The ceremonial horns had not yet finished echoing through the palace corridors when Darius stormed into the King’s private chambers.
The guards at the chamber doors stepped aside without a word. They had never seen the Prince like this—blood drying on his skin, his eyes burning with an anger deeper than his exhaustion.
The King stood at the balcony overlooking the arena, where servants were already raking the white sand smooth again. He did not turn when Darius entered.
“Why?” Darius demanded, his voice raw as it bounced off the high stone walls. “You turned the Kal-kal’nor into a spectacle. You shattered a thousand years of tradition to accept a cage.”
The King clasped his hands behind his back.
“Because the alternative was killing you both,” the King said evenly, finally turning to face his son. “Or killing Mia.”
Darius froze, the accusation dying before it could leave his lips.
“If I had spared her without trial, I would betray centuries of Law,” the King continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “If I had killed her, you would revolt. If I had killed you, the kingdom would fracture.” He exhaled slowly, an almost human sound escaping the King. “And if I had killed you both… the Dragon Line would have died.”
Darius’s jaw tightened. “So, you allowed a stalemate. You threw them into the sand hoping one would butcher the other so you wouldn’t have to choose.”
“I preserved the Throne, Darius. I expected the sand-girl to fall. Or perhaps Ny’all. Steel sharpens steel—and the weaker blade breaks.”
“And if they had both broken?” Darius demanded, his voice cracking. “If I had lost them both?”
“Then you would have mourned,” the King said simply, “and you would have ruled alone. A King does not require happiness. He requires an heir.”
Darius stared at him, seeing a monarch whose vision had narrowed to the width of a blade—a man so paralyzed by tradition that he truly believed one woman from the Red Dunes could poison an entire lineage. “You speak of duty as if it is the only thing that matters.”
“It is. Until the day you sit upon this Throne, you cannot understand the view from this height. Every life becomes a resource. Every death becomes a calculation.”
“I don’t want calculations,” Darius said quietly. “And I don’t want two Queens.”
“You have both,” the King replied. “They did not kill each other. They did not break. That… was unforeseen.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Ny’all with her blade. Mia with her will. You have more than a marriage, Darius. You have a vanguard.”
A soft knock sounded against the heavy doors, breaking the tension in the chamber. The High Priest entered, pale and breathless.
“Your Grace,” the Priest said, bowing first to the King before turning to Darius, his eyes wide with unease. “The Rite… it is prepared. Lady Mia and Lady Ny’all… they have refused separate quarters.”
Darius stiffened. “Refused?”
“They are waiting in the Royal Bedchamber together,” the Priest stammered.
Darius stared at him, his exhausted mind stalling on the word. Together. Less than an hour ago, he had watched them try to kill each other in the sand. He had expected to walk in and find them at each other's throats, or perhaps find them already sundered by the King's decree. But the news of their unity was unexpected
The King’s jaw tightened. His counter-weights were supposed to be locked in a collision of blood and ego, blunting one another in the dark. Instead, he heard the faint, unsettling echo of a different design.
The realization clawed at the back of his mind. He looked past his son towards the outer chamber door, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned to bone. Let them have their night of unity.
“It appears your Queens have teeth,” the King observed, his voice dropping to a murmur.
Darius looked at his father one last time, recognizing the shift in the room. He didn’t expect this?
“Duty is a mountain,” Darius whispered, quoting the First Dragon with a slight smile.
The King turned his back, returning his gaze to the blood-stained arena below. “Have this night, boy,” the King whispered, with a harsh edge in his tone. “But make no mistake—your duty to the mountain remains. Do not let the heat of the dunes blind you to your bloodline.”
Darius turned and walked out of his father’s chamber. The anger had drained from him, leaving only a deep exhaustion. He moved down the long corridor as the noise of the court swelled around him—whispers, intrigue, the grinding machinery of empire.
It was deafening. He needed quiet.\