Shades of Fire Book 2: Prophecy of Fire

I ran my hand against my stomach—flat, silent.

There would be a time when I’d be blessed with a child, and the council’s constant questions would cease. But it wasn’t now.

But I was a queen only by name to them. Even with a dragon, they still questioned my worth—my strength—my usefulness in the opportunity to produce an heir.

A queen’s worth was measured in heartbeats she had not yet nurtured. The council had been watching my empty womb grow emptier by the day.

A knock sounded upon the heavy wooden door, soft and familiar.

“Come in,” I whispered.

My sister Raya walked in, a strained smile on her face. She was no longer Princess of Valon, but Lady Raya Dani, wife of Cerion’s brother, Arion.

Raya crossed the threshold. Her pale skin and hair glimmered in the moonlight.

Marriage had not dimmed her light. If anything, it had only made her more beautiful.

Raya didn’t speak at first. She knew silence was necessary in the moment.

She joined me beside the window, fingers brushing against mine and a strained smile still placed on her lips.

“I felt it,” she said quietly.

She knew it as well as I did. I wasn’t pregnant.

I nodded. “It didn’t happen again.”

“I’m sorry,” she all but whispered, and I felt both of our hearts cracking open.

“Sometimes I think something in me is broken—” I tried to be strong as I said the words, but I felt my voice straining.

Strength was always something I prided myself on. I was always strong, resilient. I weathered the odds.

I weathered the loss of my mother. I weathered being beaten by my own father.

I even weathered the abrupt coming of my dragon.

“Kira.” Raya’s voice was suddenly steady. “You are not broken. You’ve held this kingdom together through assassins and a council that would rather see you fall than rise.”

I choked out a laugh; it was filled with a mixture of anger and sadness.

“Try telling that to the elders. They’ve counted the losses and consistently count the cycles of my period.”

“Your worth doesn’t hinge on a child,” she said.

She made the words sound true; she believed them to be, even though they were not.

“It does to them. They murmur and whisper in the meeting chamber, ‘She hasn’t given us an heir.’” I let out a heavy sigh as I ran my fingers over my eyes.

“Then let their small minds wither. You have a dragon of your own, and your dragons are mates. This is fate. Your union is destiny.”

In times of uncertainty, Raya always made me bloom with confidence.

My gaze drifted to a miniature painted portrait on the mantel area. It was of our mother.

Our mother, encapsulated in her youthful beauty—a lilac shawl tucked over her shoulders.

“Do you ever think of her?” I asked.

“All the time,” Raya responded.

“She’d know what to say.” My voice trembled. “She told me, ‘When the world gets loud, find the quiet. And when even the quiet hurts, cry. Let tears be strength, not shame.’”

Raya wrapped me into her embrace—warm, sister-like, and comforting. I needed this. “You’re not alone. I’m here,” she told me.

I held her for a long beat before I let her go. “How is married life within these walls? Are you still happy? Does Arion still rise at dawn to practice bow drills on the terrace?”

Her smile curved. “Yes, I am happy, Kira, and he rises every dawn to practice. He offers to teach me, and every dawn, I remind him he married a princess. You’ve always been more for war than I have ever been.”

I laughed a genuine laugh. “You make him better, Raya.”

“That’s what love is meant to do, isn’t it?”

The moment felt bittersweet.

“Kira.” She let out a heavy breath. “If your body never bears a child, you and Cerion will still rule—together. And Arion and I, the council, your people—will carry your legacy—forever.”

“Without heirs, some become forgotten,” I reminded her.

Her blue eyes lit up with hope, something I thought was long forgotten. “Then we rewrite the stories.”

Eventually, after a long hug, Raya left me to my mind’s quiet.

I slipped beneath cool black silk sheets, tired but not broken.

Sleep, however, was something I could only pray for. I lay wide awake and still.

Noises softly echoed throughout the bedroom. A hinge creaked—familiar footsteps that were soft, deliberate.

Then the mattress dipped, and I knew Cerion was there.

Cerion didn’t speak as he slipped underneath the covers; instead, he just laced his arm around my body and lay there still and silent with me.

My fingers curled around his forearm, anchoring us both to each other.

He exhaled, then pressed his lips against the top of my head. “Kir, are you awake?”

“I wish I could take away your pain,” he said. His voice wasn’t level or confident; it wasn’t like the Cerion I was used to. There was a weight beneath it—emotion.

He paused for a long moment before continuing. “Every cruel whisper, every ache of your body, every doubt—I wish I could take it away. I hate that this kingdom measures you by what they believe your body should give. You are not less, Kira. You will never be—to me, ever.”

A tear slipped down my face in response.

“I will wait, until the gods see fit, or forever if they choose otherwise. And if they never grant us a child, we will have a legacy without.”

His hand drifted down to my stomach and settled on it, giving me hope again.

I pressed my head into his chest, steadying my rapidly beating heart with the sound of his.

“I love you,” he murmured, tightening his grip on me. “For who you are, not what you give.”

I fell asleep, not because everything was right in the world, but because for this moment, it was enough to be loved.