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The dragons, clearly enjoying the attention they’re getting, arch their necks and preen slightly. Kaida huffs a small flame, showing off for the gathered Tír Ríogan guards who stand at attention around the courtyard periphery. Tanwen watches everyone, his agile mind checking for any show of disrespect among these unknown humans.
After the four of us dismount and unload our gear, the dragons take off. They’ll search for a remote area to hunt while remaining close enough to still feel our connection.
From the ground, the grandeur of the city is even more overwhelming. Buildings tower above us, their glass-like black surfaces reflecting sunlight in prismatic bursts. Everything comes across as both ancient and foreign, familiar elements arranged in ways my mind struggles to process. My hands grow clammy inside my gloves.
I’m so out of my depth here, it’s not even funny.
The keep’s expansive doors swing open, and the king and queen of Tír Ríoga stroll down the steps. King Mihel Lennox walks with deliberate strides, rows of golden blond braids swinging and his tall, lean frame draped in garments that shift colors with every motion, like oil on water. Though the eclectic ensemble screams court jester rather than royalty at first glance, he’s rocking the look like he’s dressed this way all his life.
Damn. That’s the kind of confidence I need.
Beside him, Queen Maeve oozes dignity and poise. She glides with fluid grace, her dark hair cascading down her back in loose waves. A velvety black cape covers the upper half of her long-sleeved crimson gown, smooth ebony skin peeking out of the high collar.
This is it.
The moment I’ve been dreading. I step forward, feeling every eye on me.
“Beannachtaí Tír Ríoga.” I attempt the formal greeting I’ve spent weeks memorizing. “Nílim…nílimid…” The words tangle on my tongue. My brain knows them, but my mouth rebels. Heat rises to my cheeks.
Mihel’s eyes crinkle at the corners. With amusement? Contempt? I have no idea.
I shift gears into the easier protocol I’ve studied from books. “Your Majesties, we bring greetings from Tirene. We are honored by your welcome and hope that our nations may find common purpose in these challenging times.”
My voice sounds stiff even to my own ears, like I’m reciting a script rather than speaking. Which I am, so I guess that tracks. Sterling comes forward, adding a natural warmth to the exchange that I couldn’t manage.
I watch everyone closely. Nothing can move forward until every delegate is introduced. Rafe keeps his responses tempered, thoughtful, and void of the barbed quality his voice often carries in council meetings. He stands with his feet apart, hands relaxed but visible. A stance that projects both confidence and openness.
I try to mimic the guild master’s measured manner, keeping my face composed as the first part of the formalities concludes and we’re welcomed to join the king and queen inside.
As we follow our hosts up the black stone steps, Sterling takes my hand and leans close. “You’re not Rafe. Stop trying to be.”
I nearly stumble on the steps. How did he—
“Why are you so anxious?”
My jaw drops. “Why? Oh, I don’t know,” I whisper. “Maybe because I’m pretending to be a queen? Or because these people probably blame us for destroying their magic? Or because I have the diplomatic skills of a hammer?”
“Just be your fiery, clever, engaging self, Lark. Not some standoffish parrot.” His eyes soften. “A parrot of Rafe, for the gods’ sake.”
I clamp my mouth shut, anger building in response to the insult. Then I note the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth and the spark in his eyes. That was his intention. To shock me out of my rigid formality. “You’re an ass.”
That earns me a wink as Sterling’s lips curve in a conspiratorial half-smile.
Agnar catches up, popping his head between us. “Just imagine them all naked. Works for public speaking.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Do you think the king is as well-endowed as the Tirenese? Or is this fancy city his way of overcompensating?”
“Not helping, Agnar.” I groan as I picture the king and queen stripped of their finery and standing before us nude. That’s an image I’ll never be able to scrub from my mind.
“Okaaay,” Agnar draws out the word, “then imagine they’re all Rose asking you about your dragon for the hundredth time.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me at the memory of little Rose’s persistent questions about Dame. “Does she sleep upside down? Can she breathe underwater? Will she make more eggs filled with baby dragons soon?”
Sterling’s warm, steady hand presses against the small of my back. Ahead lies the diplomatic breakfast, the next test in what will no doubt be a challenging day.
The others are shown to their rooms to eat a hot meal and rest after flying much of the night. Sterling and I are expected at breakfast with the king and queen, so we quickly change our clothes before heading out to meet them.
I stand at the massive arched doorway that leads to their royal dining hall, my mind a jumble of memorized phrases and rules of etiquette. Because of course the formality doesn’t end after the initial greeting. I’m so frazzled, I almost smack into the back of my chair.
In Tirene, many of the chairs have low or no backs to accommodate our wings. But these people don’t have that consideration. Looking up, I spot even more differences. While the ceilings are still high, there are windows at the top that open on horizontal hinges.
