Ignis's POV:
High above the departing convoy, hidden among the jagged, snow-dusted peaks, Ignis circled on silent wings.
He had told himself—repeated it like a sacred vow—that he would not follow. There were council matters awaiting his attention, northern clan negotiations that required his personal oversight, and the endless, crushing weight of rule that never truly lifted from his shoulders. As Dragon Lord, his time belonged to his people, not to foolish, self-indulgent impulses.
Yet the moment the lead carriage had begun rolling forward, something inside him had snapped clean in two.
Without conscious thought, he had shifted. Bones lengthened and reshaped, obsidian scales rippling over midnight hide, powerful wings unfurling as his draconic form took hold. In seconds he had launched himself from the highest balcony, climbing rapidly into the thin mountain air until the palace below looked like little more than a dark jewel nestled against the cliffs.
Now he soared high enough that the wind whipped viciously at his scales and tore at the edges of his wings. From this vantage, the small procession winding its way down the mountain road was painfully clear.
Seraphina's bright crimson traveling cloak stood out like a flame against the muted grays and browns of the escort. Beside her, in one of the open-topped carriages, rode the human prince—Ash—his butter-blonde hair catching the dawn light, his posture relaxed as he leaned slightly toward Ignis's daughter.
Ignis's long, powerful tail lashed behind him in sharp, agitated strokes, cutting through the air like a whip. Jealousy coiled hot and ugly in his chest, a feeling he had no right to entertain, let alone nurture. Ash was doing exactly what any honorable suitor should: escorting Seraphina to his homeland, continuing the courtship with every appearance of genuine care, and strengthening the alliance Ignis himself had worked so hard to forge.
This is what you wanted, he snarled at himself, the words echoing viciously inside his skull. Her happiness. Peace between our peoples. A future where she is not left alone and lonely.
Yet logic offered no comfort.
Every time Ash leaned closer to speak with her, every shared laugh that rose faintly on the wind, every casual touch of hand to arm or shoulder—Ignis's talons flexed involuntarily, imagining sinking them into something far less innocent than cold mountain stone. The urge to dive, to snatch the insolent human from the carriage and carry him away somewhere private and secluded, was alarmingly strong.
He remembered the corridor collision too vividly: the scatter of papers, the brief, searing grip of his claws around Ash's arm, the way the prince had looked up at him from the floor with those light green eyes. He remembered the quiet family dinner, the way Ash had spoken of his own distant father with quiet honesty, the way those same eyes had stripped away centuries of practiced royal detachment and seen him—for one incandescent, dangerous moment.
That human was taking his only daughter away from the palace, carrying with him memories that should never have existed.
Ignis banked sharply, wings slicing through a thermal with brutal efficiency. He forced his gaze away from the convoy and toward the distant horizon, telling himself he would turn back now. He would not follow them all the way to Seiena like some lovestruck fledgling. He would not humiliate himself further by spying from the clouds while his daughter laughed and blushed at another man's attention.
But as the carriages disappeared around a sharp bend in the mountain pass, one final, traitorous thought slipped through the iron bars of his control:
Come back.
Not to Seraphina.
To him.
The realization hit like a physical blow.
Ignis's wings faltered for half a beat before he recovered, roaring—a low, thunderous sound that rolled across the cliffs and sent flocks of lesser birds scattering in terror. The echo reverberated through the peaks, raw and pained, carrying far more than simple draconic fury.
He wheeled sharply, forcing himself to turn back toward the palace. Each powerful stroke of his wings felt heavier than the last.
The hollow ache in his chest had grown wider than the sky itself, a vast emptiness he growing within him without any mercy.
Back in his private chambers, Ignis shifted to his humanoid form with a shudder. He stood at the same tall window from which he always look outside, claws digging deep grooves into the stone sill. The morning sun continued its indifferent climb, painting the western cliffs in shades of amber and rose—the same colors that had greeted Ash's sleepless decision days ago.
Pathetic, he thought bitterly. You are the Dragon Lord of Night. You have ruled for centuries. You have dealt with all kinds of difficulties and disasters. And now one reckless human with clever tongue and green eyes has reduced you to this?
He could still feel the ghost of Ash's touch against his horn, the way the prince's blunt teeth had grazed sensitive skin and drawn sounds from him he had never imagined making. The aphrodisiac had been an excuse—convenient, plausible, safe. But Ignis knew the truth in the cold light of morning. The incense had only lowered his walls. It had not created the desire.
Ash had wanted him.
And worse—he had wanted Ash right back.
Now that human was hundreds of feet below, riding beside Seraphina, probably charming her with the same easy smiles and gentle teasing like he always does to her. In a few days they would reach Seiena. Ash would show her his palace, his gardens, his people. He would court her properly, with all the calculated warmth of a diplomat who understood exactly what was at stake.
And one day, if the alliance held and the match succeeded, Ash would become Ignis's son-in-law.
The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea and possessive rage twisting through him.
His tail lashed hard enough to knock over a nearby vase, shattering it across the marble floor. He did not bother calling for servants to clean it.
Instead, Ignis paced.
He told himself he was being absurd. That this was nothing more than misplaced protectiveness twisted by the lingering effects of the parental instinct. That in time the memory would fade, the ache would dull, and he would look upon Ash and Seraphina's union with the satisfaction of a king who had secured his daughter's future and his kingdom's stability.
His tail disagreed. It continued to twitch and flick with restless agitation, betraying every lie he tried to feed himself.
Hours later, when the sun had climbed higher and the convoy was long out of even his sharp draconic sight, Ignis finally forced himself away from the window. He had duties. Responsibilities. A kingdom that depended on his composure.
But as he walked the empty corridors toward the council chamber, the palace felt larger and colder than it had in decades. Every shadowed alcove, every quiet garden path, every damn bench in the ornamental gardens now carried the ghost of butter-blonde hair and mischievous green eyes.
Seraphina was gone—off on a grand adventure with the man who made her laugh so easily.
And Ignis was left behind with nothing but the memory of a kiss that should never have happened, and the devastating knowledge that he wanted Ash to come back.
Not as his daughter's suitor.
Ignis straightened his robes, schooled his expression into its familiar mask of regal indifference, and continued down the hall.
No one would ever know how much it cost him.