Chapter 6 — Breakfast with the King
The fire in my chamber had burned itself to embers by dawn.
I hadn't slept much. Between bruised ribs and bruised thoughts, I'd spent half the night staring at the ceiling, counting heartbeats and wondering how many kingdoms were built on lies that began just like mine.
When I finally move, the cold bites my skin through the thin linen of my nightgown. I pull a robe around me—half-fastened, sheer enough that if I were smart, I'd change. But I'm not playing for comfort this morning. I'm playing for understanding.
And maybe, just maybe, to see if the King of the North can be startled.
The servants already know better than to stop me when I lift a tray from the kitchens. Fresh bread, dark honey, roasted fruit. He never eats early, they whisper. Perfect.
The connecting door between our rooms gives a soft groan when I push it open. His side smells faintly of iron and spice, the kind of heat that clings to people who live too close to dragons.
He's standing by the window when I enter, shirt half-done, hair damp from a wash. Morning light slices across his back, tracing the muscles that move like tempered steel.
"I thought I made it clear you don't need to play servant," he says without turning.
"And I thought I made it clear that I hate eating alone," I answer, setting the tray on his desk. "If you want me to act like a queen, you'll have to stop treating me like a ghost."
That earns a glance. Quick, sharp. The kind that weighs instead of looks.
"You're bold this morning," he says. "Didn't anyone tell you dragons aren't fond of being fed?"
"Then you're in luck." I pour tea into both cups. "I brought honey."
I take the seat opposite him, uninvited. The robe slides a little off my shoulder.
It's not meant to seduce—it's meant to disarm.
He sits too, eventually, if only to prove he isn't flustered. His voice comes low. "You came in here unannounced. At dawn. Barely dressed."
"I thought it would keep you awake."
He stares at me, not smiling. "And if I sent you away?"
"Then you'd have to admit you noticed me."
That does it. The corner of his mouth twitches before he hides it behind a sip of tea.
We eat in silence for a few moments. The air feels heavier than steam—every word unsaid pressing at the edges of the table. His hands are large, calloused, but steady. Mine shake only when I reach for the honey jar. I notice a smear of bruise-dark yellow along my wrist where Klus's wooden blade struck yesterday. His gaze follows it.
"You've been hurt," he says.
"Training."
"You fight?"
The question carries something between disbelief and irritation.
"I learn." I lift my cup, meeting his eyes. "And when I'm finished, I'll be able to fight."
He leans back in his chair, watching me over the rim of his cup. "And what exactly are you training for, Duchess?"
"To survive."
The answer lands like a coin on a church floor—clean, echoing, impossible to ignore.
He studies me a long while. The fire between us shifts—less predator and prey now, more something unspoken. Something curious.
"Show me your hand," he says quietly.
I hesitate, then hold it out. His fingers close around my wrist—not rough, not tender, just deliberate. His thumb brushes the bruise like he's reading it. His skin is warm, almost fevered. My pulse jumps.
"You don't bruise like a court girl," he murmurs.
"And you don't speak like a king," I reply.
He lets go first.
"Go on then," he says, masking whatever that moment was. "Tell me what the council will be wrong about today."
I glance toward his desk, covered in scattered reports and letters. Numbers, trade logs, troop counts, tithe ledgers. My eyes find one—Fuel Tax Proposal, scrawled across the top. I scan it.
"They're planning to charge a toll on travelers," I say.
"Yes," he replies. "Winter approaches. The forges will need fuel."
I shake my head. "That'll make things worse."
He raises a brow. "You have a better idea?"
"Always."
I push the papers aside and start sketching on the back of an unused parchment. "Charge tolls in warmth, not coin."
He looks almost amused. "You'll need to explain that before I assume it's insanity."
I draw a circle, then a line through it—the main trade route. "Half the inns along this route have heating furnaces that run through the night. Make the tolls payable in firewood contributions, not silver. Travelers drop logs instead of coins. The fuel's stored and rationed locally. The forges stay lit, the roads stay open."
He watches my hand as I draw, not interrupting. When I finish, he leans forward, his voice quiet.
"You just solved a month of economic debate over breakfast."
"Did I?" I shrug. "You're welcome."
He leans back again, still looking at the page. "It's… elegant."
"Efficient," I correct. "Elegant is for nobles. I like things that work."
He glances up then, and for a moment—just a moment—I catch something in his expression I haven't seen before. Not interest. Not admiration. Something rawer. Respect.
"You weren't meant for the South," he says softly.
"No," I agree. "I was meant to outlive it."
He looks at me then, really looks, and I feel the world narrow to just this: the sound of his breath, the faint tremor in my cup, the pulse in my wrist still beating where his fingers had been.
"Tell me something," he says finally, voice lower now. "When you walked into my court the first day—what did you see?"
I blink. "You really want to know?"
"Indulge me."
I set the cup down. "I saw a man who'd already decided I wasn't worth his time."
His mouth tightens. "And you came anyway."
"I always come when I'm underestimated."
He huffs a quiet laugh. "You have a dangerous habit of turning insult into invitation."
I rise, gathering the tray. "Then stop insulting me."
Before I can move, his hand comes down gently on the tray, halting me.
Not force. Just presence.
"You're not what I expected," he says.
"Good," I reply. "I'd hate to be predictable."
I lift the tray anyway and turn for the door. But before I reach it, I stop.
The room feels too quiet, too big, too much like a game where I don't know all the rules yet.
"Show me the gardens," I say.
He blinks. "The gardens?"
"Yes." I face him again, half smiling. "It's an excuse."
"For what?"
"To keep talking."
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he stands, setting aside his papers. "Fine," he says. "But I warn you—nothing grows here easily."
"Then it'll fit me perfectly."
The palace gardens sit at the base of the eastern wall, carved into terraces that cling to the frozen earth. Most of the trees are bare, branches gloved in frost. But a few stubborn winter blossoms cling to the stone fences—tiny red flowers that look almost defiant against the grey.
He walks beside me in silence. No crown. No armor. Just a man with heat in his veins and a habit of watching too closely.
"You should rest more," he says. "Your eyes look like you haven't slept in days."
"Neither have yours."
He glances sideways. "I don't sleep well."
"Because of dragons?" I ask. "Or ghosts?"
His jaw tightens. "Dragons don't haunt. They burn."
I smile faintly. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"I am."
The wind cuts colder. For a heartbeat, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
We stop near a marble bench overlooking the city below. The smoke from the forges rises like ribbons through the air.
"They call you Bridge now," he says.
"I heard."
"It wasn't meant as a compliment."
"I took it as one anyway."
He studies me from the corner of his eye, then says, "You know, most queens would use that name to build favor. You use it to build trouble."
"I don't build trouble," I correct. "I just collect it."
"And what will you do when it collects you back?"
I glance up at him, lips curving. "I'll negotiate."
For a long while, neither of us speaks. The cold bites through the silk of my robe, but I don't move. There's something in the silence that feels almost fragile, like if either of us breaks it too soon, the world will shatter.
"You don't act afraid," he says finally.
"I am," I admit. "Every day."
"Then you hide it well."
"That's the point."
He exhales slowly, the faintest plume of warmth visible in the air between us. "You're not what they told me you'd be."
"Neither are you," I say softly. "They said dragons can't be kind."
He meets my eyes. "They can't."
"Then you must be something else."
He doesn't answer. But when we turn to walk back, his hand brushes mine for the briefest second. Not deliberate. Not quite accidental either.
And for the first time since the carriage left the South, I realize something dangerous has started.
Not a war.
Not a rebellion.
Something quieter.
Something with teeth.
That night, I dream of the bridge again.
Not the one I fixed, but the one I'm still standing on—caught between faith and fire, South and North, duty and desire.
And I know the fall will be spectacular.