Bound to the Forsaken Dragon King

Evelyne's POV

The escort guard left me at the door without a word. The door closed behind him. I heard the outer bolt slide home.

Klaus was already at the table when I entered. A high imperial official, broad and soft at the jaw and middle, his travel coat hanging open, a half-empty bottle of something dark at his elbow. He looked at me the way men look at something they have been promised.

"Come here," he said.

I crossed the room and stopped at the corner of the table. Hands folded, shoulders lowered, chin at the angle Magdalene called correct. Not submissive enough to be boring, not composed enough to seem cold.

He poured two glasses of cordial and pushed one toward me, then let his hand rest on my wrist.

"They told me you're the best they have here," he said.

"Yes, my lord."

I lifted my glass without drinking. "You're too generous. I've barely eaten today — the cordial will go to my head." I let my gaze drop to the bottle. "Shall I pour for you, my lord?"

Flattery redirects attention better than resistance does. Magdalene's third lesson.

Klaus released my arm to accept the refilled glass, and while his attention drifted to my neckline I tipped the powdered sedge-root into his cordial with two fingers. The powder dissolved without color.

I refilled his glass twice more over the next half hour, each time with a reason attached. By the forty-third breath, his eyelids had gone soft, by the hundredth, the rhythm had settled into something deep and unreachable.

I waited until one hundred before I moved.

The cliff edge was at the end of the northern corridor. I stood at the edge and looked down. The sea was black, moving in long slow heaves, catching the moonlight in broken pieces.

Roughly forty feet to the water. Clean cliff face, no outcroppings. Current running west, away from the harbor watch.

Klaus would be under for at least three hours. The guard rotation ran every twenty minutes. The last one had passed six minutes ago.

Enough.

I jumped.

The cold hit like a full-body collision with something that had no give in it. Then it became the familiar thing, the dense, blunt pressure moving inward from the skin that I had learned to recognize over years of ice baths.

My muscles did not seize. I opened my eyes underwater, oriented by the current, and began swimming west along the cliff base.

The pressure against my eardrums pulled my thoughts somewhere I hadn't chosen to go.

Magdalene's hand at the back of my neck, immovable. The iron smell of the bucket's rim. Cold water flooding my nasal cavity, and then the inscription needles pressing in along my shoulder blades, each one carrying alchemical compound into the tissue beneath.

I had been eleven. "Pain is normal," Magdalene said from above the water's surface. "Your suffering is glory. A girl who does not know how to receive glory is not worth being chosen by a noble master."

I had not cried. The girl in the next basin had cried once, and her next session lasted forty minutes longer.

The memory broke when I surfaced behind a reef formation and heard torches moving along the cliff walk above — at least three light sources, spreading in different directions. Faster than I had calculated.

I went back under.

The third time I sank, something changed. A sharp pain started in my lungs. My arms lagged a half-second behind my intent. I had reached the edge of something, and I knew it without panic.

My mind drifted to somewhere amber-lit and long gone.

My father, standing in the doorway of our home, lantern in hand. "I'm going to check the water channel, Evie. I'll be right back."

But he never came back. The official report said he slipped and fell.

But the channel wasn't deep, barely reaching his hip, and my father was a man who could swim.

He had taught me himself in the mill stream when I was five. A man who could swim, drowned in knee-deep water.

Three days after the death notice went out, the collateral branch of the family arrived at the crystal mines with seals already prepared. Three days. They cited the absence of a male heir and took everything — the mines, the manor, the ledgers.

My mother and I were put out with two trunks between us. Mother was a low-blooded dragon-kin who had married a human baron and been looked down upon by both sides for it, and without my father she had nothing to fight with.

My father's relatives sold me before she was cold, and after passing through enough hands, I ended up at the monastery, where I spent five years — the darkest five of my life.

The memory released me. I was still suspended in the dark water, neither rising nor sinking.

My arms started again. I found the reef and pulled myself up.

I lay on the rock until the torch sounds faded east and disappeared. Then I turned onto my back and looked at the sky, and I thought of my mother in her last days, wrapped in three blankets and still shaking.

She had been too weak to sit up by the end. But her voice was steady when she said it. "Go to White Chalk City. Find Aylena — Renard Valerius's wife, Isabella's second son's wife. I was her sworn companion. We have a godmother's contract. She will take you in."

A name and a city. The only thing she had left to give me.

Snow began to fall. I pressed my sleeve against the cuts on my palms, checked the stars for north, and stood.

I stopped counting the nights after the third one.

The blizzard came in off the coast carrying salt and sea-smell, and my clothes had frozen stiff with seawater, rigid as light armor.

I slept in an abandoned stable. I dug roots from frozen earth and found half a jar of salted meat in a ruined wayshrine and ate it over three days after scraping the mold off.

My feet blistered, healed, and blistered again. The skin on my knuckles cracked open in the cold.

Walking helped nothing except the walking itself.

What felt like a little over a month of wandering had passed before I finally saw the lights, and the snow had been falling for a full day and night by then.

White Chalk City came as an outline first — walls, towers, height against the pale sky — and then the torches on the battlements resolved into individual flames, orange and steady, warm in a way that felt like it belonged to a different world entirely.

My knees went down.

I didn't fight it. My body needed a pause that wasn't sleep, and the snow was deep enough that kneeling wasn't the same as falling. The cold rose through my kneecaps, slow and thorough.

I looked at the lights.

There was nothing in my chest except one sentence, the kind that feels like it was put there rather than thought: Not yet. Don't go down.

I put my right hand into the snow. I pushed. I stood.