The Dragon Queen Selection Chapter 136

CASSIAN 

The Vale estate rose from the morning mist like a corpse dressed in fine clothes.

From a distance, it had looked impressive, sprawling grounds, ancient stone walls, towers that reached toward the grey sky like grasping fingers. But up close, the decay was impossible to ignore.

The gardens were overgrown, choked with weeds and brambles that had swallowed the flower beds whole. The fountain in the center of the courtyard had long since run dry, its basin cracked and filled with dead leaves. The stone walls were stained with dark patches where ivy had been torn away and never replaced.

And the smell… 

Mould. Rot. The sweet, sickly scent of things left to decay.

Taheer circled overhead once, twice, then landed in the field beyond the gates. His bronze scales caught the pale light, and I felt his presence at the edge of my mind, watchful, patient, ready.

This place is dying, he said.

"I can see that."

There is something else. Something beneath the decay.

"What?"

Taheer was silent for a moment.

Grief, he said finally. This house has been grieving for a very long time.

I dismounted and walked toward the entrance.

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The doors were old oak, banded with iron that had begun to rust. The knocker was a dragon's head, its mouth frozen open in a silent roar.

I didn't bother knocking.

I pushed the doors open and walked inside.

The entry hall was cavernous, built for grand receptions and glittering balls that had never come. Dust hung in the air like fog. The chandeliers were dark, their crystals filmed with grime. The marble floor was cracked, and in some places, the cracks had been patched with mismatched stone.

A servant appeared from a side door, an old woman in a grey dress, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She stopped when she saw me.

Her eyes went wide.

"Your, Your Highness?"

"I'm here to see Lord Vale," I said.

The woman's hands trembled. She clutched them together in front of her apron.

"My lord is very ill, Your Highness. He doesn't receive visitors. He hasn't left his bed in…” 

"I am aware of his condition." I kept my voice even, calm. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I simply need to speak with him. I got his letter.” 

The woman hesitated.

Then she bowed her head.

"Follow me, Your Highness."

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The corridors stretched on forever.

Portraits lined the walls, generations of Vales, staring down at me with the same pale eyes, the same solemn expressions. Lords in military dress. Ladies in silk and pearls. Children posed beside hounds and ponies.

One portrait stopped me.

A man in his prime, broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to follow me across the room. He wore the ceremonial armor of the Dragon Guard, and across his chest was the crest of House Vale.

Lord Eaton Vale.

Before.

Before the illness. Before the grief. Before everything had crumbled.

Beneath his portrait hung another, smaller, more intimate. A woman with soft brown hair and kind eyes, holding an infant wrapped in white.

"Lord Vale's daughter, the Lady Larissa,” the servant said quietly. "And his granddaughter. The Lady Lira."

I stared at the infant's face.

So small. So innocent.

So this was Lira. As a baby. 

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," the servant continued, leading me deeper into the house. "The estate isn't what it used to be. We've been struggling to manage since Callum left."

"Callum?"

"The estate keeper. He handles everything, the correspondence, the accounts, the staff. He's been gone for a fortnight now, but he'll be back soon. He always comes back."

"Where did he go?"

The servant shrugged. "He didn't say. He just packed a bag and left. Told us to keep things running until his return."

"And before Callum? Who managed the estate then?"

"It was him and his sister, mostly. Before then, nobody really did. But Callum and his sister  worked together. But we haven't seen his sister in months now." The servant's brow furrowed. "She used to help with everything. Letters, supplies, even mucking out the stables when we were short-handed. Then one day, she was just... gone."

"Gone where?"

"I don't know, Your Highness. Callum said she went to visit relations in another kingdom. But..." She trailed off.

"But?"

The servant glanced around, as if afraid someone might overhear.

"I don't think that's true," she whispered. "I think something must have happened to her. Callum's been different since she left. Quieter. More serious. Like he's carrying a weight he can't put down."

"Take me to Lord Vale," I said.

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Lord Eaton Vale's chambers were at the end of the longest corridor, behind a door that had been painted so many times the wood had lost its shape.

The servant knocked softly.

No answer.

She pushed the door open.

"Lord Vale? You have a visitor."

The room was dim, lit only by a single window that faced the grey morning sky. The curtains were half-drawn, and the air smelled of medicine and old paper and something else, something sweet and cloying that I didn't want to name.

And in the bed…

A skeleton.

That was my first thought. A skeleton wearing a nightshirt, propped against yellowed pillows, its skin so thin I could see the shape of the skull beneath.

Lord Eaton Vale had been a powerful man once. Broad-shouldered. Strong-jawed. The portrait in the corridor had captured him in his prime, armored and proud, ready to face down dragons.

The thing in the bed was a ghost.

"Your Highness," the servant said, "this is Lord Vale."

The old man's eyes opened.

They were pale, faded, like the colors had been washed out by time and grief. But they were sharp. Sharper than they had any right to be.

"Leave us," Lord Vale said.

His voice was a rasp. A whisper. The sound of stones grinding together.

The servant hesitated.

"Leave," he repeated.

She bowed and closed the door behind her.

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Lord Vale studied me.

I studied him.

The silence stretched between us like a wire pulled tight.

"You're the Cassian," he said finally. "The one with the thousand year old dragon."

"I'm the Crown Prince, yes."

"Same thing." His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Taheer chose you. I saw it. In a vision, years ago. I told them he would choose you. They didn’t believe me. You were just born then…"

"You saw Taheer choose me?"

"I saw a lot of things." He closed his eyes. "Most of them have come true. The ones that haven't..." He trailed off. "The ones that haven't keep me awake at night."

"The letter," I said. "The one you sent to my father. About the vision."

His eyes opened.

"You read it."

"Yes."

"Good." He struggled to sit up, his thin hands gripping the blankets. "Then you know. Something is coming. Fire. Blood. The skies burning. You have to stop it. It kept me up at night, I had to write the letter immediately after I saw the vision. I demanded they send it as fast as they could.You need to stop it.” 

"That is why I'm here."

"No." He shook his head, and the movement seemed to cost him. "You're here because of her. The girl. The one pretending to be my granddaughter."

My breath caught. I couldn’t speak. The words were caught in my throat. 

"You know." I choked. 

"I saw that too." His voice was tired. Resigned. "Lira—my Lira—she's been dead for years. A fever. Quick. Sudden. We buried her before the week was out. Nobody in the palace learned of her death.” 

He pointed a trembling finger toward the far wall.

A portrait hung there, small, simple, framed in dark wood.

A girl of maybe thirteen. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A face that was sweet and ordinary and utterly unlike the woman I had spent the last weeks lying awake thinking about.

"That's her," Lord Vale said. "That's my Lira. The one who should have gone to the Selection. The one who should have worn the silver dress and danced with princes and maybe…” His voice cracked. "Maybe saved this family."

I stared at the portrait.

At the girl who had died before I ever knew she existed.

And I felt something cold settle in my chest.

"Then who," I asked slowly, "is in the palace pretending to be her?"

Lord Vale looked at me.

His eyes were ancient. Grief-stricken. And full of something that might have been pity.

"Her name is Lirael Sutton," he said. "Daughter of Lord Aidan Sutton. The man your father executed for treason."

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