Chapter 4; The Spire

THRYSTAN

The Dragon Spire...

A brisk breeze brushes past my ears, hinting at an early winter. Suspended fifty feet above ground, I maneuver my dragon to dodge the playful wind.

My Sirrocian companion seems to enjoy blasting wind in my face.

Curiosity ignites, urging me to respond with fire. I conjure a mesmerizing ball of flames and release it towards him. He dodges with a grin, clearly pleased with his maneuver.

As I guide my dragon higher into the clouds, I sense Daelan's imminent presence. The hiss of his dragon and the swirling whirlwind signal the impending encounter just moments away.

"Watch out for those rocks, your highness!" Daelan's warning rings out. Rocks? Absurd! There shouldn't be any rocks at these heights. Despite the challenging gust of air, I stay firm on Rocco, clutching his scales atop his sturdy neck. Blast these Sirrocians and their mastery of the air. In no time, Daelan maneuvers beside me.

"Sneaky. But you'll need more than that to beat me," I retort with a defiant smirk.

"We'll see," Daelan chuckles, flying ahead. His spear-tailed dragon glides gracefully, a mesmerizing sight that always leaves me in awe—how these massive creatures of scale and flame defy gravity high in the sky.

Rocco lets out a weary screech, signaling that our aerial duel must end. We've flown through noon, and even my stomach protests the prolonged flight. But Daelan revels in the thrill, tempting me to wipe that smirk off his face. After all, I should be the victorious one in these skirmishes. I'm the Prince.

In all honesty, dragons aren't exactly my specialty, and being caught up in a high-flying skirmish feels like I've stumbled into Daelan's personal playground—a Sirrocian's Domain. What I really crave is solid ground beneath my feet, a place where my footing is unwavering. Challenge me there, and I'll let loose a fiery storm that might just singe away your overconfidence.

Right now, I'm hanging on for dear life, struggling not to plummet from my flight while doing my best to hold my own in the battle.

"Feeling a bit weary up there, my Lord?" Daelan's voice slices through the rushing wind beside me. When did he circle back around? I let out a frustrated groan before snapping back with a snort.

"You're enjoying this way too much; it's starting to get on my nerves."

"As I should," he chuckles. "You're always so sure-footed on solid ground. This, right here, is why our adventures in the Spire are the highlight of my day." His golden locks dance around his shoulders as he raises his hand, eyes closed, relishing the wind on his face, a teasing smile lingering on his lips.

If I were a nobler soul, a better man, I might appreciate this shared moment, let him relish in the joy. But I don't claim such virtue. In fact, I'm the antithesis of it all. I clasp my hands, conjuring the most substantial fireball of the day, and hurl it at him with a vengeance.

Ever the sharp-witted half of our duo, Daelan senses the approaching heat and swiftly conjures a burst of air, parting the fiery onslaught. But his mastery over the flames comes at a cost—he loses control of his dragon, succumbing to the pull of gravity.

"Curse you, Thrystan!" his screech echoes, fading into the vast expanse. Yet, I know he'll be alright; Sirrocians can sustain themselves mid-air. You see, I'm not entirely heartless. Ignis responds to her master's plight with a resonant screech, swooping in to his rescue.

And he's got his dragon to bail him out.

As the sun retreats, we touch down on solid ground, and I dismount Rocco with sheer delight, relieved to have my feet firmly planted again. But not before giving the crimson beast a friendly pat on his sizable nose. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and then he lets out a playful snort of air, sending a gust that tousles my hair. With a dramatic flap, he takes off into the air, and Ignis follows suit, performing a mesmerizing dance before heading for their Bode rocks—their homes, where they eat, sleep, and presumably mate.

Daelan approaches me from behind, his hand landing on my shoulder. "Great day, eh?"

"For you," I reply, unable to hide a smirk. "Next time, let's take the fight to the Wreath's muddy floor."

Ah, the Wreath—where chaos reigns supreme, my sanctuary. There, I shed the royal mask and revel in my prowess, dominating wrestling matches and sword fights alike.

"Not if your father has a say. He'd likely banish me for even suggesting it, and as for you, he'd probably have your royal jewels on display for tarnishing the family name."

I chuckle, grabbing a towel from a passing servant to wipe my forehead. "He won't find out if he's blissfully unaware of the Wreath."

"He'll catch on if you keep sneaking off, Thrys. And those battle scars you bring back? Fayrah's probably tired of patching them up," Daelan remarks. "But I swear, she smirks every time you strip down."

The cocky part of me grins. "Well, the ladies do seem to have a soft spot for me."

Daelan snorts, a sly smile dancing at the corners of his lips. He's a master at hiding it, that subtle charmer. "Only because you're the prince."

I shake my head, my raven locks cascading around my forehead.

"Not that. The ladies of the Wreath have no clue about my princely status, and let's just say they always give me a warm welcome."

"You're incorrigible."

Laughter bursts from me, interrupted by Daelan sending a playful gust of wind my way, nearly knocking me off balance.

As we step into the armor-filled domain, the air hums with activity. Soldiers scurry about, loading carts with supplies for those stationed at the Dragon Spire—an array of weapons, knives, and massive saddles for the dragons. Riding a dragon bareback is a skill reserved for true Sirrocians; even Daelan hasn't mastered it yet.

Throughout the ages, my father, the King, has meticulously crafted the Dragon Spire. These majestic creatures have called this place home for centuries, and it's the duty of every monarch to safeguard them at all costs, for they are our living heritage.

Even the royal seal bears the sinuous form of a dragon, its emerald body a striking contrast to the crimson ink that spills when pressed onto paper or parchment.

Two lively page boys approach, their red-freckled faces beaming. "Your horse, my lord," one declares, presenting me with the reins. I seize them eagerly, ready to mount and embark on the two-hour journey back to Wyrm.

Daelan graciously rewards the boys with silver coins, then joins me astride his horse. We ride side by side, and I can already anticipate the scorching demand I'll make upon my return to the palace—an indulgent hot bath to banish the persistent sweat trickling down my spine and neck, tempting me to shed every piece of clothing and plunge into one of the palace's rejuvenating hot springs.

Fortunately, we have plenty of those scattered around the palace grounds—my sanctuary for post-ride relaxation.

You'd think soaring through the air would leave you feeling cool and composed upon landing, but it's quite the opposite—or maybe I just have an excess of fire and steam to release. The idea of challenging Daelan to a brawl at the palace pops into my head. A good way to blow off some steam, work those muscles a bit. I smirk at the thought.

"I spy that mischievous look, and I'm all too familiar with it," Daelan's voice slices through my gleeful musings. "No more duels for today, especially not in the Wreath."

I pout, feigning disappointment. "Why must you always rain on my bonfire?"

"Apologies, my liege. Am I being accused of being a party pooper?"

I grin. "Effectively. Yes."

We traverse the well-worn path of the meandering road on our way back to the palace. Towering fruit trees and a mix of weeds and oak trees flank the way. The leaves, caught in a midair ballet, create a scenic scene that leaves me questioning the current season.

"Blessed Healers are hard to come by. Cleaning up blood and applying herbs is all Fayrah can do to prevent infections, but the scars are here to stay." Daelan remarks about my rather spirited escapades in the Wreath again. "Maybe you should consider avoiding face-busting encounters or just quit the Wreath altogether."

"Never."

"Your coronation as crown prince is merely a month away. Don't you think the mages would prefer not to see a constellation of bruises on you during the holy cleansing? I'm sure they'll send word back to the king."

I shrug. "Every man carries scars, Daelan. I'm no exception. It doesn't render me unfit to rule."

Daelan turns his head sharply toward me.

"True, it doesn't make you unfit to rule, but it might postpone your coronation a few extra days."

"And that's not such a bad thing."

Daelan struts ahead, then pivots his horse to block my path. "Yes, I'm fully aware of how much you're not thrilled about being King, but this is a responsibility you can't just sweep under the royal rug. As your best friend, I'm simply offering some sound advice."

"No, as my best friend, you should be on Team Thrystan, championing for a good time, not auditioning for the role of my second mom. Even my actual mom handles it with more finesse," I chuckle, sidestepping him and careening toward the sunset. "Try to keep up!" I holler, only to hear the rhythmic trot of his horse hot on my heels.

•••

The Thorian Palace...

A stable boy eagerly greets us as we trot into the stables, the fading sunlight casting shadows around. Swiftly dismounting, I yank off my gloves, toss them onto a mound of hay, and make my exit.

My attention shifts to a figure confidently approaching, hands clasped together in an elegant manner. Her long, dark mane dances in the wind, and her emerald skirts flow gracefully to her ankles, offering a glimpse of the rugged, mud-stained boots hidden beneath.

"Hello, boys," Elaria's voice cuts through the air, icy yet honeyed. "Did you enjoy your time in the Spire today?"

"I certainly did," Daelan responds with a grin, seizing her right hand and bestowing a kiss upon it. "Good evening, My Lady."

"Hello, sister," I mutter under my breath. "I assume you had your own little escapade today." I tilt my head, smirking at her boots, and she promptly kicks me in the knee, sending me groaning to the floor.

"One word to father, and I'll make your miserable life even more miserable," she threatens, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

"Heavens! Elaria! A tad higher, and you might have put an end to the Royal line with those boots," I grip Daelan's hand for support, grinning despite the pain. Daelan also wore a faint smile on his face.

He would stand against my will to fight in the Wreath but not worry about my safety from the formidable woman before me. He cannot even hide how much of a crush he has on Elaria.

"Good riddance," she retorts, her hazel eyes boring into my soul.

"Such a loving elder sister," I half-smile as her arms envelop my shoulders, pulling me close. With a playful ruffle of my hair, she steers us away from the stables and Daelan. Unsure if he reciprocates my half-hearted wave, I find myself ensnared under the mischievous arm of the devil herself.

"So, where did you ride today?"

"None of your business," she spits. "Just be a good little brother and keep your mouth shut." I pout, and a smirk sneaks onto her wickedly pretty face as she releases me from her grasp.

We step into the palace, navigating the grand hallways with pristine white walls and matching pillars adorned with delicate flower vines. The floor-to-ceiling windows, crafted from only the finest Quasar glass, flood the space with ample light. Father would accept nothing but the best.

He demands the best of everything, even the best son. A son I can never be because I will never be perfect. Sometimes, I find myself wishing Nerys were still alive—my older brother who perished in the Dragon Spire two winters ago.

We ventured to the Dragon Spire for a night ride, accompanied by Elaria and Daelan, along with the imperial guards assigned to Nerys, the crown prince at the time— His safety was paramount.

Tragedy befell Nerys's dragon, felled from the sky by a spear coated with poisonous Bane. The perpetrator remained elusive, yet my father, consumed by grief, purged all guards on duty that day, reluctantly believing justice demanded it. A year passed in mourning for his perfect son until he realized he had a spare: me. I too grieved for Nerys, mourning not only his loss but also the carefree life I had envisioned.

Since then, I've striven to meet the standards of an acceptable prince, mindful that my father tolerates no imperfections. Though I've stumbled, time has eased his disappointment. Ultimately, I stand as his sole remaining heir. While Elaria's importance is acknowledged, the concept of a female ruler in Vakythia remains repugnant to the mages.

A disheveled maid interrupts our path, her anxious expression reflecting the demeanor of every servant in my presence. They, after all, address the soon-to-be crown prince and future King.

"The king and queen await you in the Throne Room for dinner," she mutters, bowing hastily before scurrying away, leaving me to cringe.

"Might want to change those muddy boots," I tease my sister.

Elaria's hand tightens around the collar of my loose white shirt, a malicious glint in her eye. "And keep that mouth shut, or your little escapades in the Wreath might just come to light."

I grin. It seems we both have our secrets. "You wouldn't dare," I scoff.

"Try me." Elaria releases my shirt, leaving wrinkles in its wake. "Remember what happened the last time Father disapproved of you?" She shoots me a warning glance before retreating into the sanctuary of her room, just steps ahead of mine.

How could I ever forget Father's disapproval? A lasting reminder graces my chest—a wicked scar, an indelible mark born from a Scorcher's fury, a testament to his son's recklessness.

Yet, this very son he now wishes to see seated on the throne.