Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~12 min read
Freya woke in Lysander’s bed, wrapped in warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets.
He was curled around her—not quite holding her, but close enough that she could feel his presence, the heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing. At some point during the night, exhaustion had claimed them both, and they’d fallen asleep tangled together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Through the bond, she felt his awareness even in sleep. Constantly monitoring her, making sure she was safe, ready to wake and defend at the slightest threat.
It should have felt suffocating. Instead, it felt safe.
She shifted slightly, and immediately his eyes opened—silver and alert, dragon instincts bringing him fully awake in a heartbeat.
“You alright?” His voice was rough with sleep.
“I’m alright.” And strangely, she was. The terror from yesterday had faded to a dull ache, replaced by something else. Clarity, maybe. Understanding. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Some.” A lie. Through the bond, she felt his exhaustion. He’d been awake most of the night, watching over her, his dragon refusing to relax while threats might still exist.
“Lysander—”
“I’ll sleep when you’re safe.” He sat up, running a hand through disheveled hair. “The council is meeting this morning. About Viktor’s violation of guest-right. You should attend. This affects you most of all.”
She should have returned to her own chambers. Should have maintained some distance, some pretense of propriety. Instead, she found herself saying, “Do you have clothes I could borrow? I don’t want to face your mother wearing yesterday’s dress.”
His smile was surprised and pleased. “Of course.”
He found her a tunic and leggings—far too large for her smaller frame, but comfortable in a way her formal gowns never were. She had to roll up the sleeves and tie the waist with a belt, but the clothes smelled like him—smoke and mountain air and dragon magic—and that was unexpectedly comforting.
They walked to the council chamber together, not touching but close enough that the bond hummed between them. Servants and guards they passed did double takes—the human woman wearing Prince Lysander’s clothes, emerging from his chambers at dawn, very clearly having spent the night together.
The gossip would be spectacular.
Freya found she didn’t care.
The council chamber was already full when they arrived—every major dragon lord and lady in attendance, along with Queen Seraphine and King Aldric. The mood was grim, furious, barely contained violence simmering beneath civilized conversation.
“Prince Lysander. Lady Freya.” The Queen’s expression was unreadable as she took in Freya’s borrowed clothes. “Please, join us.”
They took seats near the head of the table, and Freya immediately felt the weight of dozens of ancient gazes assessing her. She was the cause of all this. The human woman who’d somehow brought their kingdoms to the brink of war.
“Let’s begin,” King Aldric said, his voice carrying absolute authority. “Yesterday, three assassins infiltrated our palace and attempted to kidnap Lady Freya. This is a direct violation of sacred guest-right. Viktor has broken laws older than his kingdom, and there must be consequences.”
“War,” a dragon lord said immediately—the bronze-scaled one from before. “We must respond with overwhelming force. Show the human kingdoms what happens when they violate our hospitality.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber.
“Crush them,” another dragon said. “Make an example of Viktor specifically. Let all humans remember why they fear dragons.”
“With respect,” Lord Theron cut in, “declaring war would result in massive casualties on both sides. Viktor’s violation is inexcusable, but is it worth thousands of deaths?”
“He tried to KIDNAP our prince’s mate! During sacred guest-right!” The bronze dragon’s eyes blazed. “If we don’t respond decisively, we look weak. Every human kingdom will think they can violate our laws without consequence.”
The argument escalated, voices rising as ancient dragons debated the merits of immediate violence versus strategic patience. Freya sat silent, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on her shoulders.
This was her fault. Not directly—Viktor had made his choice—but she was the catalyst. The reason armies were gathering. The excuse for violence that could consume entire kingdoms.
Through the bond, she felt Lysander’s presence—solid, steady, a silent promise that whatever happened, he wouldn’t let her face it alone.
“Lady Freya.” Queen Seraphine’s voice cut through the chaos. “You’ve been quiet. What are your thoughts?”
Every head turned toward her. Ancient beings who’d lived centuries, fought wars, shaped history—all waiting to hear what a twenty-three-year-old human woman thought about their impending war.
Freya stood, her borrowed clothes suddenly feeling like armor. “No,” she said firmly.
“No?” the bronze dragon echoed.
“No war. Not because of me.” She looked around the chamber, meeting ancient eyes without flinching. “Viktor violated guest-right. That’s inexcusable. But starting a war—one that will kill thousands, destroy kingdoms, and haunt both our peoples for generations—that’s not justice. That’s revenge.”
“He tried to kidnap you,” someone pointed out.
“And he failed. I’m here. I’m safe.” She gestured to Lysander. “Your prince protected me. The wards are being strengthened. Viktor’s assassins are dead. We can respond without drowning the world in blood.”
“So we just… let him get away with it?” The bronze dragon’s voice was incredulous. “Show weakness to humans?”
“I didn’t say that.” Freya’s voice hardened. “Send a message. Make it clear that violating guest-right has consequences. Cut trade, demand reparations, make Viktor’s life politically difficult. But war? War is what he wants. He’s trying to provoke you into attacking so he can claim the moral high ground, unite the human kingdoms against you.”
Queen Seraphine’s expression was thoughtful. “You think this was intentional? That he wanted his assassins to fail?”
“I think Viktor is cruel, not stupid. He knows he can’t defeat dragons in open combat. But if you attack first? If you’re seen as the aggressors? Suddenly every human kingdom has a reason to join him. Suddenly the peace treaty looks like dragon tyranny instead of mutual cooperation.” Freya took a breath. “Don’t give him that victory. Don’t let me be the excuse for the war he’s been planning since the moment Lysander took me.”
Silence filled the chamber. Dragons exchanging glances, considering her words with the weight of centuries of political experience.
“She makes a valid point,” King Aldric said slowly. “Viktor may be attempting to manipulate us into action that serves his purposes.”
“So what do we do?” someone asked. “Just accept the violation?”
“We respond.” Queen Seraphine’s voice was cold as winter. “But strategically. We cut all diplomatic ties with the Northern Kingdom. Demand Viktor be removed from succession for violating sacred law. Offer protection to any human nobles who want to flee his regime.” Her smile was sharp. “We make him a pariah without spilling a drop of blood. That’s how you destroy a human prince—politically, not militarily.”
More discussion. More debate. But the tone had shifted from immediate violence to strategic planning. Freya’s words had given them an alternative path, and ancient wisdom recognized the value in it.
“There is one other option.” Lysander’s voice cut through the conversation. He stood, his silver eyes finding Freya’s. “Lady Freya could accept the mate bond. Become my princess officially. Once bonded, Viktor would have no legal claim whatsoever—not under dragon law or human law. She’d be part of our royal family. Untouchable.”
The temperature in the room dropped. Every dragon went still, waiting for her response.
Through the bond, Freya felt Lysander’s emotions—hope so bright it hurt, fear of rejection, desperate need for her to say yes tempered by understanding if she couldn’t.
This was it. The moment she’d been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. Public declaration. Everyone watching. Waiting to see if the human woman would choose the dragon prince or walk away.
She looked at Lysander—really looked at him. At the restraint he’d shown over the past weeks. The patience despite his dragon going insane. The respect despite every instinct screaming at him to simply claim what was his. The way he’d given her choice again and again, even when it cost him everything.
He’d proven himself. More than proven himself.
But was she ready?
“I…” The word stuck in her throat. “Lysander, I—”
Through the bond, she felt his understanding. Felt him accepting rejection before she’d even voiced it. Preparing himself for the pain.
“I need more time,” she said quietly.
The words fell into silence like stones into still water.
Lysander’s expression didn’t change—he’d expected this, had felt it coming through the bond—but through their connection, she felt his heart break just a little. Not anger. Not resentment. Just quiet devastation that he’d hidden expertly.
“Of course.” His voice was steady. “You should have all the time you need. The bond can wait.”
“Can it?” The bronze dragon stood. “With respect, Prince Lysander, how long before the incomplete bond begins causing you physical pain? How long before your dragon starts fading?”
“Months still. Maybe longer. It’s not a concern—”
“It’s absolutely a concern.” Queen Seraphine’s voice was firm but kind. She looked at Freya. “Child, I understand your hesitation. But you should know the full situation. The longer the bond remains incomplete, the more it will hurt my son. Not just emotionally—physically. He’ll start losing strength, his ability to shift will become painful, and eventually—”
“Eventually I fade. I know.” Lysander cut her off. “And I accept that risk. Freya’s choice matters more than my comfort.”
“That’s not fair to you,” Freya protested.
“Nothing about this is fair.” He moved toward her, close enough that she could see the silver glow in his eyes. “But I meant what I said. I’ll wait. However long it takes. If that means living with pain, with an incomplete bond, with uncertainty—so be it. You’re worth it.”
Through the bond, she felt the absolute truth of his words. He would endure anything for her. Suffer any consequence. Accept any cost. All to give her the choice he’d stolen when he crashed her wedding.
It broke something in her. This ancient, powerful being, reducing himself to desperate patience because she needed time to catch up to what the bond had recognized immediately.
“Three weeks,” she heard herself say.
Lysander’s breath caught. “What?”
“Three weeks.” She looked around the council chamber. “That’s what we have left of the month of guest-right—three weeks for me to figure this out, to be sure, to make my choice without guilt or pressure or war hanging over my head.”
“And at the end?” Queen Seraphine asked gently.
“At the end, I’ll decide.” Freya met Lysander’s eyes. “Accept the bond or walk away. No more delays. No more ‘I need more time.’ Three weeks to know if what I’m feeling is real.”
“And if it’s not?” the bronze dragon asked. “If you choose to leave?”
“Then I leave.” The words hurt to say. “And Lysander will honor that choice. Won’t you?”
Through the bond, she felt his struggle. Every instinct screaming no. But his voice, when it came, was steady. “Yes. Three weeks. Then you choose freely. And whatever you decide, I’ll accept it.”
Another lie they both knew he was trying desperately to believe.
But it was enough for now.
The council accepted the compromise—three weeks to resolution, then either a bonded royal couple or a diplomatic crisis that would need managing. They dispersed with plans to fortify defenses, strengthen wards, and make Viktor’s life politically miserable.
Freya stood in the emptying chamber, feeling the weight of her decision. Three weeks. Twenty-one days to figure out if she was falling for a dragon or just responding to ancient magic.
Twenty-one days to decide the rest of her life.
Lysander approached slowly. “Are you alright?”
“Are you?” She could feel his pain through the bond—not physical yet, but emotional devastation carefully controlled. “I hurt you. In front of the entire council.”
“You were honest. That’s all I asked for.” He touched her face gently. “Three weeks, Freya. I can work with three weeks.”
“What if I’m still not sure at the end?”
“Then we deal with that when it comes.” His smile was bittersweet. “But I have three weeks to prove we’re meant for each other. To show you that what you feel is real. That choosing me isn’t about obligation or guilt or magical destiny forcing your hand.”
“You really think you can do that?”
“I have to.” His thumb traced her cheek. “Because the alternative is losing you. And I’ve waited one hundred and twenty-seven years for you, Freya. I’m not giving up with three weeks left.”
Through the bond, she felt his determination. His absolute refusal to accept defeat. His certainty that given time, she would see what he already knew—that they were meant for each other, bond or no bond.
It was intoxicating and terrifying and everything she’d been trying to resist since the moment he crashed through that cathedral ceiling.
“Three weeks,” she whispered.
“Three weeks,” he agreed.
And as they left the council chamber together, Freya realized something that both thrilled and terrified her:
She was already halfway to choosing him.
The bond wasn’t forcing it.
She was falling all on her own.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s what made it real.
Reader Reactions