Chapter 4; The Spire

THRYSTAN

A brisk breeze whispers past my ears, and suspended fifty feet above ground, it almost convinces me that winter is making an early entrance. Yet, the air dances again, prompting a swift dodge as I deftly guide my dragon to the left.

My Sirrocian friend seems to be having fun blasting wind in my face.

Curiosity sparks within me, urging a fiery response to this playful challenge. With a subtle flourish, I weave my hands together, conjuring a mesmerizing ball of fire cradled in its own brilliance. I release it, watching as it rolls towards him; he ducks with a sly grin, obviously happy with his moves.

As I peer ahead, commanding my dragon to ascend into the clouds, I sense Daelan's imminent presence. The hiss of his dragon and the swirling whirlwind foretell the tempestuous encounter unfolding mere seconds away.

Heavens! I'll be unseated from my majestic beast before another fireball graces his damned face.

"Watch out for those rocks, your highness!" Daelan's warning echoes. Rocks? Absurd! No rocks linger at these soaring heights. As my gaze snaps forward, a gust of air challenges me, yet I remain steadfast on Rocco, fingers gripping his scales atop his sturdy neck. Blast these Sirrocians and their mastery of the air. In mere seconds, he maneuvers beside me.

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

"We shall see," Daelan sniggers, soaring ahead. His spear-tailed dragon glides and flutters like a delicate sheet of paper, a mesmerizing sight that never fails to bewilder me—how these colossal creatures of scale and flame defy gravity suspended high in the heavens.

A weary screech escapes Rocco, signaling that our aerial duel must draw to a close. We've soared through the morning, and even my stomach growls in protest of the prolonged flight. Yet, Daelan revels in the thrill, his enjoyment tempting me to wipe that persistent smirk from his face. After all, I'm the one meant to be smug in these skirmishes.

In truth, dragons aren't my forte, and engaging in a high-flying battle feels like trespassing in Daelan's realm. A Sirrocian's Domain. I yearn for solid ground beneath my feet, a place where my stance is unshakable. Challenge me there, where I won't yield, and I'll unleash a torrent of fireballs that might just singe the arrogance from your demeanor.

For now I'm barely holding on for dear life not to fall off my flight and managing to fight back.

"Growing weary, my Lord?" Daelan's voice cuts through the rushing wind beside me. When did he circle back? A frustrated groan escapes me before I retort with a snort.

"You're reveling in this far too much; it's getting under my skin."

"As I should," he chuckles. "You always claim the solid ground. This, right here, is why our escapades in the Spire are a highlight." Sun-kissed locks cascade around his shoulders as he raises his hand, eyes shut, savoring the wind on his face, a hint of a smile playing 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.

Daelan, ever the astute and perceptive half of our duo, senses the approaching heat and swiftly unites his hands, parting the fiery onslaught with a burst of air. However, his mastery over the flames costs him control of his dragon, succumbing to the relentless pull of gravity.

"Curse you, Thrystan!" his screech echoes, dissipating into the vast expanse. Yet, I know he'll be fine; Sirrocians are adept at sustaining themselves mid-air. You see, I'm not entirely heartless. Ignis responds to her master's plight with a resonant screech, soaring to his rescue. And he's got his dragon to rescue him afterall.

As the sun made a hasty retreat, we touched down on solid ground, and I dismounted Rocco with pure delight, glad to have my feet firmly planted again. But not before giving the crimson beast a friendly pat on his sizable nose. His eyes locked onto me for a brief moment, and then he let out a snort of air, creating an impromptu hair gush on my face, courtesy of his playful gust. With a theatrical flap, he soared back into the air, and Ignis followed suit, engaging in an aerial spectacle of twirls and dances before heading for their Bode rocks— Their homes. The places where they eat, sleep, and presumably mate.

Daelan strolls up behind me, his hand landing on my shoulder. "Good day today, huh?"

"For you," I reply, unable to suppress a sly smile. "Next time, let's take the battle to the muddy floor of the Wreath."

The Wreath—an arena of uncontrolled chaos, my second home. There, I can unleash my true fighting spirit, free from the shackles of princely expectations. It's where I relish in the fact that, beneath the royal facade, I'm a master at kicking butt in wrestling and a certified badass in hand-to-hand combat and sword fights. Did I mention royalty comes with a side of ass-kicking skills?

"Not if your father has a say in it. The king will probably off me first for agreeing to such an abomination, and then, just to add insult to injury, he'll hang you up by your royal jewels for tarnishing the family name."

A snort escapes my lips as I swipe a pristine towel from a nearby servant, mopping my forehead. "Not if he's blissfully ignorant of the Wreath."

"He'll find out if you keep sneaking off, Thrys. And you always return with those battle scars that Fayrah has to patch up," Daelan chimes in. "Between us, I think she's tired of playing nurse, but I catch a smirk on her face every time you strip down."

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

Daelan snorts, though I detect a sly smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He's a master at concealing it. Oh, my dear friend, the subtle charmer. "Only because you're the prince."

I shake my head, and my raven locks cascade freely around my forehead.

"Not that. The ladies of the Wreath remain blissfully unaware of my princely status, and let's just say I always receive a rather enthusiastic welcome."

"You're wayward."

A burst of laughter erupts from me, punctuated by Daelan sending a playful gust of wind my way, nearly toppling me.

As we enter the armor-laden domain, the air buzzes with activity. Soldiers bustle around, loading carts with essentials for those stationed at the Dragon Spire—a rugged arsenal of weapons, fine knives, and colossal saddles for the dragons. Riding a dragon bareback is a skill reserved for true Sirrocians; even Daelan hasn't mastered it yet. Over the centuries, my father, the King, has meticulously shaped the Dragon Spire. These creatures have called this place home for ages, and it's the duty of every monarch in line to safeguard them at all costs, for they are our living heritage.

Even the royal seal bore 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 Wrm.

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 imagine that soaring through the air would leave you cool and collected upon touchdown, 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 picturesque scene that leaves me questioning the current season.

"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. "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.

* * *

Two stable boys eagerly greet 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.

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

"Such a loving elder sister," I half-smile.

"The best you'll ever have." She wraps her arms around my shoulders, drawing me close. With a playful ruffle of my hair, she leads us away from the stables and Daelan. I give a half-hearted wave in his direction, unsure if he returns it, as I find myself trapped 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 under her arm.

We step into the palace, traversing 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, let in ample light. Father would accept nothing but the best.

The best of everything is what he demands, 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 to ride at night, Elaria and Daelan with us. We had the imperial guards with us because Nerys, the crown prince at the time, was never to be left unsecured. It was this looming responsibility that I dreaded, for it meant surrendering the freedom of the Wreath.

Nerys's dragon met a tragic end, shot from the sky by a spear coated with poisonous Bane. The perpetrator remained unknown, yet my father, in his grief, rounded up all the guards on duty that fateful day, reluctantly executing them. He mourned his perfect son for an entire year before realizing he had a spare: me. I too mourned Nerys, along with the carefree life I had envisioned.

Since then, I've strived to be an acceptable prince, though my father's expectations demand nothing short of perfection. He's been disappointed a few times, but time has a way of mending wounds. Besides, I am his sole remaining heir. While Elaria matters, the prospect of a woman ruling Vakythia is considered an abomination by the mages.

A disheveled maid steps into our path, a nervous look etched on her face, mirroring the demeanor of every servant in my presence. After all, they 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 like a bundle of nerves, making me cringe.

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

Elaria's hand seizes the collar of my loose white shirt, a spiteful glint in her eye. "And you keep that mouth shut, or your little escapades in the Wreath might just see the light."

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

"Try me." Elaria releases my shirt, leaving a crease of wrinkles in its wake. "Remember what happened the last time Father frowned at you?" She shoots me a warning glance before slipping into the sanctuary of her room. Mine is just a few steps ahead.

How could I ever forget what transpired with Father? 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.

This very son he now wishes to see seated on the throne.