of who I was expected to be.

I reached for my silver hairbrush on the vanity. Usually, Vaela would knock on my door around this time, insisting on braiding my long hair into the royal dragon-knots. It had been our morning ritual for as long as I could remember.

But not today.

After her little stunt before the ball and the way her hands trailed down my belt line last night, the thought of her fingers touching my hair or standing anywhere near my neck made my skin crawl.

I brushed out the thick strands, letting them fall naturally over my shoulders and down my back, completely loose. I hadn’t worn them like this for as long as I could remember. The new look was in fact, a welcome change.

The moment I unlocked the heavy deadbolt and stepped into the corridor, Vaela was standing right there, her hand mid-air, about to knock. Her eyes dropped to my hair, and she gasped as if I’d just stripped naked and set the royal flag on fire.

"Remus!" she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in genuine horror. "Your hair! You didn’t braid it?! What are you doing? You look... unrefined! Let me fix it before someone sees you."

She stepped forward, her hands reaching out for my temples, but I casually took a step back, out of her reach.

"I’m letting it down today, Vaela. Move. Olda is waiting."

"But Remus–"

"I said no."

Vaela’s lower lip trembled, her eyes narrowing with a bitter edge, but she grudgingly lowered her hands. "Fine. But the grand council members will think you’re being rebellious."

"Let them," I muttered, striding past her down the corridor toward the dining hall.

The high-ceilinged room was bathed in golden morning light. Olda was bustling around the mahogany table, barking orders at a line of young maids who were placing silver platters of seared boar, hot honey cakes, and spiced tea before Veyra.

My feet slowed as I stepped into the room.

My pupils thinned into vertical slits as I surveyed the young servant girls scurrying back and forth. My mind flashed back to my father’s letter: A Borrowed was discovered inside the estate of the Dragon Viscount... it had quietly slaughtered and taken the skin of a senior housemaid.

I scanned each maid’s face, searching for the slightest unnatural flicker in their posture.

Were any of these girls demonic husks wearing stolen flesh? How many skin-stealers were currently sweeping the floors of the Dragon Royal compound while we ate breakfast?