Page 13 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
I wasn't special to Livia. I was a temporary distraction from her grief, a pleasant interlude in a life shaped by loves far deeper than anything she felt for me. And when she moved on—as she inevitably would—I'd be left with nothing but memories of what I'd thought we had.
The wine made my thoughts spiral darker, dwelling on images of Livia in the arms of her lovers, of the way she must have looked at them with real passion instead of the careful affection she showed me. They'd known her completely, had seen past all her masks and defences to the woman beneath. They'd earned her love through shared danger and absolute honesty.
What had I earned? A few stolen kisses, some gentle conversations, the privilege of believing I mattered to someone who was simply too kind to tell me otherwise.
By the time I finished the bottle, I'd convinced myself that ending things with her was not just necessary but merciful. She deserved to mourn her lost loves without the complication of my unwanted feelings. I deserved to salvage what remained of my dignity before she inevitably tired of whatever game she was playing with my heart.
What else hadn't she told me? What other secrets was she hiding behind those extraordinary eyes?
The questions burned in my chest like acid, eating away at the trust I'd thought we were building. I wanted to confront her, to demand answers, to make her explain why she'd let me fall in love with someone who might not even exist. But I was afraid of what I might learn, afraid that the woman I'd given my heart to was nothing more than an elaborate fiction.
Worse still was the growing realization that I had no right to demand honesty from her when I was living my own lie. Every moment we'd spent together, every whispered endearment, every tender touch—all of it had been built on the foundation of my deception. I wasn't just Jalend the dragon rider. I was the Emperor's son, heir to the throne that was built on the bones of her people's suffering.
If she ever learned the truth, she would hate me. And I would deserve every moment of that hatred.
5
The morning air was crisp against my skin as I made my way to the training grounds, but it did nothing to cool the fire of anxiety burning in my chest. I'd barely slept, my mind churning over the events of the previous evening, replaying every cold word Jalend had spoken to me, every dismissive glance he'd thrown my way.
Four weeks. Four weeks since I'd told him the truth about Marcus, Septimus, and Tarshi, and he'd been pulling away from me ever since. I understood why—the revelation that I'd been sharing my bed with three other men had clearly shattered whatever romantic notions he'd harboured about our relationship. But understanding didn't make it hurt any less. I had been honest with him. After all the lies I was forced to live, I had given him that one piece of truth, because I thought what we were building was real. I’d thought he was different. Now, the memory of his cold dismissal felt like a brand on my skin.
The worst part had been last night, after the formal dinner. I'd swallowed my pride and gone to his quarters, desperate tosalvage something from the wreckage of what we'd had. I'd just turned onto his hallway when I’d seen her.
Valeria. Gliding down the corridor in that predatory way of hers, dressed in a gown that skimmed over her curvy body, parting between her breasts, slits that reached her hips. She’d looked stunning. She'd paused at Jalend's door, smoothed her hair, and knocked with the confidence of someone who knew she'd be welcomed inside. When the door opened, I'd caught a glimpse of Jalend's face—flushed with wine, eyes heavy with something that might have been desperation or desire.
The door had closed behind her with a soft click that might as well have been a death knell.
I'd stood there like a fool, staring at that closed door, until the humiliation became too much to bear. Then I'd fled back to my own quarters, where Marcus and Antonius had taken one look at my face and wisely chosen not to ask questions.
I reached the deserted training yard, the packed earth still damp with morning dew. The familiar sight of the weapon racks and battered training dummies offered a strange sort of comfort. This was my world, the one I understood. A world of steel and sweat, where pain was simple and straightforward.
The familiar weight of a practice sword in my hand was a small comfort. I gripped the leather-wrapped hilt, the worn texture a connection to a simpler time when my only worry was surviving the next match. Now, my enemies were ghosts and shadows, and the deepest wounds were the ones no one could see.
I moved through the opening forms of a complex drill, my muscles burning with the effort. Thrust, parry, spin. Each movement was fuelled by a fresh wave of anger. Anger at Jalend for his judgment, at the Emperor for taking everything, at myself for being foolish enough to think I could have a moment of happiness in this cursed world. My feet pounded against the packed earth, a rhythm of fury and grief.
I tried to push the memory of last night aside. Jalend had every right to seek comfort elsewhere. We'd never made promises of exclusivity, never spoken of love or commitment. If anything, my honesty about my other relationships should have made it clear that I wasn't looking for monogamy.
So why did the thought of him with Valeria feel like a knife twisting in my gut?
The image of Jalend's door closing on Valeria was burned behind my eyes. I could see her triumphant smile, the way her silk gown clung to her hips. I could imagine the desire on his face—a look I’d once foolishly believed was reserved for me. Had it all been a lie? Had I been so starved for his attention that I’d invented a connection that was never there?
The blade sliced through the air with a vicious hum, a physical manifestation of the rage coiling in my belly. I was a gladiator. A survivor. I had faced down death in the arena, and yet this man, with his quiet smiles and gentle hands, had gutted me without a single weapon. I hadn't cried for Septimus or Tarshi, not really—grief had been a cold, hard stone in my chest. But for Jalend, for the loss of something I hadn't even been sure I had, the tears threatened to fall.
I refused to let them. I channelled the pain into the drill, my movements growing faster, sloppier.
Sweat stung my eyes, plastering strands of hair to my temples. The ache in my muscles was a welcome distraction, a clean pain I could understand.
It wasn’t just the thought of him with another woman. It was that he’d chosen her.
It wasn’t jealousy, not really. It was the humiliation. The cold, hard proof that the connection I had treasured, the one I had risked being honest for, was so fragile he could discard it for a night with a woman who despised me. Valeria, with her calculated smiles and courtly poison, was everything I wasnot. She was the Empire in miniature—beautiful on the surface, rotten underneath.
He had judged me. For loving men who were slaves. For loving a Talfen. He had looked at the truth of my heart and found it wanting. And then he had turned to Valeria, a woman as cruel and gilded as the Empire itself. He hadn’t just taken another lover; he had chosen a side.
And I had been a fool. A naive, trusting fool. I had offered him honesty, a rare and fragile thing in my world, and he had trampled it underfoot before running to the arms of someone who knew nothing of truth. He wanted games and lies, and I had foolishly offered him a scarred and broken heart.
The blade became an extension of my grief, each strike a cry for the men I had lost, for the friend who had died because of me, for the life that was slipping through my fingers like sand. I didn't stop until my arms screamed in protest and my lungs burned for air. I stumbled, the sword slipping from my numb fingers to thud onto the damp earth. The physical exhaustion did little to quiet the storm inside me. It had only hollowed me out further, leaving more room for the pain.
“Really, Lady Cantius, we are nobility, and you show up for training looking like that?” Valeria’s voice dripped disdainfully over me as the class filed into the training yard. “You should at least try and look presentable. You look like a filthy, beaten down slave.”
