Chapter 2: The Belly of the Beast

The journey to the heart of the Empire was a blur of iron wheels and gray skies.

Saoirse had spent the last two days existing in a state of suspended terror, curled into the corner of the black carriage that Tristan had commandeered after tiring of his horse. The vehicle smelled of stale pipe tobacco and leather, a masculine, suffocating scent that made her head swim.

Opposite her, Prince Tristan slept. Or at least, he appeared to.

He was sprawled across the velvet bench, one boot resting arrogantly on the seat, his arms crossed over his chest. His velvet coat was rumpled, his cravat undone. To anyone looking through the window, he was the picture of a dissolute noble sleeping off a victory drunk.

But Saoirse saw the truth. She saw the way his breathing was too shallow, too controlled. She saw the tension in his jaw, the way his right hand rested just inches from the hidden dagger in his boot.

He wasn't sleeping. He was waiting.

Saoirse hugged her knees to her chest, her fingernails digging into the rough wool of her stolen tunic. She was filthy, she was hungry, and she was numb. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flames eating the Great Canopy. She saw Helena’s face as Liam dragged her away.

Helena.

The thought was a physical blow. The convoy had stopped only twice—brief, chaotic pauses where soldiers shouted and engines cooled. Both times, Saoirse had strained to see the cage wagons near the front of the column, where the "royal prisoner" was being held. She had seen nothing but steel bars and misery.

"Stop thinking so loud," a voice drawled from the shadows. "It’s ruining my nap."

Saoirse froze. Tristan hadn't opened his eyes.

"You have a very noisy face, Seir," he murmured, the name sounding like an insult on his tongue. "You’re grinding your teeth. It suggests anxiety. Servants aren't anxious; they’re obedient."

He finally opened his eyes. The blue iris was startling in the dim light of the carriage, sharp and utterly devoid of the sleep he feigned.

"Water," he commanded, kicking the empty flask on the floor toward her.

Saoirse stared at the flask. Her royal training screamed at the indignity. She was the Daughter of the Silver Branch, the Keeper of the Flame. She did not fetch water for the son of a butcher.

But the memory of Vane’s cold eyes and the steel pressing against her throat checked her pride. Be nothing, her mother had said. Be no one.

Slowly, she unclenched her hands. She picked up the flask. There was a water skin hanging near the door. She filled the flask with trembling hands, careful not to spill a drop, and held it out to him.

Tristan didn't take it immediately. He watched her hands.

"Graceful fingers for a scullery maid," he observed, his voice low. "No calluses. No burns from the stove. You hold that flask like it’s crystal, not tin."

Saoirse’s heart hammered against her ribs. She shoved the flask toward him, forcing her face into a dull, vacuous stare.

Tristan took it, his fingers brushing hers. His skin was cold. "You’re not going to speak to me, are you? Still playing the mute?"

She didn't react.

"Pity," he took a swig of the water, grimacing as if it were vinegar. "I was hoping for a bedtime story. Perhaps a confession."

Suddenly, the carriage lurched to a halt. The screech of brakes and the shouting of men cut through the air.

"We’re here," Tristan said, the laziness vanishing instantly. He sat up, fixing his cravat with two sharp movements. He ran a hand through his messy black hair, not to tidy it, but to make it look intentionally disheveled.

He kicked the door open. The roar of the city rushed in—a cacophony of steam whistles, grinding gears, and the murmur of a million souls.

"Out," he ordered.

Saoirse scrambled out of the carriage and nearly fell.

They were not in a forest anymore. They were inside a machine.

Oakhaven, the capital of the Empire, was a nightmare of obsidian and brass. Massive smokestacks clawed at the sky, choking the sun behind a permanent veil of gray smog. The buildings were tall and jagged, connected by walkways of iron grates. There was no green here. No life. Only the pulse of industry and the heat of furnaces.

They had arrived at the palace gates—a fortress of black stone that loomed over the city like a tombstone.

"Move," Tristan said, gripping her shoulder. His touch was heavy, possessive. He steered her through the chaotic courtyard, where servants were unloading the spoils of war.

"Look! The Crown Prince returns!"

The shout went up from the gathered nobility. A cheer erupted—a harsh, guttural sound that made Saoirse flinch.

Ahead, on the grand staircase, Liam was descending from his armored transport. He looked like a god of war, blood still dried on his breastplate. And behind him, soldiers were dragging the cage.

Saoirse stopped dead. Tristan walked into her, knocking her forward, but she didn't feel it.

They were pulling Helena out.

Her cousin looked broken. Her white dress was shredded, her silver-blue hair matted with dirt. Chains bound her wrists and ankles. She stumbled, and a soldier struck her across the back with the haft of a spear.

"Walk, dragon-witch!"

Saoirse’s vision went red. A low, vibrating hum started in her chest—the heat of the Source waking up. The stones beneath her feet began to tremble. A nearby torch flared violently, the flame turning a distinct shade of violet.

Burn them, the voice in her blood screamed. Burn them all to ash.

She took a step forward, her hand reaching out, the air around her fingers warping with heat.

A hand clamped over the back of her neck.

It wasn't a caress. It was a vice. Tristan’s fingers dug into the sensitive pressure points at the base of her skull, sending a shock of pain that shattered her concentration. The violet flare in the torch died instantly.

"Easy, you clumsy idiot," Tristan said loudly, his voice thick with performative annoyance.

He spun her around, placing his body between her and the scene on the stairs. To the onlookers, it looked like a prince scolding a tripping servant. But up close, his face was a mask of lethal intensity.

"Control yourself," he hissed, his lips barely moving. His blue eyes bored into hers, seeing the rage she couldn't hide. "Do you want to join her? Is that your plan? To die screaming on the steps before you even take a breath?"

Saoirse gasped, the pain in her neck grounding her. She looked up at him, her eyes wet with furious tears.

"Look at me," he commanded, shaking her slightly. "Not at them. Look at me. You are a servant. You are invisible. If you embrace the fire, you burn. If you embrace the ice, you survive. Be ice, little mouse. Be ice."

The words were strange—almost advice, almost a plea.

"Tristan!"

The booming voice of the Emperor cut through the courtyard.

King Alaric stood on the balcony above, a withered man in golden robes, his face eaten away by the dark magic he coveted. Next to him stood the Empress, a woman of cold, sharp beauty.

Tristan released Saoirse’s neck instantly, his face slackening into a lopsided, foolish grin.

"Father!" Tristan called out, waving a hand lazily. "You started the party without me. I hope you saved some wine. The road was terribly dry."

The Emperor looked down at his third son with undisguised loathing. "You are late, boy. And you look like you slept in a stable."

"A carriage, actually," Tristan corrected, patting his coat. "Though the smell was comparable."

The Empress’s gaze drifted from Tristan to Saoirse. Her eyes were like shards of glass. "And what is that filthy creature cowering behind you?"

Tristan glanced back at Saoirse, then shrugged. "My share of the spoils, Mother. Liam took the glory, Rowan took the gold, and I… well, I needed someone to lace my boots. The last one had such clumsy fingers."

"A beggar," Liam laughed from the stairs, kicking Helena forward so she fell to her knees. "Fitting."

"Get it out of my sight," the Emperor dismissed them, turning his attention back to his prize. "Bring the Dragon to the throne room. We will see if she bleeds magic."

The procession moved on. Helena was dragged up the stairs, her eyes meeting Saoirse’s for a split second. There was no recognition in them, only terror.

Tristan grabbed Saoirse’s wrist again. "Come."

He didn't lead her toward the main entrance. He dragged her toward a narrow, shadowed archway on the side of the palace—the entrance to the servants' quarters and the lower wings.

They descended into the stone belly of the castle. The air grew colder, damp and smelling of mold. This was not the palace of gold and light; this was the skeleton that held it up.

Tristan moved with purpose now, the languid gait gone. He navigated the labyrinth of corridors until they reached a heavy wooden door at the end of a drafty hall in the North Tower—the traditional quarters for the "lesser" royals.

He unlocked it, shoved her inside, and slammed the door, throwing the heavy iron bolt.

The room was large but sparse. A single four-poster bed with heavy curtains, a desk cluttered with maps and papers, and a fireplace that had long gone cold. It was a soldier’s room, not a prince’s.

Tristan turned on her.

The transformation was terrifying. He stalked toward her, backing her up until her legs hit the edge of the desk. He placed his hands on the wood on either side of her, trapping her.

"Who are you?" he demanded. His voice was a low growl.

Saoirse pressed herself back, her heart racing. She shook her head, pointing to her mouth, feigning muteness.

"Don't insult my intelligence," Tristan snarled. "I felt the heat in the courtyard. I saw the torch flare. I saw the way you looked at the prisoner."

He reached out, his hand hovering near her face. For a moment, she thought he would strike her. Instead, he grabbed the collar of her tunic and yanked her forward, his nose inches from hers.

"You aren't a servant," he whispered. "You have the hands of a lady and the eyes of a killer. Are you a spy? A bastard child of the court? A mage's apprentice?"

Saoirse stared at him, keeping her face blank, though her breath hitched. He suspects. But he doesn't know.

"Speak!" Tristan shouted, slamming his hand on the desk.

Saoirse flinched, but she bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She could not speak. Her accent was too refined, her vocabulary too broad. One word would hang her.

Tristan stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he let out a sharp, frustrated breath and pushed himself away. He ran a hand over his face.

"Fine," he muttered. "Play your game. But know this: in this room, you are safe from them. Out there?" He gestured to the door. "Out there, Liam will break you just to hear the sound it makes. Rowan will dissect you to see how you tick. And my mother… she will eat you alive."

He walked to a basin of water in the corner and began to wash the road grime from his hands.

"There is a cot in the alcove," he said, not looking at her. "You sleep there. You do not leave this room unless I am with you. You do not speak to anyone. You do not look anyone in the eye."

He dried his hands on a towel and turned back to her. The mask was gone, leaving him looking tired and strangely young.

"You belong to me now, Seir," he said softly. "And I am the only thing standing between you and the darker dark."

Saoirse didn't move. She watched him.

He was the enemy. He was the son of the monster who destroyed her world. She should hate him. She did hate him.

But as she looked at the exhaustion in his shoulders, she realized something else.

He was afraid, too.

"I need a bath," Tristan announced, the imperious tone returning as he walked toward a changing screen. "Draw it. The servants' entrance is through the panel on the left. Hot water. And try not to drown yourself."

He disappeared behind the screen.

Saoirse stood alone in the center of the room. Her hands were still trembling, but the panic was receding, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

She looked at the heavy door. She looked at the dagger lying openly on his desk—careless, or a test?

She reached out and touched the hilt of the dagger. It was cold steel.

Kill him, the voice whispered. Slit his throat while he bathes.

She gripped the handle. It would be so easy.

But then she remembered Helena. Live so you can burn them all.

If she killed Tristan now, she would be cut down before she made it to the hallway. She needed access. She needed information. She needed to find where they were keeping Helena.

Slowly, Saoirse released the dagger.

She turned toward the servants' panel. She would draw his bath. She would scrub his floors. She would play the mute, the fool, the nothing.

She would let the Viper think he had caught a mouse.

She opened the panel and stepped into the darkness of the service tunnels.

Sleep well, Prince, she thought, her violet eyes flashing in the gloom. Because the Dragon is in your house now.

Later that night, the silence of the North Tower was heavy.

Tristan lay in his bed, staring at the canopy. The fire had burned down to embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the room.

From the alcove near the window, he heard the soft, rhythmic breathing of the girl.

He turned his head. He could just make out her silhouette on the cot. She was curled into a tight ball, facing the wall.

Tristan touched the hilt of the rapier he kept under his pillow.

He hadn't lied to her. She was dangerous. The moment in the courtyard—the way the air had shimmered around her—had terrified him. He had seen magic before, but never like that. Never tied to emotion.

She was connected to the Dragon Kingdom. That much was obvious. A low-born mage? A personal servant to the royal family?

He needed to know. Because if she had power… if she could be weaponized…

She was the variable he had been waiting for. The chaos element that could disrupt his father’s iron grip.

But looking at her small, huddled form, Tristan felt a pang of something he thought he had buried years ago along with his mother.

Guilt.

He had dragged her into the viper’s nest. He had put a target on her back.

"Don't make me regret this, little mouse," he whispered into the dark.

Across the room, Saoirse’s eyes were wide open. She heard his whisper. She tightened her grip on the hairpin she had stolen from his vanity table—sharp, silver, and deadly.

She closed her eyes, and for the first time in days, she let herself cry. Silent, hot tears that soaked into the rough pillow.

Tomorrow, the war would begin. But tonight, they were just two ghosts haunting the same room.