Chapter One
The Captive Princess
The smell of snow and blood was the first thing to invade my consciousness, followed by pain.
The pain blossomed like a poisonous, dewy flower in my side, a deep, pulsing ache that violently dragged me from the embrace of the coma that had been my refuge. With every violent jolt, a new wave of fire penetrated my entrails. I was moving, but my feet weren't touching the ground. The world swayed before me in a nauseating rhythm, and the sharp, cold pressure on my stomach confirmed that I was slung over the back of a horse's saddle, like a sack of wheat.
Memory returned like a flood of screaming wind and dragon roars. The battle above the peaks of the "Bloodied Fangs."
The blinding flash of red eyes. "Nyctis," the black terror, moving with a speed that defied the laws of nature. And his rider, Prince Kieran.
I saw his face, those deep gray eyes like storm clouds before the rain, staring at me, while "Glacier," my majestic white dragon, stumbled under a decisive blow.
I tried to move, but my wrists were tightly bound behind my back.
The coarse rope bit into my skin. A low moan escaped my lips, and instantly the jolting stopped.
The world turned upside down as an iron grip clutched the back of my leather armor, pulling me to a standing position.
My feet touched the rocky ground, and my legs buckled, the pain in my side screaming in protest. But I didn't fall, only thanks to that merciless grip.
He was standing there, of course. He was a head and shoulders taller than me, his presence overwhelming, like a shadow devouring the sunlight.
"Awake, my Princess?" Kieran's voice came as a low growl, blending softness with inherent threat, like distant thunder heralding an imminent storm.
I lifted my head forcefully, my long white hair sticking to my face, smeared with sweat and grime.
My clear blue eyes met his hazy gray ones. His beauty was a weapon, sharp and unfamiliar. A slender face, with a nose straight as a blade and sharp lips, haunted by long black hair that reached his shoulders, some of it tied back.
He moved with the grace of a complete predator, and every movement of his powerful, athletic body reminded me of my restraints.
"Release my hands." The words came out in a hoarse voice.
A hint of a cruel smile sketched itself on his lips. "And leave the brave Princess of Nevis to fall on her face in the mud? Your pride would never recover."
My pride was all I had left. It was the fuel that kept my back straight and my chin high.
I wrenched myself from his grip, stumbling but remaining standing. The pain unleashed a new wave of torment in my side, but I locked my knees and endured in silence. I am Elania of Nevis. I do not show weakness to my enemies.
Especially not to him.
He didn't release me. Instead, he turned me around, his grip still on my arm, until I faced the scene of destruction. The battlefield stretching at the foot of the mountains tore my heart before it tore my body.
Smoke rose from the burning trees, black dust mixed with white snow, forming a grim tableau of my loss.
On the horizon, where the snowy peaks of Nevis should have gleamed, there was only a dark cloud of shame.
"Look closely, my Princess," Kieran whispered, bending until his lips touched my ear. The warmth of his breath, despite the bitter cold, burned my skin. "This is the result of challenging Amber. This is the price of your pride."
The smell of ash and burnt metal stuck in my throat. I knew my men were scattered there, among the shattered trees. And where was "Glacier"? Where was my white dragon?
I raised my eyes to the sky, and the fear I had hidden during the battle now choked me. Emptiness.
"What did you do to him?" My voice came out as a rasp, broken and strange, even to my own ears.
He turned me again to face him. His hazy eyes studied my features with a disquieting focus, as if he was reading every crack in my psychological armor. "The white dragon is still alive. His wound isn't fatal." He paused, allowing my hatred to simmer on my face before adding, "Unlike your men."
The blow was deliberate, designed to ignite my anger and push me to act rashly so he could break me.
I felt the blood boil in my veins, and an overwhelming urge to silence that arrogant smirk on his lips. But years of training as a warrior leader curbed the instinct.
I closed my eyes for a second, inhaled the cold air that stung my lungs, then opened them again.
"Death on the field of honor is the destiny of every warrior in Nevis," I said, my voice slightly calmer than a whisper. "They will be proud that I fought to the end. Something I doubt the Prince of Amber would understand."
Silence reigned for a moment. Then, something strange happened: I glimpsed a spark in the depths of his gray eyes, not anger or cruelty, but something else. It was very fast, almost an illusion. But it was there. Was it respect?
The moment of silence was broken when "Malachi," the commander of Kieran's dragon squadron, rushed towards us. "Kieran, the fortress awaits your return. The spoils." Malachi's fleeting glance at me was full of contempt, but beneath it was an undeniable curiosity.
Kieran raised his head, and the cruel prince, the warrior, returned. "The spoils are still breathing, Malachi. That makes them more valuable and more dangerous." He withdrew his hand from my arm, but the burning sensation lingered. "Tie her to my horse. The return journey will teach her humility."
As I was led towards the massive horse, I caught Kieran's last whisper to Malachi, a threat my ears didn't clearly hear: "No one touches her. She is mine."
And I whispered to myself as I was tied with a short rope to the horse's saddle, refusing to show any further weakness: "I will kill you one day."
But even as I uttered these words, I realized that what I had seen in his eyes was the beginning of another war, a far more dangerous one, raging within me.