She lay amid the wreckage of the forest—trees that stood for thousands of years had splintered and given way under her bulk as she fell. Though she still breathed, she could no longer move. It wouldn’t be long before the last of her spirit dried up and released her soul into the aether once more.
The dragons never feared death. They were immortal, after a fashion. When the Nightmare of the North had died before, her spirit had seeped into her heart and hardened it like an egg. After a century, she had emerged once again from the shell, smaller but just as powerful. Just as vicious.
There was something wrong now. The dragon grunted and shifted, trying to find the source of the otherworldly cold that seemed to form like frost in her limbs.
“Nightmare,” the young man said, emerging from the shadows like a wraith.
Her eyes flickered and focused, pupils becoming slits as they found his form.
“What have… you done,” she rasped, barely able to move her jaws, “to me… human?”
“The Nightmare has to end,” he said. Even now, his face didn’t change. He gazed into her with those red eyes, red as her own. How strange it was, to see a mirror in a monster. “So my Lady has declared, and I have carried out her will.”
“Your Lady… the child chosen by the light…. How fitting that she sends her shadow to… do her bidding.”
He didn’t react to her words. It had been a long time since he had stopped reacting. He had given more than he should for this cause. He may have defeated the dragon, but how much longer would he live with only half a soul?
“I was scared of you once,” he told her. “Terrified. I think I should be pleased or relieved to see you broken like this, but I don’t. I just feel cold. I must confess that I have no inkling of where to go from here.”
“Haa…,” she exhaled, steam curling from her nostrils. “You will live in a great castle with your pathetic human wife… and your pathetic human children, Kuhn. I hope it is the just reward… you wished for in your youth… I hope you get everything you deserve…”
“That sounds like a curse,” he remarked. Behind him, the shuffle of leaves alerted them to the arrival of the rest of his party. It echoed out around the new clearing from every direction as they circled the dragon.
“A curse,” she laughed, choking on her own blood as it fought to leave her.
“A curse,” she hissed, eyes filling with fire. “Yes, a curse on you, Kuhn— on all of you, humans!”
With effort, she forced her numb body to rise. Kuhn’s eyes widened, the first real expression he’d made in years, and hurried to raise a barrier of ice between her and his people. He needn’t have bothered; she wasn’t attacking. She rose as far as she could and her broken wings shrugged into half-hearted salute. Her voice, though, was strong and proud as she bellowed: “Your foul deeds will be paid back a hundredfold! You cowardly worms! I’ll acknowledge your pathetic victory, and grant you a boon– and a curse. Your own descendant will bring about your downfall—I brand you with my name—“
The weight of her magic pressed down upon him and he nearly buckled under it. He kept his feet, barely, and met her strained gaze with his own. The magic constricted around him; he fought, instinctively, by drawing on his own. Below them, the blood mixing with the snow began to take shape.
He couldn’t stop it. It took all he had to stay upright, to keep her from crushing him with the sheer enormity of her soul. It was curling around him like her own claws.
“DRAKUHL!”
The humming blood exploded into light.
----------------------------------------
She shot awake, terror in her veins, trying to breathe and finding she couldn’t. She was underwater. She was drowning. She choked and coughed, trying to expel the liquid, tears streaming down her face.
Then, she realized it wasn’t liquid. She wasn’t underwater. She was in her bed and the only thing she was choking on was the air itself.
No, not the air, but what was in the air—the mana.
“Princess!”
Tibby, in her own nightclothes, vaulted up onto the bed and gathered Bette into her arms. When Bette gasped for air, she hammered on her back to help dislodge whatever was choking her. The strike jolted her body and Bette felt something snap shut inside her. The mana rushing into her subsided into a gentle wave.
“What happened, my Lady?” Tibby asked, frantic. “Should I get the physician again?”
“No! No, don’t tell anyone! Tibby, you can’t tell anyone!”
With that, Bette began to cry.
There was a soft knock at the door. Bette slapped a hand over her mouth and pointed at her cousin, then the door. Tibitha was stricken. She began to shake her head, but Bette only gestured with more force. Looking pale, she reluctantly extricated herself from her younger cousin’s form and went to the answer the door.
Bette hid her face in her comforter and prayed it was someone she could safely ignore.
“Miss Mandy, good morning,” Tibitha greeted. “The young Lady isn’t, uhm, up at the moment, but if there’s anything I can do…”
She trailed off. She was a terrible liar, made worse by being put on the spot.
“Lady Tibitha,” a familiar voice greeted. It was the maid who had served her yesterday. “Good morning to you as well. I trust you slept well?”
“Oh, yes, I always sleep like a rock,” she laughed. “Uhm, can I- did you come here for something?”
“Yes, my Lady.” A rustle of cloth. “The mistress has answered the Princess’s correspondence and bade me to bring this to her rooms in the morning.”
“Oh!” Tibitha audibly brightened. “She was looking forward to this, I think. Thank you!”
“I have only done my duty,” the woman demurred. “Good day to you, Lady.”
“You too!”
Tibitha closed the door.
When she turned back around, she waved the envelope in the air like a captured flag. It was only when she saw Bette’s reddened face that she seemed to remember the panic of only a few moments ago.
“Hey, hey, Princess,” she said, running back to her bedside. “Look, Her Grace has sent you the reply to your letter! Isn’t that something? It’s- it’s alright, Betsy, please don’t cry. What happened, even?”
Lisbette scrubbed her face furiously and snatched the letter from her hands. After tearing it open, she scanned the elegant inked lines of her mother’s penmanship.
“Betsy?”
Bette cleared her throat and read:
> “In pursuit of her studies, the Duchess of Drakuhl grants her child leave to enter the commercial district of Zenith and procure for herself supplies she deems necessary. To this end, the Crown Royale of Drakuhl is granted the power of the purse and the royal seal. May this serve as a writ and notice.
>
> So it has been ordained,
>
> Lady Lycrarose of the Northern Domain of Drakuhl,
> The Northern Star, Defender of the Horizon, etc.”
Bette finished with a smile, only partially forced, and waited for Tibitha to catch up to the point.
“The commercial district, purse power…,” Tibitha echoed. Then, with a growing grin, she asked, “We’re going shopping?”
“We’re going shopping,” Bette confirmed.
Tibitha let out an unLadylike whoop of joy and scampered off to the wardrobe to begin frantically pulling down dresses and accessories. She sang to herself as she did, a nonsense rhyme Bette only caught snippets of while she raced to and fro.
“Shopping, bopping…!”
Bette sank back against her pillows and put a hand over her pounding heart.
It’s not real. It can’t be. She wished she could convince herself, but the memory of her dream—her nightmare— still haunted her.
The Curse of the Black Dragon was just a legend that every denizen of Drakuhl knew, for it was the penultimate battle in the tale of the Lady of Light’s victory and the origin of their empire. Her ancestor, Kuhn, was the first to take the name of the dragon as his own. When their domain was established, the Lady of Light bestowed the name to them as a badge of honor. Kuhn had defeated the Nightmare of the North, after all, and deserved to wear the name of the beast he’d bested.
That’s how the story went. But the man in her dream, the man with the red eyes, had to be Kuhn. The dragon must have been the mythic beast who once ruled the northern lands. She could still feel the mass of mana pressing down on her, inscribing itself upon her soul. If her dream (vision?) was to be believed, the name hadn’t been a gift from the Lady; it had been from the dragon.
The curse, the one that would bring the destruction of her family and the ruin of their nation, was laid upon their very name.
She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes.
Why me? She thought. Why am I seeing these… visions? Flashbacks? Is it because of Liz? But the scene hadn’t seemed like something she’d witnessed in a game. It had felt real.
Is it because I… really am the Dragon’s Descendant? Is the dragon showing me the curse upon my birth?
She pressed hard enough that stars flashed before her eyes.
“It can’t be,” she murmured. “It cannot be true.”
“It is!”
Tibitha’s voice was so close to her ear, it startled her. She reared back to get away and succeeded only in smacking the headboard with her skull.
“Tibitha!”
“Be careful, your Highness,” Tibitha scolded.
Bette wanted to strangle her. Just for a moment.
Tibby smiled, unaware of the murderous urges directed at her, as usual.
“It’s true! We’re going shopping! Aren’t you excited?”
Bette felt her heart drop back into her chest. Oh, of course. Tibitha couldn’t be replying to her thoughts. She didn’t have any magic aptitude, and besides, soul-reading was probably impossible for most people. People would hear a lot more about it, otherwise.
“I- I’m excited, of course,” Bette told her, rubbing the back of her head. “We haven’t gone shopping since the Duke’s fortieth birthday celebration.”
“And never alone!”
Bette resisted telling Tibitha that they likely would have escorts aplenty, so they wouldn’t really be alone. It wasn’t what she meant, anyway. It was true this would be the first time they were in charge of the trip, rather than simply along for the ride with Lysander or a cousin of the house.
‘Power of the purse,’ she read again, mouthing the words, ‘and the royal seal.’
Of course, there were legal limits on what she actually could buy, as a minor. Moreover, some things could not be purchased on credit (even a word as good as that of the ruler of the territory). This was still more than she expected. She’d thought Lycrarose might send her with a pouch full of golden drakmah at most. She had halfway wondered if the Duchess would respond to her request at all, despite using official channels.
“Can I wear this?” Tibby chirped.
Bette looked up.
“Of course not. You’re twice my size, Tibitha. It won’t fit.”
“I could make it fit,” she sniffed, holding the red dress up to her body like she was gauging how much fabric and thread she needed.
“Do not!”
Bette jumped off the bed.
Two hours later, Bette was washed, dressed, and a good deal more frazzled than she’d been prior. Tibby was a decent maid when she wanted to be, but a combination of personality and upbringing made her a handful most of the time. She’d finally wrangled her friend into wearing her own fine dress instead of pining after shiny, too small costumes from her charge’s wardrobe.
After badgering, Tibitha had relented and allowed other maids to help dress her Lady, and herself, when it became clear the task of preparing for an outing exceeded her own capacity. The dress Bette ended up in was an emerald green, with silk-printed panels of gorgeous floral designs. Upon her head, one of the maids had woven a circlet into her black hair, and it shone a fine silver when it caught the light. Little jade pendants hung from the bodice of the dress, swaying with every step she took.
Tibby had been pushed into a light blue gown, done up with white accents and a lace collar. A fine scarf had been wrapped artfully into her hair and it made a little bow at the back of her head. As a servant, the dress itself was still quite understated and plain in comparison to Bette’s, but that hardly mattered to Tibitha. Tibby huffed at not being able to wear her uniform after all, but Tibitha was ultimately a noble, and a noble had to maintain a certain appearance in public.
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“I thought you wanted to wear a fancy gown,” she accused.
“I didn’t realize it would be so itchy,” she huffed. “I want my apron back.”
“Tough,” Bette told her. “You’re already in the thing, so wear it. And remember to act like you’re wearing a dress while we’re out!”
Tibitha responded to this reasonable request by sticking her tongue out at Lisbette.
Bette scoffed and turned up her nose.
“Your Highness, Lady Tibitha,” a maid she’d forgotten about interrupted, bowing her head respectfully. “Your carriage is ready for when your Highness wishes to depart.”
Bette coughed, embarrassed.
She shouldn’t stoop to Tibby’s level.
“Then let us be off,” she declared, striding from the room with purpose. She was not running away.
The route to the main entrance of the children’s wing of the palace was less familiar to Bette. Custom in the North meant the children of nobles were rarely seen before they attained the age of reason. Going out in public was normally forbidden to nobles under ten years old. Bette had left the palace only a few short times before, and she had never been the executor of the trip.
The sight of the double doors filled her with excitement and, curiously, dread. She stopped in her tracks. Tibitha, who nearly ran into her at her sudden halt, gave her a bewildered look. Bette paid it no mind.
Instead she let her eyes drink in the craftsmanship of the horseshoe-shaped archway and intricate carvings above the door. The heavy oak doors were strapped with iron. Two men in guardsmen’s uniforms stood at attention on either side, spears standing straight beside them.
“Lady…?” Tibitha whispered behind her.
“It’s alright,” Bette assured her, and herself. “It’s going to be alright. Let’s depart, cousin-mine.”
Bette wanted to grab her hand but didn’t. Instead, she gripped her right wrist with her other hand. As she approached, the guards stepped up and turned as one to push open the great doors.
Beyond, the world was an icy wonderland. Evergreen bushes glistened with frozen dewdrops and prized snow lilies sat in neat rows between the hedges. The cobbled stone pathway had been swept clear of snow and debris, she saw. A carriage sat at the ready, door emblazoned with the symbol of the Drakuhl royal family.
Though it was early spring, the ice would linger on a while longer.
“Your Highness, your Ladyship,” a soldier greeted them as they stepped into the courtyard. She didn’t recognize him, but he wore the uniform of the royal guard. “I am Gallus. I have been appointed by Lord Lysander as your escort for your trip. Denever, Leeds, and Callica will accompany us as well.”
Behind him, three other soldiers tapped their fists to their chest in salute. Two were women, likely in courtesy to them, should they need to be tended to or touched for whatever reason. She recognized Denever, a woman with a thick black braid shot through with silver, though she couldn’t say from where. The woman sedately inclined her head when Bette nodded at her. Callica and Leeds, as she assumed the other two soldiers were called, both looked startled when her eyes fell on them. They hurriedly lowered themselves in a bow.
“That is acceptable.”
Gallus helped first Lisbette, then Tibitha, into the carriage. The cold air that followed them in quickly warmed when it passed the threshold. The little runes carved into the wood used the fire attribute to keep the inside of the cabin comfortable: very expensive craftsmanship, but worth it in the frigid Northern climate.
Tibby happily flopped down on the bench across from Bette, and the two female soldiers climbed in after them. Denever set herself beside Bette and Callica, looking relieved, sat down beside Tibby. She proceeded to engage her guard in a discussion of the shops in Zenith and what she recommended they visit.
Bette sat, stiff as a board, and fixed her eyes on a point somewhere in the middle distance.
Zenith had been named for its position on the map—the northernmost point, it was estimated, in which human civilization could thrive, beyond which the intense energy of the Horizon began to exhibit its effects. There were indeed some small settlements past Zenith, but these were usually supply outposts or frontier villages whose residents were there only when their jobs required. Those who stayed any time north of Zenith were inundated with waves of magical energy radiating from the Horizon, which could cause headaches, nausea, dizziness, and disorientation if exposure went on for too long.
Because the Horizon couldn’t hold back every kind of monster, it was also dangerous to live this far north. The bastion of Zenith stood as a testament and warning to all about the limits of northern reach. Zenith was a heavily fortified, walled city. It could bear the brunt of occasional monster crossings without jeopardizing its people.
The common dwellings had sprung up around the fortress of Drakuhl, and the Drakuhl rulers had enclosed those dwellings in high walls and guard stations. The process repeated until Zenith was a mass of walls and dwellings, guard posts and shops. The haphazard nature of its construction meant that the streets were often full of turnabouts and dead-ends. Zenith natives took pride in being able to navigate their “unassailable” city, but tourists despaired (or delighted, if that was what they came for) in getting lost.
Though the city had been veritably carved from the rocky land it sat upon, it was not just a brutal mess of gray stone and straight lines. Over the centuries, artisans had carved reliefs into the thick stone and carefully reshaped every line to be as aesthetically pleasing as possible. Moreover, the people of Zenith painted their city’s walls in every shade imaginable—blues and blacks, reds and oranges, yellows and whites that mingled in a feast for the eyes.
The rains washed the paint away every wet season, but the people of Zenith took pride and even joy in repainting, year after year. It was a testament to their resilience.
There wasn’t a tower tall enough in the children’s wing of the palace for Bette to see these murals from home, so she drank in what she could see between the veiling curtains over the carriage’s windows. Tibby was openly peeping out at the expanse of the city street, but Bette restrained herself.
“There’s so many people,” she sighed dreamily. “We don’t see so many people often, do we, my Lady?”
Bette hummed in response, which wasn’t much of an answer.
She was dazed by the crowds and colors, and was almost grateful for the heavy curtains that blocked most of the view.
Even through the bitter cold of winter, people packed into the streets of the commercial district. The main thoroughfare was full to bursting with throngs of people, carriages, and carts. Single riders wove through the masses on the shaggy, stout ponies favored by Northern folk. Walls of shops were interspersed with stands and stalls of merchants hawking every kind of thing imaginable.
Though traffic was at a standstill, no one was seemed particularly angry about it.
“Is the crowded street ever a problem for travelers?” Bette questioned Denever under her breath.
“People who have places to be don’t take Marketway, my Lady.”
Bette considered that. She supposed most of the people here were looking around or shopping. In that way, the main street of the commercial district was a bit more like a bazaar than a city road.
It was thus especially obvious that people reacted when their carriage approached, glistening jet-black horses tossing their deep blue reins. People pushed to get out of the way and those that hadn’t noticed were not so kindly shoved into a better position.
The little window slat slid open at the front of the carriage.
“Your Highness,” Gallus said through the box, “where shall we begin your expedition?”
“I will need clothes suitable for training,” Bette informed him. “Both in magic and in swordplay.”
Tibby looked startled at this, but Gallus merely responded: “Very good, my Lady.”
The outfitter the driver brought them to looked to be one associated with the royal knights, as denoted by the crest hanging proudly in the window. While it seemed a bit overkill for her training clothes to be from such an establishment, she was pleased that he was taking her seriously.
“My Lady,” Denever murmured.
She produced a bundle of black cloth from under the carriage seat. Bette glared at it.
There was an old tradition in the North where children who had yet to reach the age of reason were not to be seen or spoken to until then. It was an aging custom, and only very old noble families followed it these days, but Bette was obliged to do so. Her image as a royal was already strained by the rumors of the Dragon’s Curse that many believed had fallen on her. To break with tradition now would only seem to prove that.
It was unconscionable.
Most of what Bette knew about the city had been gleaned from books, lessons, and the occasional gossipy maid. Her own experience out in the world was painfully limited. During the first and last trip she’d taken to the commerce district, she had been young enough that her father still carried her everywhere so she wouldn’t be underfoot. She’d been swaddled in a black veil from head to toe; she’d felt like a ghost.
She remembered very little save for the feeling of suffocating in downy cobwebs and the sweets slipped to her by a guard when the Duke wasn’t looking.
Oh, that was why Denever seemed familiar! No wonder Bette felt an unusual favor towards the older woman.
(Can I poach her from Uncle Lysander, I wonder? Or is she mine since he’s mine? Hm.)
Bette tried not to hate Denever as the guard helped her slip into the veil. It hung loose from a sort of hat that perched on her crown, not touching her face or back but sort of drifting around her like a personal shroud of rain. It muffled the sound and light of the world beyond and made her feel like she was drifting underwater rather than walking through a street.
The people kept a respectful distance as Gallus and Leeds descended, one taking position outside the door of the establishment, and another heading within. After a couple minutes, three or four people left, looking harried. Gallus reemerged and beckoned to the carriage.
The female guards took this as their cue. Callista hopped out first, then turned to offer a hand to Tibitha, who took it and let herself be swung down. She giggled as she went, looking ecstatic at the manhandling. Denever quickly followed her down, then turned to offer Bette her hand.
Gripping the inner rail, Bette placed her hand in the upturned palm of the guard and placed her foot carefully down onto the carriage step. There was no graceful way to step down when one’s leg was about the length of the distance from ground to step, but Bette attempted to remain poised while Denever deposited her safely.
The woman turned the motion into a kneeling bow, and Bette almost had to applaud. What a decent way to show that, even though her mistress was small and needed help down, she was still powerful enough to command her large, decorated guards to kneel.
“You may rise, Guardswoman Denever,” Bette allowed, keeping her tone as even as her stride.
“Thank you, your Highness.”
Denever didn’t miss a beat as she rose to her feet in one fluid motion, hand finding a customary hold on the hilt of her sword while she walked, keeping a half-step behind her mistress though she could easily overtake the pace of a six year old.
Bette had to have her now. Lysander clearly did not need her as much as Bette did.
“Who is that?” Someone murmured in the crowd.
“Look at the insignia, that’s the royal carriage!”
“Is it the Duchess? The Duke?”
“Are you kidding? The figure in the veil? The Lady and Lord are both giants! It has to be… you know, her.”
A shiver went down Bette’s spine. The tone was not mocking; it was fearful. A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd, bouncing the news back and forth among those standing to gawk at royalty.
“I thought she was locked up in the castle. Does the Duchess know she’s here?”
“What happened to protecting us from the curse?”
“She looks like a little ghost… why the veil?”
“Is she ugly or somethin’?”
“No, you idiot, it’s a noble thing. Noble kids don’t mix with others! They think they’ll be infected by ‘intraction' with the masses or something like that.”
“Do Their Majesties not know about… the curse? Or don’t they care?”
“There’s no such thing. Bad things happen all the time, it’s called ‘living in the North’. Nothin’ supernatural about it.”
“Does the Duchess think that, too?”
“Shut up! The guards are right there! Haven’t you heard what happened to the last person to ask the Duchess about the Descendant?”
“No…”
Bette’s ears pricked up. She hadn’t heard anything of the sort, either.
“She stabbed him!” Bette flinched. “Right through the heart!”
That’s not true, Bette thought. Mother would never just… decide to execute someone for asking a question she didn’t like! She’s a righteous person!
“Wow, I guess even the Duchess is a mother first.”
That left a sour taste in her mouth. She hurried as much as she was able in a cumbersome veil and dainty shoes. Denever kept pace with her, but even the guard’s solid presence had begun to feel like the shadow of a prison, or a guillotine.
The door closed behind her, and the crowd’s noise fell away only to murmurs. They would disperse eventually, when nothing interesting or exciting happened.
Bette’s hands were trembling, and for the first time she was grateful for the custom of the veil. No one could see how affected she was.
“Your Highness.”
A slim young man, perhaps in his twenties, came forward and gave a bow with an elaborate flourish. He was dressed in an odd way, wearing white leather riding boots, trousers, and a blouse. Rather than a belt he had what appeared to be a corset, embroidered with roses in golden thread. His frock coat was similarly white and gold with shiny buttons and a well-tied ascot tucked into the collar.
“I am Aldgerald, son of Gerald, the head tailor of this fine shop,” he informed her, not rising from his bow, nor looking towards her in any way. “My father has regretfully passed and left the tailoring to me. Though I am an inadequate substitute, I hope my designs can fit the fancy of her Highness the Princess.”
She felt a little dizzy staring at all the gold on his outfit.
Bette almost spoke, then remembered she was not supposed to speak in the presence of others not of her house. She looked to Tibby, and the girl seemed to realize what she meant.
Tibitha stepped up and curtsied, more respectfully than Lisbette had seen from her in a long time, first to her cousin and then to the tailor.
“Sir Aldgerald, thank you for your welcome. The Princess wishes you take her sympathies for your father, and is certain she will find your work up to par.” Actually Bette hadn’t even thought that, but it was probably for the best that Tibitha had remembered her courtesies. Tibitha went on: “The Crown Royale seeks measurements and designs for new additions to her wardrobe. These will not be dresses, but will be clothing suitable for active training in magic and swordplay.”
“I beg her Highness’s pardon,” Aldgerald said, bowing again and even deeper. “I am accustomed to orders from… esteemed knights of venerable age and nobility. I have not had the opportunity to clothe someone as… delicate and illustrious as the Lady. I fear my skills will fall short of the Princess’s needs.”
I don’t make clothes for kids, he was saying. Bette huffed.
Tibitha leaned in to her mistress’s side, a hint of confusion in her voice as she asked, “What do I do now?”
That’s what I want to know, Bette thought. She wondered if this would be any easier without the veil, where she could glare straight at the tailor with her intimidatingly red eyes.
There had to be a reason Gallus brought her here. Had he not known the previous owner had died? Or was this some kind of test? Did her mother set this up so she would have to navigate a tricky social encounter? It would be just like Lycrarose to use her daughter’s unexpected request as an opportunity.
She could simply demand he take her order anyway. He couldn’t refuse a direct order from the royal family, more-so since she bore the royal seal with her mother’s permission. Was that the right answer, though? Was this a situation that required force or finesse?
Bette thought for a moment, then leaned in to whisper into Tibby’s ear.
“Her Highness understands if the tailor does not feel confident in his designs. What may assist the typical knight, who is certainly durable and able to protect themself without issue, may not similarly work for her Highness. Without testing, how can one expect to believe just any common garment can be used to protect children, who are our precious future. She thanks the tailor for his humility in accepting his own shortcomings, but requests that the tailor post upon his signage that this establishment is unable to serve all nobles for lack of skill.”
The tailor’s face went a curious shade of purple-red, and it did a complex dance of emotions with eyebrows and twitching lips.
Bette tried not to laugh, but a small huff might have escaped her.
“If her Highness is willing,” the man said, forcing his jaw to work. “I may be able to provide the materials and spell-work for training gear. I am not used to creating with such fine details, but I am certain one of my seamstresses has children for whom she sews clothing. With her assistance, I can offer an outfit more suited for the Princess’s stature.”
She was six; of course she was short. That was hardly the comeback he thought it was.
Tibby grinned wickedly, and Bette found herself mirroring the expression.
“Then, by all means, sir tailor, please tell the seamstress to present herself to the castle Zenith for the Crown Royale’s measurements and inspections. Her Highness will be happy to sponsor the young woman, so you do not have to offer your credible name to such unsure work! You will be paid for the materials, of course, and labor rendered.”
The man looked torn. Certainly, he was still getting paid, but the boost that could come with clothing a Duchess-in-training would not go to him but to the seamstress he provided. Worse, if the woman was sponsored by the Princess, then she would become a competitor to him.
That was his problem, though. Bette spun on her heel, veil and skirt spinning with her, and marched right out of the shop. Her guard followed behind her, and Tibby and her guard were quick to fall in line as well.
The crowd had hardly dispersed by the time they exited, but Bette didn’t let herself linger long enough to hear any more of its whispers. Denever helped her back into the carriage, the rest climbed on as well, and they set off for their next destination.
The sun was setting by the time they visited their last stop. Even in the comfortable carriage of the royal family, Bette’s back and sides were starting to hurt from the motion of the wheels on the cobbled stone streets. She was starting to remember why she hated shopping when she was Liz. Even Tibby’s boundless energy seemed to be flagging.
Everywhere they went they wound up dealing with people who hesitated to work for her. In some cases, it didn’t matter, because she wanted a prepared product. In others, as with the tailor, she found herself needing to negotiate or vaguely threaten to get what she wanted. She was starting to suspect it hadn’t been a test from her mother. This was in fact the state of the world, at least in regards to her.
The Curse of the Dragon could fall on anyone who spent too much time or made deals with the Dragon’s Descendant. Whether they all believed it or merely had an eye on their reputations among those who did, the Curse was tied more firmly to her name than she expected. People were afraid of her, not because of who she was, but because of what she was. Everywhere she went, she stood in the shadow of the first Drakuhl—the dragon Drakuhl, whose name they had taken along with the curse, if her dreams were to be believed.
How was she supposed to lead her people in the future when the whole duchy was terrified of her?
I need to make a name for myself. Something apart from Lisbette Drakuhl, the dragon’s descendant. They need to see me as something or someone else.
But how?