~Prince Andrelandros

  Clank! Clang! Shing!

  The sounds of the Royal Practice Yard rang in Prince Andrelandros’ ears as he concentrated on defeating his sparring partner and friend, Sir Bertram. The younger knight was naturally good, with an effortless, fluid grace that gave him an especially evasive edge.

  It was always frustrating sparring with him; Landros complained freely, but Bertram took it in stride. If the prince didn’t find it helpful, he wouldn’t do it all. Therefore, Landros and Bertram regularly sparred, with Landros taking a lashing from Bertram’s sword, whilst Bertram felt the wrath of Landros’ tongue.

  Today, however, there was some extra chatter amongst the men. Almost all of the knights were of noble blood, therefore, nearly all of them would be attending the upcoming Winter’s Eve Masquerade.

  After taking a long drink of cool water, Landros dug his pinky in his ear to make sure he didn’t have anything lodged in there, disrupting his hearing—were the men actually gossiping today?

  “I heard she’ll be making an appearance,” one of them said in the way only a cocky young man could. “The witch with the fake red hair.”

  “Obviously she’ll have to, idiot,” said another. “She’s a noble daughter, even though she’s….”

  “She’s what?” Landros butted in.

  The young knight blushed, but grinned conspirationally, as if he were sure the prince would agree with him.

  “You know, Your Highness…she’s evil.”

  “I don’t suppose any of you are going to dance with her then, are you?” the prince asked, crossing his arms in front of his bare chest. He’d taken his shirt off some time ago in the midst of sparring, despite the chill in the late autumn air. He’d worked up a sweat sparring Bertram and hated feeling hot and stuffy in a shirt. “Does that mean I’ll have to? She has to dance with someone, you know, being a lady.”

  Inside, Landros was feeling rather strange. On the one hand, it was normal for the men to talk about the ladies they favored (and didn’t favor) during practice. But on the other hand, Lady Florence was a bit of an exception. She was notorious—a social pariah. He was certain none of them had intended to behave like gentlemen toward her the night of the ball.

  It bothered him. And the fact that he was bothered by it irked him further.

  “Well, Your Highness…”

  “I’m already spoken for, Your Highness…”

  “If only, Your Highness…”

  They were all looking at the ground, avoiding his piercing gaze.

  “All of you are pitiful,” the prince announced. “You’re all sorry excuses for knights. I’ll dance with Lady Florence and prove to you that I’ll be fine. Completely fine. Now, all of you run two extra miles tonight before the end of practice for your insolence.”

  Everyone groaned.

  Prince Andrelandros turned his back on them to walk away, scowling.

  ?????

  ~Florence

  The Winter’s Eve Masquerade is fast approaching. Thanks to the practice sessions with the Academy Knights, this time without the Prince, I feel much more confident in my skills should someone ask me to dance. However, I still hope nobody will. More than likely, it wouldn’t be a serious offer, merely a jest of some kind. Goddess knows, I don't need any more of that kind of nonsense in my life. I wish I didn't have to attend at all, but since I'm a newly debuted noble daughter...I must.

  Being so busy has left me with barely any time to breathe—partly a blessing in that my full days exhaust me so much that I rarely dream when I sleep. If I don’t dream, I can’t remember that place even unconsciously.

  I must admit, however, it’s all starting to wear on me. Even the coffee is starting to lose effectiveness, but I can’t go without it or I get the most awful headaches, and can barely function—I feel so sluggish.

  Like right now.

  “Arms up, Lady Florence,” the seamstress commands, pins sticking out from between her painted lips. I raise my arms, and they feel as heavy as if I’m holding the weights I lift during practice. Why hadn’t Sir Thorne mentioned this effect about the coffee? “Hmm. Odd.”

  A stab of worry rouses me. Did she notice something she shouldn’t have?

  She removes the pins before speaking. “Lady Florence, I’m going to have to let out the arms of your sleeves a bit…but it doesn’t look as if you’ve gained any weight…”

  Ah. I don’t suppose she would be used to ladies putting on muscle.

  Think! Quickly, think of something!

  “Oh! It must be due to the horseback riding lessons, my arms have been getting a bit of a workout,” I say as convincingly as I can.

  “That explains it!” she agrees, nodding along.

  I look at my reflection in the mirror for the first time today. Actually, it’s the first time I’ve seen myself in the dress since I picked it out from the catalog and customized it with Tali’s help.

  I wish she could be here, I think to myself. I wish she could see what we created.

  I sigh. Tali had refused my offer to hire her to make my dress. She argued that a noble like me would be expected to use a reputable boutique, with a famous seamstress, to make my gown for the ball. If I didn’t, I would tarnish my reputation even more.

  It had taken a lot of money, a lot, to convince Madame Sauvanne-Séverine Trouvé, of La Boutique Trouvé, to make the gown Tali and I had designed. Apparently, she had heard of me, which wasn't good. She hadn’t wanted to take me on as a client for fear her reputation would be affected by mine, but she finally gave in after my father offered her enough money.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  That was before she’d even seen the design. After I showed it to her, her eyes lit up and she became an entirely different person. Part of me still wonders what would've happened if I had shown her the design first. Would it have won her over, without the money?

  “You came up with this?” she had asked me. “You?”

  “Well, I had help,” I admitted. Tali had made me promise not to reveal her identity, so I couldn’t say more than that. “The concept is mine, but I’m not a seamstress, so…”

  “You needed one to put it on paper for you.”

  “Precisely.”

  It had been a blur after that. Apparently, the Madame rarely involved herself personally in the day-to-day operations, preferring to stay in her office designing dresses instead. But she’d overseen nearly every stage of my gown, even sewing some of the pieces herself.

  “Nearly perfect.”

  I had been so lost, staring at my reflection and recalling everything that had gone into creating this moment, that I hadn’t heard Madame Trouvé approach us. She stands behind my shoulder, gazing at my reflection in the mirrors with a wistful expression.

  “This is why I am in this business,” she tells me, gesturing to the dress, “magic like this. Don’t you feel the magic, Lady Florence?”

  It’s just a dress, part of me wants to snap. A dress you almost refused to make, at that!

  But I cannot bring myself to shatter whatever kind of fantasy she is having. She looks too happy.

  “Yes,” I say instead, “you brought my dream to life.” And it’s true, too.

  For whatever reason, father gave in easily when I requested that I be in charge of my own gown for the Winter’s Eve Masquerade. The last thing I wanted was another round with Madame Rosanna, but it’s as if she disappeared from the LaVelle mansion—I haven’t seen her since our disastrous day at the king’s court, which is fine by me. I hate that woman!

  However, I don't think this dress is what father had in mind when he gave me permission. I don’t think there has ever been another dress like it. Madame Trouvé hasn’t seen anything like it in her long career, anyway.

  I return Madam Trouvé's smile in the mirror. At the very least, instead of how awful my hair is or how evil I am, it will give everyone at the ball something new to talk about.

  ?????

  ~Ursula Feiknagandr, Kirva

  It was a dream. A prophetic dream.

  Pay attention, she instructed herself blearily, through the fog of starvation.

  She looked around in the swirling snow. Winter had arrived, and everything was white. It was evening, almost nightfall, with a lavender haze in the sky barely illuminating their surroundings.

  Someone tugged her hand. She looked down to see the brown curls, dark and wet, of a young boy.

  You’ll freeze in this weather, she thought, but the boy simply squeezed her hand and tugged. It was then she noticed his white shirt was wet, clinging to his small back, and his feet were bare…

  Oh...

  Her eyes burned with tears, which were sucked away by the wind. She thought she knew who he was, and her broken heart lodged itself deeper in her throat with every step.

  Still, she followed him all the way to the bakery. He stood outside for a moment, staring thoughtfully, then went around back, through a door, up some stairs, and through another door to a cozy space.

  Ursula barely remembered in time to look at her surroundings, and only saw the ‘Room for Rent, Enquire Within’ sign a second before her eyes opened.

  She wasn’t alone in her cell. In the dim light, it looked like she was alone, but she could sense another presence.

  “Reveal yourself,” she whispered in Kirvan, the hairs on the back of her neck raised.

  “Not yet,” a man replied in Dorandian. Ursula inhaled sharply and tried to move to the back of her cell, but the man grabbed her by the manacles. “Cease struggling and I’ll remove these,” he whispered.

  She stilled immediately. Even if he wasn’t there to help her, once her powers were back, she’d be able to fight him off. But, as soon as the manacles slid off her skin, as soon as the sensation of rightness returned, her mana did not.

  “No,” she whispered, “No!”

  “Do not worry just yet,” he said to her. “You have Mana Withdrawal. It will take some time for it to return after being drained for so long.”

  Drained? The manacles had been draining her mana, not blocking it?

  Bile swirled up her throat, and she started to retch.

  “Take your time,” he told her, gently patting her back with a cool, comforting hand. “I need to see to your husband now.”

  His presence disappeared.

  Between the bouts of mana sickness and the din of the dungeon, Ursula didn’t know what was happening until she felt the man suddenly grab her arm and say, sharply, “It’s time!”

  Then, the most painful ripping sensation spread throughout her body—it felt like it lasted forever—until the three of them landed in a pile of snow... under a deep lavender sky.

  “I—huff—apologize,” the man said, cradling her large Hágan in his lap. “I—huff—put nearly all of my shielding on him, since—”

  “No,” she breathed, “that was…the right thing…to do.” She heaved for several breaths. “ You have our thanks…but…who are you?”

  “I’m a cleric—huff—the rest can wait.” He looked around and spotted the lights of the town in the distance. “Right now we—huff—need a place to lie low.”

  Her dream! “I know…a place,” she said. “It was shown…in a dream.”

  The cleric met her eyes and raised a brow, to which she nodded.

  Yes, prophetic.

  “Then let us go,” he said. “But first…”

  He untied a small bundle he had wrapped around his chest and pulled out several things. After reciting a few incantations, they had boots and coats for her and Hágan, a sled for him to lie on, and even some food and water for her to eat. She drank some of the water and tried to pour a little into Hágan’s mouth, but his lips barely moved in response.

  “We must go now,” the cleric announced, and he didn’t have to explain why.

  Hágan was on the edge of death.

  ?????

  ~ Mount Doran Research Division (MDRD), Mount Doran

  “Drinks are on me tonight, lads!” Professor Darnel shouted to his crew. “We’re nearly there! If that’s not cause for a little celebration, I’m not sure what would be.”

  “Aye!” the crew shouted, though somewhat lacking in enthusiasm. They were tired—drained—from the long weeks of slowly tunneling into the mountain. It was hot work. The space was tight, packed with equipment and bodies, and the closer they got to the cavern in the center, the warmer the temperature grew, too.

  Occasionally, they’d come across natural tunnels and caves. When that happened, they’d draw straws to see who’d be the lucky one to go 'exploring,' then tie a rope to him and wish him luck. So far, the natural pathways they’d come across hadn’t led anywhere useful or especially interesting—at least not interesting enough to warrant a deviation from their main mission, anyway.

  But today. Today they’d blasted the rock as usual, expecting the same outcome of dust and darkness, but instead there had been a tiny crack of brilliant orange light, like a sliver of the sun, followed by a wave of steaming air so hot, it would’ve burned the workers had Darnel not been there to seal the crack and immediately cool the air down with ice magic.

  Today, they’d finally reached the cavern beneath Mount Doran. The cavern with the dragon egg.

  The prince is bothered? Florence is going to the ball in a gown unlike any other? (What could go wrong?!) Is Hágan about to die? And the cavern is about to be breached?!?

  ?? This day felt like it was so far away, and now it's only a week away!! I'll still post a few things during the hiatus, but for the most part, I will be taking a break to focus on family, other projects, and building the buffer for Season Two! I do not think there will be more than two seasons (plus the special episodes). I did end up writing the Season One finale a little sooner than originally planned (this was one of two options, and I originally thought I was going to go with option #2, closer to chapter 45-50, but life has me going with #1 and I think it actually works better for *dramatic purposes* hehehe)

  Anyway, thanks for sticking with me! See you next week!! ??

  Lots of love,

  xo??kb