"Before the final oath," I said, "the claim is still vulnerable. If she dies now, Malric bleeds politically. If she dies after, he becomes a widowed king with a sanctified martyr tied to his fire."
"We do not want that."
My father's gaze sharpened. "You believe the ring has chosen?"
"I believe it is behaving badly."
Kieran spat a curse.
"The human need not be stronger than fire," I continued. "She only needs to doubt him when it comes. Fear weakens gold. Rejection cracks protection. Every bride knows this."
"Human brides do not."
"No." I smiled. "They have to be taught."
Silence settled. Then my father smiled, too. Kieran leaned forward.
"How?"
"She has attachments. A bakery, workers. A cousin who stands in front of danger as if loyalty makes him fireproof." I looked at Kieran. "When she returns to that bakery, remind her what Malric's claim costs."
His wounded throat worked. "Kill them?"
"Frighten them. Burn enough to make her understand. If she dies, tragic. If she lives, better. Fear follows survivors."
Kieran's grin split slowly. "Ugly creature. Useful creature."
"And the test?" my father asked.
"The test will proceed. We will insist on white fire. Publicly, lawfully, Malric's own flame before every clan."
I looked down at my hands, elegant and steady in my lap. "If she trusts him, she may survive. If she doubts him, she burns."
"And if she survives anyway?"
I thought of the dagger in her hand, the laugh in the hall, the way Malric had looked at her. I closed my fingers until my rings clicked together like small bones. Then I stopped pretending this is only politics. Outside the aerie burned gold against the night. My crown was still inside it, my future, my throne, not his heart. I had never been foolish enough to want that useless guarded thing. Not even his bed, though I would have taken his body if it served the crown. Malric's dick was not the prize, his power was.
Belinda had mistaken herself for chosen. The court had mistaken her for protected. Both errors could be corrected.
I looked at Kieran. "Go to Sweet Mercy."
His eyes lit. I leaned back at last, letting the shadows take the shape of my smile. A baker should know how quickly sugar burns.
Malric's point of view
My terms did not burn with the curtains. Belinda stood in the wreckage of Sweet Mercy with smoke in her braids, a dragon steel dagger in her hand, and fury bright enough to shame lesser fire.
My first instinct was to take her, not argue, not persuade, take. Close my hand around her waist, lift her against my chest, carry her out of the ruined bakery, and put her behind every ward in my aerie until the world forgot she existed. No rival could reach her there. No enemy could make her cough smoke. No wounded coward like Kieran could slither through a back door and spit black-red fire at what was mine.
Mine.
The word rose with teeth. Then Belinda's eyes narrowed, and the word began to taste like ash. Around us humans stared. Derek stood near the ovens, soot on his shirt, one arm braced in front of Cindy and Melon as if his mortal body could stop dragon flame. Cindy had blood in her hair despite my healing. Melon shook so badly the wet towel trembled in his hands.
And Belinda stood between them and me. Not behind me. Between.
"You will come to the airy," I said.
Her chin lifted. "I didn't say I wouldn't."
"You will remain there."
"No."
White fire pressed against my teeth. "Belinda."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Say my name like it's a leash."
Something in the bakery went very still. My claws had not fully withdrawn. I felt them against my palms sharp and eager. I could smell fear and not only from her people, from mine. The dragon guards at the shattered front shifted their weight careful not to draw my attention. They had seen me kill for less than this. They expected me to command, to punish, to remind the human woman that a dragon lord did not negotiate in smoke and broken glass.
Belinda stepped closer instead of back.
"You keep saying protect like it means own," she said. "Those are not the same thing."
The words struck harder than Kieran's fire. For a moment I heard nothing else. Not the sirens blocks away, not the crackle of burned wood, not the low groan of damaged steel above us. Protect like it means own. In my world it did. A hoard protected was a hoard possessed. A throne protected was a throne held. A queen protected was a queen contained, guarded, watched, and defended until death found easier prey.
But Belinda was not gold beneath a mountain. She was not a treaty. She was a woman with dark skin streaked in soot, a bakery half burned around her, and a hand that shook only after the danger had passed.
I wanted to wrap that shaking hand in mine. I wanted to put my mouth on her pulse and feel life beat there because I had almost arrived too late. I wanted to tear off her smoke-stained clothes and prove with my tongue, fingers, and [ __ ] that she was alive.
Filthy thoughts, honest ones. But wanting did not make taking holy. I forced my claws back into my skin. The pain cleared my head.
"What does protection mean to you?" I asked.
Her expression changed. Not softened. Belinda did not soften easily when angry. But she blinked as if I had opened a door she expected me to burn down.
"It means guards who don't scare my customers," she said. "It means my people get choices. Cindy, Melon, Derek, nobody is dragged to your mountain because you're in a mood."
"My mood is not the threat."
"No, your enemies are. But your mood has a bigger body count."
Derek coughed. I looked at him. He immediately became interested in the floor.
Belinda continued, "It means repairs start tonight, not next week, not after some dragon council decides if my little human business is worth saving. Tonight."
"Done."
"And I'm not paying for damage caused by dragon [ __ ]."
"Done."
"And no strings."
I nearly smiled. "You distrust gifts now?"