The Dragon Queen Selection Chapter 68

LIRA

By the time I reached my chambers, my feet ached and my thoughts were in disarray.

The encounter with Lord Herrowick, his probing questions, the way his gaze lingered when I mentioned my grandfather, replayed in my mind like a warning bell that refused to quiet. I had seen too much curiosity in his eyes, too much interest where there should have been polite indifference.

I could have been exposed tonight. One word from him and the crown would probe if I was truly the granddaughter of Lord Eaton Vale.

I sat at the edge of my bed and pressed my hands together, steadying myself.

I have to be more careful.

The palace was no place for mistakes. Not for someone like me. Not when every word, every glance, every pause could be turned into a weapon.

And yet, despite myself, my thoughts drifted, not to the vaults, not to the dragon, not even to my family, but to Prince Evander.

To the warmth of his hand guiding mine during the dance. To the way his voice had softened when he spoke to me, as if the noise of the ballroom had faded into nothing. To the words he had spoken so earnestly.

He hadn’t demanded an answer for me yet. He told me he would give me time to decide, whether or not I wanted to be courted by him.

The thought unsettled me more than it should have.

“Elora?” I called softly as I closed the door. She told me she would wait in my room till I got back.

“I’m here,” she replied instantly.

She was seated by the window, brushing out her hair, her eyes bright with barely restrained excitement. The moment she saw my face, she gasped.

“Well?” she demanded. “You were gone forever. Don’t tell me you’re going to deny me every detail.”

I managed a tired smile and crossed the room. “You’re going to be so disappointed.”

She abandoned her brush and rushed toward me. “Impossible. You went to the Sunwake Ball with dozens of eligible bachelors and two princes. Start talking.”

I sank onto the bed and slipped off my slippers. “I danced.”

Her eyes widened. “With who? Prince Cassian?!"

“Evander.”

She squealed and clapped a hand over her mouth. “You danced with him?”

“Yes. Just once.”

“Once?” she echoed incredulously. “Lira, most girls would sell their soul for a single moment with him.”

I shrugged. “It was… nice."

“NICE?” She stared at me as though I’d lost my senses. “That’s all you’re giving me?”

I hesitated, then said quietly, “He told me he likes me.”

Elora froze.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh.”

I looked down at my hands. “He said he’s liked me for a while. That he’d like to court me properly. Outside the selection.”

Her face softened. “And what did you say?”

“I didn’t,” I admitted. “He told me he would wait till I think about it."

She sat beside me. “Do you like him?”

The question struck deeper than I expected.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “He’s kind. He’s thoughtful. But he’s still the Prince, Elora."

She nudged my shoulder gently. “So? You're allowed to like someone too. Prince or not."

I sighed. “It's complicated. Let's talk about this in the morning. I'm so tired."

Elora and I exchanged our good nights and I fell into bed, with my clothes still on.

...................

The next morning, a letter arrived just after dawn.

Plain parchment. Simple seal. Lord Eaton Vale’s crest pressed neatly into wax.

My pulse quickened as I opened it.

The words meant nothing at first glance, mundane pleasantries, how the estate was fairing, if all was well with me, but beneath them was the truth, written in a code only Callum and I knew.

Time is running short. Act. Send what you have. Trust Joseph. Royal Stables.

I exhaled slowly.

There was no room for hesitation now.

I gathered every scrap of information I could, names overheard, patterns observed, the blueprints of the palace and inner palace stolen from the library archives, whispers collected. I wrote carefully, disguising meaning beneath meaning, then hid the papers inside a satchel sewn into the lining of an old cloak.

By late morning right after breakfast and our morning lessons, I made my way to the stables.

Joseph was there, as promised, tending to a gray mare. He didn’t look up as I approached. I dropped the cloak. I saw him quickly pick it up, his hands secretly running through the cloak.

“You dropped this,” he murmured.

"Thank you." I said as I took back the cloak. The panel where I hid the satchel was now empty.

He nodded once. No questions. No hesitation.

I turned to leave. As I neared the field where the horses where, a familiar voice stopped me.

“Lira?”

I stiffened.

Stripped of courtly armor, Cassian was something far more disarming than I'd ever seen. He leaned against a stall door, his sleeves pushed past his forearms. My gaze caught, snagged on the corded strength there, on the veins that traced a map of quiet power beneath sun-touched skin. When he shifted his weight, the door groaned.

My breath shallowed.

“What are you doing here? ”

His voice was different here. Lower.

“Just came out for some fresh air and to look at the horses,” I managed, the words too bright, too fragile.

"Me too."

He turned his head, and his eyes, bright, intent, missing nothing.

“You left the ball early.” He added.

"I was tired." I murmured.

“I wanted to apologise. For not dancing with you."

The honesty in his voice caught me off guard.

“Oh you don't have to,” I said gently.

“Besides, you had your dance and I had mine,” I whispered, the protest weak.

“Yes.” His gaze burned into mine, unwavering. “But not the one I wanted.”

“Well, we don’t always have to dance in the ballroom,” I heard myself say, the words breathless.

His brow furrowed. “No?”

“Sometimes,” I said, facing the open field, “the floor doesn’t matter.”

Silence. Then, the sure, quiet crush of boots on grass behind me.

He followed.

When his hand appeared in front of me, it was an offering. Not a demand. Palm up, fingers slightly curled.

Every instinct screamed to refuse. My hand lifted anyway, as if drawn by its own will. My fingers slid across his palm.

The contact was a jolt.

His skin was warm, rough with calluses that scraped deliciously against my softer flesh. His fingers closed over mine with a certainty that made my knees feel unsteady.

His other hand came to rest, on the dip of my waist.

“You’re tense.” His murmur was a vibration I felt where his hand lay.

“Then you are doing a poor job leading,” I retorted, but my voice was all air, no bite.

A real smile then.

We began to move. It wasn’t a courtly dance. It was a slow, swaying orbit. His lead was firm, undeniable, as if he were handling something precious and wild. I was achingly aware of the solid wall of his chest, so close I could feel its warmth. Of the strength in the arm that guided me, a strength that could easily crush, yet now only cradled.

“You're a good dancer,” he said, his lips near my temple. His breath stirred my hair.

“So are you,” I breathed back, turning my face slightly. Our mouths were suddenly, dangerously close.

His hand on my waist tightened, just a fraction, a fleeting, possessive flex that sent a lightning bolt of pure sensation through me.

Voices carried across the field.

We stepped apart instantly.

“I should go,” I said quickly, still feeling the heat of him on me.

He nodded, reluctant. “Until next time.”

I fled back to the palace.