The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

1

Pandora

Q ueen’s Feast sets everyone on edge.

The event has been an annual tradition since the year after Venus was crowned, but all of Urovia knows that this year’s Feast holds detrimental significance. Specifically, to Jericho.

I never got to grow up with grandparents, so all the stories my uncle would tell me of his mother made it feel like I knew her personally—her kindness, her compassion, her love of the arts. Secretly, there were many times when his shared memories made me feel like I’d grow into a ruler with her merits rather than Venus’s.

But now, Venus has reached the oldest that Merrie Morgan ever was, and everyone is waiting to see if she survives the year ahead.

As such, the King’s Guard has tripled, if only because Venus refused to install a Queen’s Guard, despite her husband’s fervent requests. Still, I know that if the tables were turned, Jericho would act the same way. The years I spent learning Urovian history—including their story—taught me all I needed to know about their relationship: their lives meant nothing to them in comparison to that of their partner’s. Which is crazy to me, considering their bond was once tied together through deep-seeded hatred.

I never voiced much of an opinion on it to Mother, for she always seemed to have a tender spot for the two of them and what they built together. But I would periodically bring up my disbelief to Aunt Calliope during our vocal lessons, to which she’d always smile and say one of two things. In my younger years, it was, “The truest loves in our lives have a secret knack for softening the coldest parts of our hearts.” Which felt incredibly ambiguous. Now, in my twenties, Calliope never shies away from bluntly sharing what she was really trying to get at.

“Loving someone who has the capacity to hate you certainly has its merits. When the doors are closed and it’s just the two of you alone together . . . having them flip the switch on you can be rather exciting.”

From what I’ve gathered about Uncle Eli, Calliope had him wrapped around her finger from the start. She entered Broadcove Castle, and the poor guard was absolutely smitten. Even now, after three children together, it’s clear that Eli would do anything for her, including cater to her various, implied whims. I try not to grimace at the thought.

Instead, I direct my attention to the grand ballroom, eyes passing along every staff member dutifully hanging garlands or dusting the chandeliers. Down the hall, the distant aroma of seasoned meat starts to waft into the room, and before my stomach has a chance to grumble in response, I turn and see myself out of the action.

Heading for my suite, knowing I am past due to meet with my lady’s maids and begin dressing for the night’s big event, I take the shortcut. Guests already begin funneling in through the main doors, bearing gifts we’re far too rich to be receiving, and bidding warm welcomes to the guards that collect them. Meanwhile, the pleasant summer air beyond the observation terrace caresses me like a lover’s touch as I pass through its wisteria-lined tunnel and into the East Wing.

This part of Broadcove Castle very quickly became the children’s sector, given my three cousins and I were known to be quite the rowdy bunch in our youth. Mother and I originally had rooms nestled towards the southern edge, overlooking the gardens Venus and Jericho tended together with their team of topiaries, architects, and various landscapers. But when Calliope had Flora and Samuel—and the two of them fought like cats and dogs—the adults understandably wanted their space from us kids.

Even now, with most of us at ages above or near adulthood, we’re not exactly tame. We may not be tracking muddy footprints through the property and drawing pictures on the castle walls anymore, but we still have our tendencies. For instance, Venus and Jericho aren’t always the fondest of my random musical outbursts. But more than that, they cannot tolerate Flora when she feels the need to join in and harmonize . . . poorly, that is.

What Flora does have going for her, however, is her time-efficiency. She’s orderly and polite and graceful and—unlike me—fully dolled-up for Queen’s Feast.

“You look marvelous ,” I rave, drinking in the full glory of her strapless emerald gown.

Her dark hair is unbound and on full display—a secret indication of where she hopes the night will go, which is with a man’s fingers tangled up in it.

As the royal spare, written into the line of succession after Mother assured Venus and Jericho she would likely not have any additional children, Flora has been able to live somewhat of an entertaining, double life. She must be educated enough on the empire’s military movements and policies to function in my stead, but she’s nowhere near as restricted as I am on certain matters. Like tonight: a man could press her up against the wall in front of the whole crowd and it’d be acceptable, while I would certainly have to have a death wish to even contemplate kissing someone.

“You’ve looked better, Pan,” she chides. “Seriously, Jericho’s already off his rocker today. Don’t be late,” she urges me, pointing towards the door to my suite, which is already open.

The conversation ends there, with Flora stomping her feet deeper into her heels until her feet feel snug in her shoes. As I turn to face whatever fate awaits me in my room, I hear the rush of fabric, and the tiny beads along her gown travel across the floor. I try not to dread the fact that I’ll be stuffed into a gown equally as ridiculous as hers within an hour’s time.

The only thing that cushions the blow is Mother, perched on the end of my vanity chair as a lady’s maid touches up the finishing powder beneath her eyes.

“Good, you’re here!” she rejoices, rising to her feet. “I was worried you had tried to make a break for it and bolted through the tree line.”

Never in my life has my mother ever reproached me for my lack of enthusiasm regarding balls and parties, specifically with the clothes I don for them. In fact, she’s the one person that I can truly be myself with about anything —the depletion of energy for large gatherings like tonight, the pressure of other’s expectations of my future reign, and, as of lately, the selfish hopes of a romantic partner. Or, at the very least, an encounter.

My preselected gown hangs from one of the lower rafters of the room, the grand, deep violet garment revealing an open back, snug fit, and conservative neckline. The portrait of sophistication and power—but not desire, nor youthfulness. Not like the free-formed dress that Flora gets to greet the world in.

I feel my mother’s embrace before I fully register that she’s crossed the distance between us. Her perfume wafts beneath my nose, but it only partially alleviates the knot in my stomach as I dwell on tonight—not just because parties bestow unreasonable pressure on me, but because of the danger that may be lurking around Broadcove as we speak. “This always helps,” I find myself saying.

“I know it does, dear,” she hums. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind while I fix your hair?”

Time alone with Mother always seems to steady my soul, even as I come clean about everything—mainly the jealousy and the urges that come with watching Flora get to live her life without reservations. All the longing I’ve stomached in solitude for a long while. It feels like the single breath they flow out from lasts five hours.

“What you’re experiencing is totally understandable,” she says as she secures the final pins into my hair. “You are young and lovely and beautiful. Not only that, but you are also free to explore any connection in those parameters, albeit discreetly. Venus and Jericho have never expected you to remain pure for your eventual consort, but I deeply respect that you only wish to share your soul with one person. That, and I see the many pressures the future crown has laid on you and how that affects your perspective on intimacy.”

The word intimacy makes my skin crawl, but she’s not mistaken.

I’d love to be a loose cannon. I crave connection to the point where I think I could implode, like I’m outgrowing my own skin by the second. But traitorously, I possess a romantic heart, and I know that if I grant a man access to the most sacred parts of me, I won’t want to let them escape me. Ever. And with the duty I bear to marry wisely, I’ve chosen an existence of touch starvation over emotional devastation. Some days, it’s harder to stick with it, though.

“It’s not like I’ve never kissed anyone,” I say, blushing at my sudden surge of honesty. “And I’m not afraid to be with someone. It’s just . . .”

Mother senses my hesitance and eyes me through the mirror. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I think I already know what you’re leading up to.”

I release an uneven sigh. “I’m older than you were when you came here . . . when you had me. Can I ask, what was it like?”

“Giving birth?” she asks humorously.

“ Saints no.” I chuckle, though, I’ve never feared the idea of having children like Venus and Jericho seemed to have. I only fear the thought of doing it alongside someone I don’t truly love. “I mean, what was . . . being with Father like?”

Mother’s eyes turn watery, and I glance away long enough for her to fight off the spontaneous rush of sadness my question brings. I don’t ask much about Father, mainly out of respect for Jericho more so than Mother. She always answers my questions whenever my mind wanders, but considering he had passed away before ever learning that he fathered me, her answers are minimal. Condensed. It always circles back to, “I’m just thankful that you have Jericho. Wouldn’t you agree?” to which I would nod my head in earnest.

As far as royal fathers are concerned, Jericho falls among the ranks of the more honorable lot.

“I won’t speak about his company, as we were a bit of a well-kept secret at the time. Sneaking around, staying quiet—you could say it felt a bit like a forbidden affair. But what I will say is, in those hidden moments we were afforded together . . . I felt like the center of someone’s universe.”

The sentiment resonates with me somewhere deep in my core, and I try to imagine even one person in my life that remotely makes me feel that way romantically. I fail.

“Do you ever get lonely?” I ask, fighting against the feeling myself. “I mean, did you ever consider settling down with another man, like Venus and Calliope did?”

“Loneliness comes in waves,” Mother returns, taking her time to answer both of my inquiries. “And sure, in those shifting tides, I considered looking for lasting love. But I soon came to learn that, for me, men are simply that. Just men,” she says in a soothing tone, gently squeezing my exposed shoulders. “ You , my dear, will always be the great love of my life.”

With that, my mother steps aside to unveil her creation in the mirror. The apprehension in my bones starts to settle the longer I stare at my reflection, still able to see the ordinary me beneath the woven crown Mother tied my hair into.

“Are you ready for your performance tonight?”

“As ready as I can be,” I return, trying not to think about approaching centerstage with only my voice instead of my harp. This was to be my vocal debut. Jericho himself requested that I sing tonight, knowing Venus secretly loves my voice. But I know what comes with putting myself out on display like this. This performance is meant to make noblemen and other approved guests of the King pause and view my gifts in wonder. View me in wonder.

I have always found comfort and security while playing my harp, whether in private or in public. Something about plucking the strings and sitting perched before the massive, wooden instrument made me look delicate and protected at the same time. Any eyes that fell on me were only there for a moment before watching my hands work through the multitudes of wires.

But to sing in front of hundreds. Thousands , even.

Every eye will eventually meet my own, and I’ll have to act like it doesn’t intimidate the hell out of me.

“Don’t worry,” she croons. “You won’t be at it totally alone. No doubt, if you concentrate hard enough, you’ll hear Calliope harmonizing with you from her seat.”

She kisses my temple then quietly sees herself out, nodding to the guard that stands outside my door. He peers in, as if to make sure I’m on track to arrive at the ballroom in a timely manner, and I wave at him more with my fingers than with my full hand. He smiles in a way that subtracts a few years, a dimple pearling near the right corner of his mouth. The sight floods me with a bizarre sense of need, which I fight to ignore.

“I’m just going to run through some warmups and then I’ll be out.”

The guard nods shyly before closing the door and leaving me to my own devices.

As promised, I take a generous sip of the herbal tea I’ve left sitting out for the last hour or so and slowly begin my exercises. Arpeggios, a few scales, and lastly, I track through the most difficult measures of the aria Calliope had insisted I sing for the Feast. It’s not that the notes are out of reach and I must strain my vocal cords, but the intonation of my vowels could be better. I try for rounder O’s and add a vibrato to the words that end on an A vowel to hide any unsteadiness.

And maybe it’s just the nerves and the voices in my head, but after five or so attempts at the same three passages, I almost believe I hear a ghost’s harmony singing along with me from somewhere hidden.