The Dragon, The Dagger, and The Rose
The Heart of Uldara: Book I
Chapter 1
The weeks before her departure were not enough time to prepare a kingdom to survive without her. It was, however, more than enough time to embroider a wedding gown.
“Hold still, Your Highness,” the head seamstress warned through a mouthful of pins.
Rosaleigh obediently lowered her arm and stepped back into place on the fitting platform as three women hovered around her with measuring tapes and silk. Across the room, Queen Dahlia argued with the embroidery master over the train’s length, demanding darker sashes to minimize her daughter’s silhouette.
Rosaleigh ignored the subtle critique of her waistline. She was tall, broad-shouldered, and soft through the hips—traits her mother had spent years trying to tailor away, but traits Rosaleigh no longer had the energy to pretend were flaws. Instead, her eyes wandered toward the trade report balanced precariously on the settee.
The Salted Coast grain manifests were missing two barges. Before long, she would cross the ocean to marry the Dragon King, but until then, Everspring’s supply chain remained her responsibility.
You are a person before you are useful to a kingdom, Rosa. Eleanor’s ancient counsel whispered in her mind as she stood pinned into cream silk.
Rosaleigh closed her eyes briefly, breathing through the tight lace. She was leaving Everspring to settle a debt. But as she looked toward the windows at the rain falling over Rosehollow, she smoothed the silver locket her grandmother had given her, determined that when she met King Paxton Bellroar, she would face him not as a timid sacrifice, but as a ruler in her own right. The women began unpinning fabric. Rosaleigh said nothing. Neither did Dahlia. They had all become very good at leaving sentences about Paxton Bellroar unfinished.
The Dragon King had killed his father. That was the first thing everyone knew about him. Not his age. Not the date of his coronation. Not his policies. Not the trade reforms he enacted after taking the throne. Not even the fact that Drakhar had prospered considerably under his rule. Ask almost anyone in Rosehollow about King Paxton Bellroar and eventually, inevitably, they would lower their voice and say: He killed his own father. Rosaleigh had heard several versions. In one, Paxton challenged the old king in the throne room and burned him alive before the entire Drakhari court. In another, he transformed into a dragon and tore his father’s throat out. One particularly inventive lady at dinner claimed Paxton had eaten the former king’s heart. Rosaleigh doubted that one mostly because she had read the official Drakhari report.
King Aeron Bellroar had died from injuries sustained during a formal challenge for the throne. The report contained precisely three paragraphs. It did not specify what those injuries were. That omission bothered Rosaleigh considerably more than the heart-eating rumor. She had requested everything Everspring possessed concerning Paxton Bellroar. The royal archives had produced twelve volumes, forty-three diplomatic reports, six trade assessments, nine military summaries, and several deeply unhelpful court journals. Rosaleigh had read all of them. None agreed on what kind of man she would marry. King Paxton was ruthless. King Paxton was disciplined. He had executed nobles who opposed him. He had pardoned soldiers who fought against him. He had broken a rebellion in six days. He had personally funded the reconstruction of the villages damaged during it. He despised weakness. He protected children. He possessed a temper violent enough to scorch stone. He was capable of transforming into a dragon more than one hundred feet long. That particular fact had remained with Rosaleigh. One hundred feet. She had measured the eastern ballroom. It was eighty-three. She regretted doing that.
“Stop it.” Rosaleigh blinked. Bea was standing in front of her. The seamstresses were gone. So was her mother. Rosaleigh looked around.
“When did everyone leave?”
“About the time you began staring into the middle distance like a widow in a tragic painting.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.” Bea handed her a dressing gown.
Rosaleigh slipped her arms through it. “Thank you.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“Grain.” Bea stared. Rosaleigh tied the belt. “Paxton.”
“Ah.”
“And grain.”
“That I believe.”
Rosaleigh stepped down from the platform and immediately reached for the abandoned report. Bea snatched it first.
“Bea.”
“No.”
“I need that.”
“You need lunch.”
“I ate breakfast.”
“You drank tea.”
“There was toast.”
“You gave the toast to the dog.”
Rosaleigh paused. “That was yesterday.”
“That was this morning.”
“Oh.”
Bea tucked the report behind her back.
Rosaleigh held out her hand. “Please.”
“No.”
“Bea.”
“Princess.”
Rosaleigh narrowed her eyes.
Bea smiled.
This was precisely why one was not supposed to befriend one’s lady’s maid. There was insufficient respect.
“I need to verify the Saltmere manifests.”
“After lunch.”
“If the western shipment is actually short—”
“The kingdom will survive twenty minutes.”
Rosaleigh went still. Bea’s expression changed immediately. Neither of them said anything. The kingdom would survive a few minutes, but would it survive Rosaleigh leaving? That was the question she had been carefully avoiding.
Rosaleigh looked toward the windows. Rosehollow extended beneath Crown Hill. From here, she could see the capital’s upper reaches—pale towers, green roofs, church spires, garden squares, and the distant thread of the Silverwater winding through the city. Farther beyond those rooftops, the Crownway branched into roads connecting every province. Blossom Basin. The Emerald Highlands. The Plum Hills. The Salted Coast. Six-point-eight million people. Forty-two days. Rosaleigh rubbed her thumb over the scar crossing her right palm. “I’ve prepared transition ledgers.” Bea sighed. “Of course you have.”
“One for every ministry.”
“Rosaleigh.”
“I reorganized the pending petitions by urgency. Red ribbons are immediate, gold within thirty days, green can wait until after harvest. The provincial governors have summaries, the Chancellor has the reserve projections, and the steward knows which canal gates require inspection before autumn rains.”
Bea stared at her. “Have you slept?”
“That is unrelated.”
“It is extremely related.”
Rosaleigh reached again for the report.
Bea moved it farther away.
“And,” Rosaleigh continued, “I asked Lord Marroway to send the Saltmere manifests directly to the Treasury after I leave because Father doesn’t read maritime reports unless someone summarizes—”
“Rosa.” Rosaleigh stopped. Only a few people were allowed to call her that. Once, the number had been two. Now it was one. Bea stepped closer. “You cannot write enough instructions to make them become you.”
Rosaleigh looked away. “I don’t want them to become me.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.” The lie sounded weak even to her. Bea softened. Rosaleigh lowered herself onto the settee. “I don’t understand how they did it.”
“Did what?”
“Created the debt.” Her voice came out quieter than she intended. “I watched everything.”
“You watched what they allowed you to see.”
“I should have noticed.”
“How?”
“There must have been something.”
“Your father hid private Crown accounts from you. Your mother used creditors you didn’t know existed. They lied to you.” Rosaleigh flinched. Bea noticed.
“You can say it,” Bea said.
“I know.”
“Then say it.”
Rosaleigh smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her dressing gown. “My parents made mistakes.” Bea stared at her. “They’re my parents…”
“And?”
“And the king and queen.”
“That doesn’t make them incapable of lying.”
Rosaleigh looked at the report in Bea’s hand. “They’ll be responsible for everything again.” There. The real fear. Bea sat beside her. Rosaleigh clasped her hands. “Father won’t check the reserve forecasts. Mother won’t notice if the hospital appropriations are late. The Chancellor is competent, but Father dislikes being contradicted. The Blossom Basin irrigation negotiations aren’t finished. The western retaining walls still need funding. There are vacancies in the magistrates’ court, and the Plumwater dredging proposal has been sitting on Father’s desk for eleven days because he doesn’t like the cost.”
“Which is?”
“Less than one-sixth of what Mother spent on the Midsummer masquerade.” Bea’s mouth flattened. Rosaleigh rubbed her forehead. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You absolutely should have.” Rosaleigh gave her a tired look. Bea sighed. “What happens if something goes wrong?”
“I won’t be here.”
“I know.”
Rosaleigh looked at her. “The governors will write.”
“You’ll be in another kingdom.”
“I can still answer letters.”
“You’ll be marrying a dragon.”
“I am aware.”
“A dragon king.”
“Yes, Bea.”
“A dragon king who killed his father.” Rosaleigh’s hands tightened. Bea grimaced. “Sorry.”
“No.” Rosaleigh stood. “No. Everyone else keeps stopping themselves from saying it. I’d rather someone actually did.” Bea watched her carefully as Rosaleigh crossed toward the window. “He killed his father.”
“Yes.”
“And took the throne.”
“Yes.”
Rosaleigh folded her arms.
“The challenge was legal under Drakhari succession law. His father accepted it. There were witnesses. Paxton was twenty-six. Whatever happened between them had apparently been escalating for years.”
“You sound like you’re arguing a case.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“Have you?”
“No.” Rosaleigh looked back over the city. “The records contradict one another. Some say Aeron Bellroar was unstable near the end of his reign. Others describe Paxton as ambitious. There were troop movements near the western border. Grain reserves were falling. Several noble houses had begun withdrawing support from the old king.”
Bea frowned. “You know all that?”
“I’ve had two days.”
“Most brides spend two days selecting flowers.”
“I selected flowers yesterday.”
“What did you choose?”
Rosaleigh paused. “I don’t remember.” Bea stared at her. Rosaleigh sighed. “White peonies.”
“You hate white peonies.”
“They’re traditional.”
“Your grandmother will haunt you.”
The corner of Rosaleigh’s mouth twitched. “Probably.”
Bea stepped up beside her. “Are you frightened?”
Rosaleigh’s first instinct was no. The word almost escaped. She stopped it. Eleanor would have called that progress. “Yes.” Bea’s expression relaxed. Rosaleigh stared out over Everspring. “I don’t know him. I don’t know what makes him angry. I don’t know what he expects from a wife.” Her cheeks warmed despite herself. That particular question had acquired increasingly uncomfortable dimensions the closer the wedding came. She pushed onward. “Drakhar is different. Their court is different. Their laws are different. Their people are different. Their king can become a creature large enough to destroy this wing of the palace.”
“Comforting image.”
“I measured.”
“You what?”
“The ballroom.” Bea slowly turned toward her. Rosaleigh immediately regretted speaking. “The eastern ballroom is eighty-three feet long.”
“Why do you know that?”
“I wanted context.”
“Context for what?”
“His dragon.” There was a pause. Then Bea covered her face.
“Oh, Rosa.”
“It was a reasonable exercise.”
“You measured a ballroom to imagine how large your future husband’s dragon is.”
“I already had the measurements.”
“That does not improve this.” Rosaleigh began laughing. She couldn’t help it. It started as an anxious sound and became something warmer. Bea laughed too. For perhaps half a minute, Rosaleigh was not the heir to a kingdom, a diplomatic bride, or the future wife of a rumored patricide. She was simply twenty-five, frightened, and laughing with her best friend. Then someone knocked. The moment ended. “Enter.” A footman entered. “Your Highness, His Majesty requests your presence in the council chamber.”
The first of those weeks vanished into handovers. Rosaleigh spent it buried in transition ledgers, provincial summaries, and the slow, grinding work of teaching a government to function without the person who had quietly been holding it together. She did not sleep enough. She ate standing up. Bea began hiding reports the way other people hid sweets. Rosaleigh straightened.
“What is it?”
“The delegation from Blossom Basin arrived early.” Rosaleigh closed her eyes. The irrigation negotiations. Her father had forgotten.
“Tell them I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” The footman bowed. Bea handed her the grain report. Rosaleigh accepted it. Neither commented on the surrender.
“Lunch.”
“I’ll eat during council.”
“You cannot eat stew during council.”
“Bread, then.”
Bea pointed at her. “I am holding you to that.”
The meeting lasted three hours. King Edmund spoke for approximately twenty minutes. Rosaleigh handled the remaining two hours and forty minutes. Lady Marigold Loveday had arrived from Blossom Basin with two irrigation commissioners, a grain warden, and the expression of a woman who had been ignored for too long. “The eastern channels cannot support another expansion,” she said. Rosaleigh nodded. “I agree.” Her father glanced at her. Lady Marigold paused. “You do?”
“Yes. The Water Office’s projections assumed average spring rainfall. We’ve had three consecutive above-average years. The overflow is hiding the capacity problem.”
One commissioner leaned forward. “Exactly.”
Rosaleigh pushed a map across the table. “If we reinforce the southern reservoir and redirect these three channels, we can reduce pressure on the eastern system without taking water from Wheatmere.”
Lady Marigold studied it. “This would require Crown funding.”
“Yes.”
Her father cleared his throat. “The treasury is under certain constraints at present.”
Rosaleigh did not look at him. “The Crown can fund forty percent this year.”
“Rosaleigh—”
She continued. “The Basin contributes twenty percent through its existing infrastructure levy. The remaining forty percent can be divided across three years, provided the crown suspends the eastern road toll on construction materials.”
Lady Marigold’s eyes lifted. “That would be acceptable.”
Her father looked annoyed. It was, Rosaleigh thought, an excellent expression for a man whose kingdom she was saving while preparing to leave it. She folded her hands. “Then we have an agreement.”
Lady Marigold smiled. “Assuming His Majesty approves.” Everyone looked toward Edmund. The king glanced around the table. Then smiled as though the solution had been his all along. “Of course.” Rosaleigh looked down at the map. Forty-two days.
By sunset, they had drafted the agreement. By dinner, Rosaleigh had reviewed the Saltmere manifests. Storms. The missing grain barges were merely late. By nine, she had answered seven letters. By ten, she was alone in the royal library with Dynastic Conflicts of Drakhar: The Bellroar Succession open before her. A cup of tea cooled beside her. Rosaleigh read the same paragraph four times.
—
On the fourteenth day of Ashwane, Prince Paxton Bellroar invoked the Rite of Ashen Claim before the assembled court. King Aeron accepted. The confrontation concluded before sunset. Prince Paxton emerged victorious. King Aeron succumbed to his wounds shortly thereafter.
—
Shortly thereafter. Such polite words. Rosaleigh turned the page. Nothing. The historian moved immediately into Paxton’s coronation. She leaned back. “What did you do?” The painted portrait opposite her did not answer. It wasn’t even Paxton. It was some long-dead Everspring king with unfortunate eyebrows. Rosaleigh rubbed her eyes. She had found one portrait of Paxton. Someone had painted it three years earlier, during a diplomatic summit. He was enormous. That had been her first thought. Even seated, he looked too large for the chair beneath him. Black hair. Bronze skin. Broad shoulders beneath formal black-and-gold clothing. A severe mouth. Grey eyes with a ring of gold around the pupils. The artist had captured no smile. Perhaps Paxton disliked portraits. Rosaleigh could sympathize. She had stared at his painted face for an embarrassingly long time. Not because he was handsome. He was. Infuriatingly so. But because she had been trying to find cruelty. She hadn’t. That meant nothing. Paintings lied. Rosaleigh knew that better than most. Her own portraits had been lying about her waist for fifteen years.
As she shut the book, a folded paper slipped from between the pages. Rosaleigh frowned. It bore Everspring’s diplomatic archive seal. A private memorandum. Not official. Ambassador Ellery Rafter wrote it nine years earlier, after returning from Drakhar. Rosaleigh unfolded it.
—
Prince Paxton remains difficult to assess. He is neither charming nor interested in appearing so. He speaks little during council but appears to miss nothing. His soldiers fear disappointing him more than they fear punishment. His father appears to dislike him intensely. Rosaleigh continued.
Of particular note: during my stay, a mine collapse occurred in the Obsidian Reach. The prince departed court immediately despite King Aeron’s objections and remained at the site for three days. Forty-two miners were recovered alive. Eleven bodies were retrieved. Prince Paxton personally remained until the last was accounted for.
—
Rosaleigh stopped. She read it again. Then the final line.
—
I would not describe the prince as kind. I am no longer certain that kindness and goodness are identical things.
—
Rosaleigh sat very still. Outside the library windows, Rosehollow rested beneath moonlight. She thought about a young dragon prince standing beside a collapsed mine. Forty-two living miners. Eleven dead. Three days. She thought about a son challenging his father. It changed nothing. A ruthless man could save miners. A good man could kill his father. People were inconvenient that way. But for the first time since learning Paxton Bellroar’s name would soon become attached to hers, Rosaleigh felt something other than fear. Curiosity. She tucked the memorandum back into the book. Then reached for her tea. Cold, Rosaleigh drank it anyway.
She crossed to her writing desk. There, beneath provincial reports and wedding correspondence, lay a single sheet of cream parchment. She had been avoiding it since morning. The seal stamped into the wax was black, a dragon’s head impressed in gold. Drakhar. Rosaleigh sat. The letter had arrived directly from the Black Crown Palace. Not from a minister. Not from an ambassador. From him. Her future husband.
She broke the seal. The handwriting inside was surprisingly clean.
—
Princess Rosaleigh,
—
She stopped.
Her heart began beating faster.
Ridiculous.
It was ink.
She continued.
—
I have been informed that Everspring intends to send your household ahead of you. I have instructed my steward to make whatever accommodations they require. No member of your personal staff will be dismissed or replaced without your approval.
—
Rosaleigh blinked. She read the sentence again. Her staff. Her approval. She continued.
—
Your rooms are being prepared in the eastern royal wing. If there are furnishings, books, plants, animals, foods, or other comforts you wish brought from Everspring, send the list directly to my household rather than troubling yourself with diplomatic channels.
—
That was… considerate. Unexpectedly considerate. Rosaleigh read on.
—
I understand this arrangement was reached under circumstances neither of us selected. I will not insult you by pretending otherwise.
—
Her breath caught.
—
Neither your title nor your dignity will diminish when you cross into Drakhar. You will be respected as both Princess of Everspring and my future wife. Drakhar will not demand that you surrender your customs merely because you cross its border.
—
Rosaleigh’s fingers clenched around the page. Then she reached the final paragraph.
—
There are many stories told about me in your kingdom. Some are true. Most are exaggerated. A few are disappointingly unimaginative.
—
Rosaleigh stared. Was that humor? From the terrifying Dragon King?
—
You may ask me about any of them when we meet. I would prefer you judge me by my answers rather than another man’s rumors.
Paxton Bellroar
King of Drakhar
—
Rosaleigh remained motionless. Then, despite herself, her eyes returned to one sentence. A few are disappointingly unimaginative. A cackle escaped her. Small. Startled. Completely inappropriate. Rosaleigh covered her mouth. “Oh, no.” This was worse. She had been prepared for a monster. Monsters were simple. A cold, ruthless king who murdered his father and expected obedience from a purchased human bride—Rosaleigh could prepare for that. She could become polite enough. Quiet enough. Useful enough. She could learn his preferences, avoid his temper, fulfill her obligations, and find some corner of Drakhar where she could continue helping people without drawing attention. But a man who ensured her servants could remain with her? A man who asked what would make her comfortable? A man who acknowledged she had not chosen this either? A man who invited her to ask him whether he had killed his father? Rosaleigh looked down at the black dragon seal.
For the first time, Paxton Bellroar seemed somewhat less like a fable whispered in Rosehollow drawing rooms. He felt like a man. And men were considerably more complicated than monsters. Rosaleigh folded the letter meticulously. Then unfolded it. Then read it again. One day. She still had transition ledgers to finish. A hospital appropriation to secure before her father discovered how much it cost. Trunks to pack. More, if Bea lost the argument about the books. And well beyond Everspring’s green mountains, a dragon was waiting to marry her.
Rosaleigh pressed Paxton’s letter flat against the desk. She was still afraid. Of Drakhar. Of marriage. Of leaving. Of what would happen to Everspring after she was gone. And yes, of the man who had killed his own father and taken his crown. However, beneath the fear, something unfamiliar had begun to take root. Not hope. Rosaleigh was not foolish enough to call it hope. Not yet. Curiosity, perhaps. She reached for a clean sheet of parchment and dipped her pen into the ink.
—
Your Majesty,
—
Rosaleigh stopped. Too formal? No. They had never met. She would not begin their marriage with Dear Paxton like some breathless heroine in one of the dreadful court romances Bea occasionally smuggled into her room. She continued.
—
Thank you for your letter and for the consideration you have shown toward my household. Learning that my attendants may remain with me has relieved one of my greater concerns pertaining to the journey. Several have served me for many years, and I would be grateful to retain them upon my arrival.
—
Rosaleigh read it. Grateful. Too grateful? Why did writing to one man feel more difficult than negotiating irrigation rights between three provincial councils? She dipped the pen again.
—
I will have my household steward forward the appropriate list tomorrow. I do not require anything particularly extravagant. Most of what I intend to bring consists of clothing, personal belongings, several plants, and books.
—
She paused. Then added:
—
I should apologize in advance for the books. There are far more than could be described as a small collection.
—
Rosaleigh’s mouth twitched. That sounded like her. Was that a joke? Perhaps she had lost her mind. She nearly crossed it out. Then remembered his disappointingly unimaginative rumors and left it. Her pen lingered again. There were so many things she wanted to know. What would the Drakhari court expect of her? Would she have an independent household budget? Would she be permitted to correspond freely with Everspring? Would Drakhar expect her to abandon the Cycle of Seasons? Were human physicians available at court? Rosaleigh began with the least dangerous.
—
As I have not previously visited Drakhar, I would also be grateful for any guidance you believe useful regarding your court and its customs. I have been studying what records are available to me. However, I am increasingly aware that Everspring’s archives were written largely by humans attempting to describe a culture from the outside. I would prefer not to arrive believing misconceptions simply because they have been repeated often enough to become accepted as fact.
—
She reread the sentence. Her eyes drifted to Paxton’s letter. There are many stories told about me in your kingdom. Rosaleigh slowly lowered the pen. He had invited the question. Still, asking a man whether he had murdered his father seemed an unusually aggressive beginning to a courtship. Though being exchanged to settle one’s parents’ debts was not an especially conventional courtship either. Rosaleigh pressed her lips together. Then wrote.
—
You mentioned the stories told about you in Everspring and invited me to ask about them. I hope you will forgive me for accepting that invitation sooner rather than later.
—
Her pulse quickened. The story repeated most frequently here concerns your father. Rosaleigh stared at the sentence. No lightning struck the palace. No dragon appeared at the window. Encouraging.
—
Our official records state that you invoked the Rite of Ashen Claim, that King Aeron accepted your challenge, and that he died of injuries sustained during it. They explain very little beyond those facts.
—
She stopped. This mattered.
—
I do not ask because I believe myself entitled to memories you would prefer remain private, nor do I expect you to justify every decision of your past to a woman you have never met.
—
Rosaleigh continued.
—
However, I would be dishonest if I pretended the story had not frightened me.
—
She sat very still. Frightened. The truth looked remarkably vulnerable in ink. Her mother would tell her never to write such a thing. Never tell a powerful man where you were vulnerable. Never reveal uncertainty. Never provide another person with a weapon. Eleanor would have asked whether Rosaleigh wanted a marriage built upon careful lies. Rosaleigh continued.
—
I am preparing to leave the only kingdom I have ever known and enter a marriage neither of us appears to have sought. I know very little about the man who will become my husband beyond diplomatic records, military reports, and accounts whispered by people who have never met him. Some describe you as ruthless. Others call you disciplined. A few appear convinced you routinely burn people alive for minor inconveniences, though I suspect relations between our kingdoms would be considerably worse if that were true.
—
Rosaleigh froze. Then covered her mouth. She had absolutely written that. She should remove it. She reached for the blotting paper. Stopped. Read it again. A laugh threatened. Oh, Eleanor would have loved this. Rosaleigh left it.
—
I would therefore rather hear the truth from you. Not the version Everspring fears, nor the version Drakhar’s court may prefer remembered. Yours.
—
Her fingers tightened around the pen. Then she added:
—
You need not answer by letter if you would prefer to speak of it when we meet.
—
Fair. Now for the question that frightened her almost as much.
—
There is also a practical matter I hope you will permit me to clarify ahead of my arrival.
—
Practical matters. Safer.
—
While my father remains sovereign, I have spent several years assisting with provincial administration, food reserves, hospitals, infrastructure, and trade correspondence. There are matters currently in progress that may necessitate clarification after I leave.
—
Assisting. Rosaleigh looked at the word. It was technically true. She supposed.
—
I do not intend to allow Everspring’s affairs to interfere with my responsibilities in Drakhar, nor would I presume that becoming your wife gives me the right to conduct another kingdom’s government from your palace. However, I would like to know whether you object to my maintaining correspondence with Everspring’s governors, charitable institutions, and ministries should questions arise regarding work begun prior to my departure.
—
Her heart thudded. This mattered. Perhaps more than anything else she had written. If King Bellroar said no— Rosaleigh swallowed. She would still marry him. The treaties were signed. The debt would disappear. Everspring would be protected. She knew that already. She finished carefully.
—
I realize these are perhaps unusual questions to include in a first letter to one’s intended husband. Unfortunately, I have very little experience being an intended wife and considerably more experience preparing administrative transitions, so I fear you have received the version of me best equipped for the situation.
—
She smiled lightly. Then added:
—
Thank you again for writing to me personally. Whatever circumstances produced this marriage, I would prefer that we begin it by speaking honestly to one another.
I hope that is something you desire as well.
—
Rosaleigh hesitated over the closing.
—
With respect,
Too distant.
Sincerely,
Too commercial.
Yours—
Absolutely not. Her cheeks went hot. She scratched it out so violently the nib nearly tore the parchment. Finally, she settled upon:
—
Until we meet,
Rosaleigh Elowen Ivymoore
Princess of Everspring
—
Rosaleigh placed the pen down. She read the entire letter once. Then twice. By the third reading, she had identified eleven phrases she wanted to change, four sentences which might be interpreted badly, and at least one joke her mother would consider deeply inappropriate. She folded it before she could ruin it. Wax melted beneath the small flame on her desk. Rosaleigh pressed the golden peony of House Ivymoore into deep green wax. She held the finished letter for a moment. Paxton Bellroar would read this. The Dragon King. The man who had killed his father. The man who might be cold. Who might be ruthless. Who had nevertheless thought to ask whether his unwilling bride wanted to bring her plants. Rosaleigh ran her thumb across the hardened seal. Then she rang for a servant. When the footman arrived, Rosaleigh held out the letter. “This is to be sent directly to King Paxton Bellroar. Not through my father’s diplomatic office.” The young man wavered only briefly.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And I want confirmation when it has entered the Drakhari courier line.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He took it. Rosaleigh’s fingers stayed on the parchment a heartbeat too long. Then she let go. The footman bowed and left. The door clicked shut. Rosaleigh stared at it. There. Done.
Somewhere in the coming days, the most feared man in Uldara would open a letter in which his future wife had essentially asked whether he truly killed his father, requested permission to continue corresponding with half of Everspring’s government, apologized for the quantity of books she intended to bring, and lightly accused him of possibly incinerating inconvenient people.
Rosaleigh covered her face with both hands. “What have I done?” Her grandmother’s voice seemed to answer from eight years away. Something interesting, Rosa. Rosaleigh lowered her hands. The remaining weeks blurred into administrative handovers, late-night ledger reviews, and endless fittings.
His reply arrived before long, carried by peryton courier. Brief, dry, and surprisingly reassuring regarding her correspondence rights. She had read it three times, then written back. His second letter reached her the morning they left. She was still composing an answer when the carriage pulled through the palace gates. Over the next five weeks, the transition files were completed, the ministries briefed, and the final trunks strapped shut. One day remained before she would leave Everspring.