Prince Bartholomew “Drake” Galedragon stood at the center of the sprawling banquet hall, as perfectly polished as the gleaming chandeliers. Around him, war comrades in varying states of sobriety lounged over lavish feasts and empty boasts. A gold braid hanging from his shoulder marked him as the guest of honor. Or, as the lone member of House Galedragon in a sea of mercenary grunts, as a convenient target. His triumph at the Battle of Gilded Veil was still a fresh memory, and though Drake drank in their praise like a parched man in a desert, he couldn’t help but feel that sometimes when the men laughed that the topic was not altogether funny.

  Tables stretched out like the wings of the fabled Dawnbird, piled high with roasted meats, sugared fruits, and towers of spiced pastries. Pewter goblets caught the light of a hundred lanterns, their contents sloshing dangerously close to the rim as the revelers toasted their own appetite for destruction.

  "To the hero of Gilded Veil!" one of the mercenaries bellowed, raising his drink in a toast. Drake grinned and took a large sip from his own goblet as several mercenaries elbowed each other and laughed.

  "A feat worthy of song," one of them chimed in, clapping Drake on the shoulder. The force of the slap sent wine spilling down the prince’s front. Drake didn't mind. Let the world know he was swimming in success.

  "Prince Drake!" they called. "Lord Galedragon!"

  "A toast to Galedragon’s pride!" shouted another voice, this time followed by a raucous chorus of laughter and cheers. But Drake raised his goblet all the same, throwing back his drink like a man who was to be married the next day. Because he was.

  Drake wondered if his bride-to-be would someday join him in partying. He suspected Chastity would balk at a feast like this. With a name like that, she had to be a bore…

  No, this sort of thing would be too rowdy for a princess—not enough decorative pearls on the table settings, too many empty wine casks.

  But there were other ways they might have fun together… He had heard that the Princess was quite a looker, dark skin, large brown eyes…

  He savored the thought as much as the thick Qirathi wine. Maybe if she didn’t like the revelry it would make things more interesting. It was all just part of having a hero for a husband.

  "We owe you our fortunes, Galedragon," one of the other grunts shouted, only slightly unsteadily.

  Drake grinned, inclining his head to let them know that, yes, indeed they did. For all their drinking and jesting, these were soldiers. They knew how to take orders and coin alike. Their pockets were now as full as their mugs.

  His recent victory at the Battle of Gilded Veil was a sign, Drake thought. One that pleased him immensely.

  Another drink and the sign was all but etched in stone. Yes. This was going to be a grand affair, but not until he wrung every ounce of enjoyment out of this last night as a bachelor. His future, golden and pure, could wait another night.

  "So much to celebrate," he declared, his voice echoing off the sandstone walls. "I hardly know where to begin!"

  "Start by not drinking us under the table, Your Highness!" a voice called from a knot of his drunkest companions.

  They had gravitated to a table set away from the gilded arrangements and braided finery, much to Drake’s amusement. He joined them there, navigating around his less-inebriated fellows with the kind of long practice that marked him as either naturally graceful or terminally drunk.

  The music swelled. Drake's grin grew wide and wild.

  "This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?" a woman said as he slid into a seat next to her. His attention had been straying there throughout the evening, and he was pleased to see she had noticed. Chastity’s maid of honor. A slip of a girl, cute as anything, eyes bright with the night’s promise. "Throw a party," she continued, "while the empire burns around you?"

  "Better than the alternative," Drake replied, resting an elbow on the table. "That being the empire burns while I sit around being bored, polishing my own trophy."

  "Don’t you have a wedding for that?"

  "Not until tomorrow."

  "And the bride doesn’t mind someone else helping you 'polish your trophy'?"

  "Oh, the bride is elsewhere, dreaming of pearls."

  She laughed. The sound was bright, melodic. "The gallant hero."

  He reached for the nearest bottle and poured two generous measures of wine, sliding one across to her. "Shall we drink to him, then?"

  "Isn’t that what the whole night's been about?"

  He shrugged, pretending not to notice as her knee nudged against his own. "Always room for one more toast."

  The music changed tempo, an upbeat song that set his fingers drumming on the tabletop and seemed to chase some of the partygoers from their stupor.

  "This is my favorite part," the maid of honor said, rising and holding out a hand. "If you can manage to stay on your feet."

  He didn’t answer, just drained his cup and followed her out to the center of the hall.

  Drake twirled and whirled her through the masses, feeling the rush of liquor and acclaim like blood in his veins. They danced in giddy circles, weaving among the brawling, staggering mercenaries until even their stamina ran out and they collapsed, breathless, into a heap of half-drunken nobles.

  Someone shoved a drink into his hand, laughing as the wine splashed over his knuckles.

  "How many is that now?" the woman in his lap giggled, her braid falling loose as she sprawled across him.

  "Enough," Drake answered, grinning. "Too many. More."

  He didn’t let himself think about the staggering crowds and the empire’s grand ambitions and the wife he’d never met but would be tying himself to for the sake of his father's empire. He just drank.

  And laughed.

  And pushed away the truth. It could wait.

  Unlike him.

  He pulled himself to his feet and kept on dancing, shouting with the musicians, clapping along to the beat, reveling in the way he could claim the center of everything. The taste of glory—of near escape—was too sweet to pass up.

  "Tell me, Prince, how did it feel when your father paid off—"

  Drake interrupted the question by clasping an arm around the asker’s shoulder, dragging him into a tipsy embrace and laughing loud enough to bury the rest of the sentence in joyful sound.

  "It felt like this!" he shouted, feeling the words form around a hollow center in his chest. He released his drunken comrade into the wild dance of the crowd, watching as another soldier caught the man's eye and muttered a quick warning before they both took refuge behind a half-barrel of rum.

  "May I have this dance," the maid of honor said, sidling back up to him.

  He stood and held out a hand for her, an invitation to continue the night in earnest. "We should never stop dancing!"

  They were on their feet again. Wine flowed. Music swelled. Sweat glistened on the revelers like fine oil, but there was nothing fine about it, no matter how brightly the gilded halls gleamed. The feast carried on without pause, but for the moment that lingered far too long and left Drake wondering.

  When his father paid off whom?

  He hadn't wanted to hear the man out, but now he second guessed having cut him off.

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  Away from the feast, the long corridor was quiet. Too quiet. Drake disliked it immediately. But the woman he had followed here—the one with the convenient disregard for the fact that Drake was to be marrying her friend tomorrow—he liked her plenty. She had seen him cast an indecisive glance at the side passage, and she was smart enough to realize what he was signaling. She’d departed with a toss of her braid, promising not to be far when he tired of his filial duties.

  He spotted her, standing in a doorway ahead. The bridesmaid tossed him a knowing smile as he approached, then disappeared around the corner. The thought of what he would find when he caught up made him eager, yet he took his time walking. He wanted to savor this, his last night as a free man.

  The courtyard was lush and vibrant, unlike anything Drake had seen in this harsh desert realm. Shafts of light angled through narrow windows, glowing orange against the sandstone. Small fountains filled the air with the gentle music of water, and deep green plants unfurled with a wild abandon.

  Then he spotted her waiting, perfectly unruffled, lying on a moss-covered rock. Her smile grew wider as she noticed him looking at her.

  "You sure took your time," she teased as he reached her, reaching up to twist his unruly blonde hair between her fingers.

  "Some of us don’t have the luxury of skipping out early," Drake replied, pulling her close. "Had to at least make it look like I was being respectable." He kissed her, tasted the sweet warmth of her lips.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The bridesmaid smiled, taking his hand and leading it further down her side to her hips. "That’ll be a first."

  His mouth met hers, hunger flaring. It tasted of boldness and sweat and a satisfaction that only made Drake want more. They tangled together, sinking to the ground in a heap of cloth and impatience. Her laughter rang through the garden as he peeled her dress down over her shoulders, a deftness that spoke of practice. She grinned, working at the clasps of his coat with nimble fingers, urging him on and on, her eagerness a constant, delicious provocation.

  Sand and soil pressing against Drake’s bare back as they stripped off the last of their clothing. Petals from some delicate desert flower stuck to his skin. His hands roamed over her, exploring with a relish that bordered on possessiveness. When she tugged at his hair, pulling his face to her neck, he thought that if his new wife were half as lovely as her bridesmaid, maybe being trapped with a wife would be more fun than he expected.

  For a while she toyed at being shy, but he reeled her in with all the charm that had earned him his many titles. War Hero. Heir to the Throne. Soon-To-Be Husband.

  They had rolled clear across the garden by the time he let himself lose to her body.

  Their cries mingled with the faint sounds of the banquet far off, a rowdy chorus that sang out his untroubled freedom. She was fierce and playful and a welcome release of anxiety, and as they caught their breath, she rested her head on his chest and drew a slow circle across his stomach.

  "You must be used to having this kind of excitement all the time," she murmured, voice breathy with exertion and satisfaction. "How many hearts will break when you're finally married off tomorrow?"

  "Not enough," he said, letting the noise from the banquet swell in his head, a reminder of what was waiting for him and what was about to be taken away.

  "What do you think your bride will say if she finds out?"

  "She won't. And if she does," he said with a lazy, unbothered shrug, "she'll have to understand. I was not married yet tonight, so no vows were broken."

  The bridesmaid laughed again, sitting up to straddle his waist, hips moving with slow, suggestive insistence. "And what about your party? Do you want to head back?"

  Drake rolled them over, pinning her beneath him. "Not at all," he answered, and took his time proving it to her.

  They barely noticed when the air around them cooled and the light began to fade from orange to a dim, uncertain brown. Lost in the immediacy of limbs and lips and disheveled hair, they didn't even hear the soft cough that came from the garden's entrance.

  The next one was louder, enough to startle them both and make Drake twist around, gaze sharp with irritation. A figure stood silhouetted in the archway, his shoulders broad and posture rigid. Even against the failing light, there was no mistaking the quiet intensity of Emperor Galedragon.

  "Prince Bartholomew," the Emperor said. His tone was mild. His face was not.

  The bridesmaid scrambled to her feet, hastily pulling her dress back over her head. She nearly tripped as she fumbled with the ties and laces. She paused just long enough to press a quick, daring kiss to his cheek before hurrying out of the garden, the swish of her skirts echoing behind her. She didn't even stop to offer the emperor a curtsy.

  Drake watched her go with more appreciation than annoyance. He stayed where he was, reclining like the spoiled prince they both knew him to be. He wasn't in any rush. The thrill of danger only made it better, anyway.

  When his father neither moved nor spoke, he let the silence stretch as he gathered his clothes. The emperor's impatience filled the space around them, hot and pressing. When Drake finally stood, pulling on his shirt and fastening it carelessly, his father's mouth had tightened to a thin, flat line.

  "Our nanny used to tell us our faces would stick like that if we did it too often, old man," Drake said as he struggled back into his coat. "I’m sure she won't tell anyone about what happened."

  The emperor’s patience snapped like a dried branch. "Shut up and follow me before you make yourself look even more a fool."

  Even for a son who had grown accustomed to ignoring him, the insult held enough force to make Drake flinch. After all these years his father still made him feel like a disobedient pup.

  As he followed, the sound of the party roared through the sandstone halls, a living thing Drake longed to embrace. Instead, he stepped into a dimly lit antechamber, the raucous noise slipping into a muffled hum as the heavy door closed behind him.

  Emperor Galedragon turned to face him, cold and severe as a forgotten northern winter. He wore the heavy robes of office as if he were born to them, and his eyes tracked his son’s movements like a hawk on the hunt.

  Drake tried to meet his father’s gaze with casual confidence, but by the look on his father's face, he was not siccessful.

  “Enjoying your celebration?” The emperor’s voice cut through the chamber, low and sarcastic.

  “I thought it best to make the most of things.” Drake spread his arms, a half-bow, a half-shrug, and all disdain for the lack of Qirathi wine in his immediate vicinity.

  “Yes. You always do.”

  His father’s words landed like bricks, but Drake had spent a lifetime beneath their weight. If the empire hadn’t flattened him yet, he doubted another lecture about his upcoming nuptials would.

  “Nothing wrong with a little diversion,” he said. “After all, I’ve worked hard enough for it.”

  His father remained still, expression carved from granite. “That is one word for it.”

  “And I suppose you have another?”

  The emperor’s gaze did not waver. “Arranged. Bought. Invented. Shall I go on?”

  Drake allowed himself a soft laugh. “Ah. So that’s what this is about.”

  “Your triumph at Gilded Veil may not be quite as solid as you imagine, Bartholomew.”

  “What do you mean?” Drake interjected, leaning against the stone wall with affected ease. “I led my men to victory against an enemy who outnumbered us. None can question my bravery or my honor, not even you.”

  The emperor’s eyes narrowed. “I took steps to ensure that you could not lose.”

  Drake's heart sank. The victory had seemed a little easy, considering how outnumbered his soldiers and he had been. “But... How?”

  “The entire battle was a lie. Both sides were mercenaries employed by me.”

  Drake tore a tapestry from the wall, ripping it in his hands.

  “Do not take it out on our host's decor, boy.”

  “Glad you care so deeply... about the decor...”

  “The house of Galedragon must stand without question,” his father replied, his voice as chill as the mountain Drake was supposed to wed on on the morrow. “There was no room for failure. Not with this wedding on the line. You needed a substantial military victory to secure the Duke's attention, and thus his daughter's hand.”

  Drake remained silent, seething.

  “And now I find you throwing it all away; my hard work.”

  “Throwing it away? I’m here, aren't I?”

  Emperor Galedragon did not answer, and Drake took the silence as permission to dismiss the rest of this little lecture. His mind drifted to the party. To the pleasant, if uncomplicated, company that awaited him.

  He turned to leave, but the emperor’s next words held him like a chain. “Do you think she won’t hear about it, in time? Your little impropriety with her bridesmaid?”

  Drake turned back. “Chastity?”

  “Vash’kara is a barren, empty place,” his father said. “News will spread like wildfire, especially to one like her.”

  “Let it spread. She’ll still marry me.”

  The emperor’s silence was less agreement and more like an unmarked grave.

  “She’ll marry me,” Drake repeated. He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring his father or himself.

  “See that she does.”

  His fingers curled into fists, but only long enough to punctuate his retreat. He didn’t look back. He would be damned if he gave the old man any more satisfaction.

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  The door swung shut with a quiet thud, and the muffled roar of the celebration came rushing back in. Drake hesitated, but only for a heartbeat.

  He waded into the feast with wild relief, clapping along to the Qirathi drums, ducking under lifted mugs, and—at the center of it all—catching the girl he’d left behind. Chastity’s maid of honor, sat waiting on the side, her hair and makeup pristine again, as if by magic. As though he were worth the trouble. As though there were no more deserving fish in the sea. And perhaps, Drake thought with a flash of delight, there weren’t.

  "Did you get in trouble?" she teased, leaning against a table covered in the remains of another group’s appetites.

  "Not nearly enough," Drake said, his grin wide and unchecked. "I thought you were giving me a chance to be dutiful. But here you are, waiting for me to return as if you knew I would."

  "Somehow," she replied, slipping a goblet into his hand, "I didn’t think you’d need much encouragement to come back to me."

  "I should be offended," he said, raising the drink in salute.

  "But you’re not."

  "But I’m not."

  He drank deeply, letting the wine wipe away the last traces of his father’s stern reproach. The warmth spread through him, loosening the tightness in his shoulders and the knot of doubt that had threatened to take root. Not tonight. Not with her there, laughter in her eyes and wine in her step.

  "Catch me if you can, Hero," she called, darting into the swirling mass of drunken revelers, her skirts a vibrant blur against the dim sandstone walls.

  He took a moment to admire the chase before diving in after her.

  The feast was a living thing, pulsing with noise and motion. Mercenaries locked arms, singing bawdy songs as they wove through the chaos. Half-drunk nobles spilled wine down their elaborate garments, shouting slurred congratulations and empty threats of everlasting loyalty. Drake navigated it all with the easy grace of a man who knew the dance better than he knew himself.

  She let him catch her just in time for the tempo to change, the drums shifting to a furious rhythm that set every pulse in the room pounding in sync.

  He pulled her close, one arm around her waist and the other outstretched in mock propriety.

  "You call this dancing?" she asked, breathless and spinning.

  "Got a better suggestion?"

  The lights and the noise wrapped around him like a promise he knew he wouldn’t keep. The only thing certain was the uncertainty of everything else.

  She pushed away, not far enough to break contact but just enough to keep him guessing. "We could pick up where we left off," she said, tipping her face toward his.

  "Where’s the challenge in that?"

  Her answer was a quick flash of mischief before she kissed him, tasting like wine and adventure. The kind of taste that made a man believe in his own invincibility, no matter what dire warnings awaited him at the altar. No matter what his father may have done to his reputation.

  The drums pounded. The floorboards creaked with the weight of revelry and unspoken anticipation. Drake let the moment swell around them until it felt as if they were the only ones left alive and breathing.

  Then, with a sudden twist, she spun out of his arms and back into the crowd.

  "I need some fresh air," she said over her shoulder, making sure he’d follow.

  He didn’t need to think about his father’s words. He didn’t need to think about Chastity and her pearls. All he needed was to make the most of now.

  Drake drew a breath and lunged for her, catching her by the wrist just as a towering mercenary lost his footing and crashed to the ground beside them. The drunken man roared with laughter, pulling three more soldiers down with him in a clatter of spilled drinks and good-natured shoving.

  The maid of honor yelped in surprise, and Drake took advantage of it, sweeping her up and away from the sprawling melee. He could feel the adrenaline and excitement coursing through both of them as they made their escape.

  "The great warrior saves the damsel!" she shouted, still laughing as he led her through the crowd and into the hallway again.

  He placed her down and she ran from him, up the stairs towards his room. Drake watched the way her hair swayed with each step. He liked the way it caught the light. Liked even more that he didn’t have to work for any of it.

  He caught her up again, outside his door, his heart racing, half from the run and half from her bright-eyed defiance. He opened the door and pushed her inside. "There was no other way," he said, following her inside. "The damsel’s far too valuable to risk."

  Her response was breathless, urgent, and enough to make him forget the entire empire outside their door.

  His room was a jumble of finery and indulgence, but she didn’t seem to mind the chaos. She claimed the center of his bed with a grin, letting her braid fall loose over one shoulder as she reached out for him.

  "You’re not going back out there?" she asked, letting her dress slip just far enough to make her point.

  "Not until you catch your breath," he answered.

  Drake let himself fall into it, into her, into this headlong embrace of now.

  His arms wrapped around her, pulling her beneath him in a tangle. Her lips found his, demanding in their impatience, promising more than he knew how to give. It was the kind of promise that would shatter like glass come morning.

  But it wasn’t morning yet.

  His hands were as desperate as hers, fumbling at the buttons of his jacket. The white one. The gold-stitched one. The one his father had wanted him to wear as a bridegroom, not a wastrel.

  The one he stripped from his shoulders like a length of rope and tossed across the room.

  He didn’t have to be anything right now. Not a prince. Not a hero.

  He laughed, low and careless, the sound swallowed by the clamor of his heart.

  He was still Drake Galedragon. Still Bartholomew the Gallant. And still young enough to make the most of his one last night of freedom.