The royal twins sat with heads held high on plush white cushions, listening to the king’s lecture. The queen was in the chamber too, a comforting presence during the class. It had not always been so—Mother watching over them, listening to every lesson, overseeing every ordeal. There was one day when it had changed.

  It had been half a year since Father had started tutoring them. Fáolan was not sure why he had gone to his parents’ chamber that day. The thing that had happened at its doorway took priority in his memories.

  It was an argument.

  ‘What do you think you are doing with them?’ It was the Queen Consort, the seething in her voice restrained, but barely.

  ‘I am teaching them,’ the King Lightbringer replied curtly.

  ‘Aodhan, they are ten. What do you think will become of them if you force them into rivalry?’

  ‘They will get better,’ said the king. ‘Look, love, Cáondai took us under her wing around the same age.’

  ‘And where did that lead,’ Mother said flatly.

  ‘Not this tone, please…’

  ‘Why?’ The flatness was gone now, and Mother’s voice took back its irritated edge. ‘Where did it lead to, really? How did it weigh on you? And Iona, and Lorcan? You cannot tell me it was always this bad between you three.’

  ‘They are not here,’ said the king, a tone of firm finality, but what might have worked to stop Fáolan from arguing further, did little to deter Mother.

  ‘You speak of Cáondai, of what she did. And you want to do the same when she had all but forsaken her own son?’

  ‘And I am not doing that, if you might notice. Fáolan and Taori have potential, but that has to be honed and shaped as early—’

  ‘Aodhan, stop. Please.’

  ‘This is what is necessary,’ said the King Lightbringer. Fáolan took a quarter of a step back, but found himself otherwise moored to the polished marble floor, and could do little more than shrink into himself, and listen on. ‘You say you do not want me to be Cáondai. Then I am not her. I do not call my brood useless. I believe they can be great. But in one thing my grandmother proved to be right. She trained me, and Iona and Lorcan too, since our early years. Now we can reap the crops she had sown. I am the King Lightbringer that Cavria needs. But we will need more after me. This is the way Cáondai showed me to ensure that our line stays strong. This is the way I was made.’

  Silence. Then, so quiet Fáolan barely heard it, but bearing its own finality, ‘I will be there.’

  ‘What?’

  And Mother said, louder now, ‘I will accompany you to all your lectures and trials with Taori and Fáolan.’

  ‘That will not be necessary.’

  A huff. ‘Oh, but it will. I will make sure you treat them like you should.’

  ‘What do you think of me?’ said Father, and now his voice was tinged with annoyance, but also hurt. Fáolan, more and more with each moment, got the sense he should not be here, and once again started backing away into the corridor. ‘Do you really—’

  ‘Cáondai made a mistake. And I do not want you to follow in her steps.’

  ‘Ruari—’

  Fáolan heard movement then, and the scales on his neck rose as pawsteps approached. He made to hasten his retreat, but the door was already opening and Mother was coming out. Fáolan darted around the corner, heart hammering so loud half the palace must have heard it. She rounded the corner then, and he saw her, and she saw him, and his heart leaped to his throat, neck-scales standing full on end. But then—she smiled, sad and knowing, and Fáolan knew she knew he knew. She said not a thing though, only continued to walk down the corridor, eventually disappearing behind another bend.

  It had been over a year since then. Mother had not talked to him about that day, and neither had Father, but since then she had been present every time the King Lightbeinger educated or tested his heirs.

  ‘...and they will be the dragons closest to you during your reign,’ Father was saying. Today’s lesson had no test, and it was, for the most part, a lecture on the structure of the court—the noble tiers, of which they knew, and then about specific roles of Royal Advisor and Captain of Guard which were appointed by the current King or Queen Lightbringer. ‘It might be a friend, or it might be your spouse—indeed, I have chosen your mother to serve as my advisor—but whoever you choose, you must be sure you can put unending trust in them.’

  Behind him Mother continued to stand as a quiet sentry, watching.

  Father looked back to her, as though to reaffirm that she was still present, and said, turning back to Fáolan and Taori, ‘That should conclude today’s class. You are free to go.’

  ‘I have hit an absolute dead end.’

  ‘And the king doesn’t want to tell you anything?’ asked Monny. They were heading for the palace, back from the library in the western wing of the Academy General of Lascridh. The corridor was empty aside from the two of them, but well-lit, even this deep in the twisting mountain pathways. Braziers were set at regular intervals against the polished-stone walls. Eamon’s black scales shone with faint traces of gold in the firelight.

  ‘Not a thing.’ Fáolan huffed. ‘What he did say—that Lorcan disappeared two weeks after the death of Queen Cáondai and then, a few days later, so did Iona—I did manage to confirm in the chronicles. He said nothing more, though, and I found nothing else in the archives too.’

  ‘Maybe that is that,’ said Monny. ‘It could be that no one knows what became of them, not even the king.’

  ‘I suppose…’ said Fáolan unsurely. ‘But it nags at me. Three Lasthúirs gone so fast? There must be a connection.’

  ‘Afraid you will be next?’ Monny teased, bumping Fáolan with a wing.

  Fáolan laughed, gently shoving back. ‘They could try!’ Though under this dismissive veneer, a chill ran down his spine. He had always been thinking of the case as a matter closed, but what if—

  Faint laughter echoed ahead of them, deeper in the maze of caverns.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ asked Fáolan.

  ‘That I did… Come, let’s see.’

  They wound around in the corridors, led by the intermittent sound of dragons laughing. Best Fáolan could tell they were heading some ways away from the main compound of the Academy and into its part he was less familiar with—assigned to the lower nobles if memory served him right.

  It did not take long before the laughter could be heard from just around the corner, coming from a narrow hallway. Fáolan edged closer to look. It was bare and sparsely lit, but he could make out a group of three dragons, their tails to Monny and him. They were more or less his age, or slightly older, standing in a semicircle, blocking the whole width of the hallway. Further down was another one, larger, spreading his wings and standing up on rear paws in a display of dominance. As though to hammer in that point, the dragonar beat his wings forcefully, and with their shifting Fáolan saw one more dragon there, crouched and cowering under the large dragonar’s looming form.

  ‘You do not belong with us,’ he sneered.

  The smaller dragon mumbled something in response, too quiet for Fáolan to hear. The other four laughed again.

  That was all Fáolan needed to see.

  ‘Hey!’ he called out, coming into the hallway. All the dragons went quiet in an instant. The four closest turned, looking him over, then relaxed somewhat, but the feeling did not last long as one of them squinted at him, and then her eyes went wide and she whispered something to the other three.

  The reaction was immediate—from scepticism to recognition, finally settling on uncertainty.

  They knew who he was. Good.

  The largest dragonar stepped to the front. ‘Ah, er, well. What brings you here, pri—’

  ‘What are you doing to my friend?’ Fáolan cut in.

  It was a gamble—he did not know the dragon at the hallway’s end, but he was the Prince Lightbringer and outranked all the gathered dragons, no matter their tier.

  They hesitated, caught off-guard. Monny had stayed back; out of the corner of his eye Fáolan saw him watching at the entrance of the hallway as though he were but his shadow.

  ‘Are you certain, Highness?’ asked the dragoness who had recognised him. ‘It is dark here, and you may have mistaken him for someone else. He—’

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  ‘I am certain,’ said Fáolan, unwavering. He ruffled his wings and readjusted them against his flanks. ‘Does there appear to be an issue?’

  The dragoness’s words stuck in her throat, and the rest of the group’s resolve was crumbling into a fine dust of doubt. At length their apparent leader said, ‘We are sorry to have been an inconvenience. We will, er, leave you to your friend.’

  Fáolan said nothing to that, only continued to stare cooly at the dragonar. Though he was larger than Fáolan, he appeared to shrink under the prince's mat-gold gaze. Following this silent exchange the group passed Fáolan and, without another word, made their way out of the hallway. Fáolan’s gaze followed them, noting Monny’s bemused expression, watching the whole thing unfold from the entryway. When the four dragons left and rushed down the corridor, Monny, at last, strode into the hallway himself, coming to stand next to Fáolan.

  ‘Now that was… something,’ he said.

  Fáolan turned his attention to the remaining dragon—dragonar. In the dim light he looked to be a greyish brown—lighter at the bottom and darker near his back, the two shades meeting at his flanks in interlocking patterns. He had slightly curved dark horns adorned with a silver band, and as he was standing up on shaky paws Fáolan caught the look he sent them. His light yellow eyes betrayed a swirling mass of emotions—gratitude, but also uncertainty, and a residue of fear from moments prior. The scales on his neck were raised, slowly settling down.

  ‘Thank you, Lord,’ he said, bowing slightly, ‘but you must be mistaken. I am not the friend you are looking for.’ There was a tightness to his voice, a note of regret. The stranger pawed the stone floor anxiously, and his tail twitched.

  “Lord”. He did not recognise Fáolan.

  Nobility in Cavria was recognisable by hornbands—worn on a dragon's left horn, usually silver, finely engraved with patterns and symbols that differentiated dragons by their noble tier. The exception was the main Lasthúir line, whose bands were gold, though in the scant light the stranger must have missed the colour of Fáolan’s.

  ‘I know,’ said Fáolan in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

  The strange dragonar looked at him with an expression of great confusion.

  ‘I was not looking for a friend,’ Fáolan added. ‘I wanted to make them leave.’

  The dragonar blinked, then inclined his head again. ‘You are kind, Lord. But there was… no need to trouble yourself.’

  ‘What did they want with you, anyhow?’ asked Monny. The dragonar’s head whipped to look at him. ‘And who are you? I don’t think I have seen you around.’

  ‘My, em…’ He swallowed. Then he planted his paws more firmly on the hallway floor. ‘I have only recently moved to the capital, Lords, to live with my uncle. My parents wanted me to take up study in the Academy in Lascridh. My name is Veolar,’ he said, and then after a pause, as though remembering himself, ‘ál Thiamar. Túirengair.’

  ‘Eamon ál Korith Griansair,’ Monny offered.

  ‘Fáolan ál Aodhan Lasthúir,’ said Fáolan.

  If Veolar’s uncertainty was augmented by Monny introducing himself as a Lord Sundancer, his whole bearing crumbled when he heard Fáolan’s name. His eyes widened, and he looked as though he were struck. Fáolan got the impression Veolar would have backed away, were he not standing with his tail almost touching the dead-end wall of the hallway.

  ‘Come with us, Veolar,’ said Fáolan amiably. ‘Let us not stay here. We can talk in my chamber at the palace.’

  He moved out of the hallway, Monny close at his tail. Veolar hesitated a moment, but he could not disobey the words of a Prince Lightbringer, were it an order or an invitation, and soon he was trailing behind the two of them.

  No dragons disturbed them as they made their way outside the Academy, and into the palace of Lascridh.

  ‘So,’ said Fáolan as he settled on the cushions set against the wall in his chamber, ‘what did those dragons want with you?’

  Monny lay sprawled to the side of him, and Veolar sat back across from them, wings tucked tight, his tail curled neatly around his paws as though he was trying to appear as small as he could, and he was already a little smaller than Fáolan and Monny. In the light of the palace chambers his scales no longer looked greyish, but a calm composition of lighter and darker browns.

  Veolar did not speak for a time, looking vastly uncomfortable. Then, ‘I shouldn’t be a noble.’

  ‘Come again?’ asked Monny, sitting up on the cushions.

  ‘That… What these dragons did, in the hallway. It was hardly the first time. I told you, Prince, Lord—’ he nodded at each of them in turn— ‘I am a Sparkcaller and that may be true, but barely. My…’ He exhaled a shaky breath. Fáolan gave him time to gather himself. ‘My family line did not produce an accessor in three generations. And I am an only dragonling.’

  ‘You could lose your rank,’ Monny stated the obvious.

  Fáolan flexed his claws, resettling himself on the cushions. Cavrian customs were unrelenting when it came to cultivating strong accessing bloodlines. Divided into three tiers of Sundancers, Brightsingers and Sparkcallers—with the Lightbringers a special class of the royal family—Cavrian nobility had strict rules of advancing or falling down in rank. At least once, every four generations, a Sparkcaller line had to produce an accessor, Brightsingers had to be, all of them, accessors of at least one gem, and every four generations they had to have at least one double, and the same applied to Sundancers: each at least a double and some triform. Two generations in a row of a higher accessing prowess—doubles for a Sparkcaller and triforms for a Brightsinger—warranted a rising of rank, to Brightsinger and Sundancer respectively.

  Though rises were rare and fallings more common, Fáolan had not known any dragon affected by either. Until now.

  Veolar lowered his head. ‘It is not much different than back home. I had hoped, when I moved here, I could start anew, but one of the Ladies Brightsinger here knows my father, and news spreads fast.’

  ‘A falling line or not,’ said Fáolan, ‘it is no reason to attack a dragon.’

  ‘You are kind, Prince Fá—Lightbringer,’ said Veolar, a touch awkwardly.

  ‘This should not be taking place. Not within the Academy’s halls, and not anywhere else.’

  Veolar curled his tail tighter around himself. ‘Not all dragons share this sentiment, my prince.’

  Fáolan met his eyes; the dragonar averted his, fidgeting nervously with his claws. Fáolan drummed his own against the velvet padding. ‘I will talk to my father about it.’

  Veolar and Monny both snapped up. ‘Fáol?’ asked Monny. Veolar seemed taken aback by the casual apostrophe, but not more than by Fáolan’s declaration.

  ‘M-my Prince, that should not be necessary. The king should not be bothered by such… inconsequential matters.’

  Fáolan was not deterred. ‘A king should care for his subjects,’ he said. ‘Though I do not want to ask him to intervene with how they treated you. I would like you to study in the other part of the Academy.’

  What followed was an even more stunned silence. ‘My prince…’ said Veolar. ‘I… do not believe it would be possible, let alone proper. For me to come study in the halls dedicated for the Lords and Ladies Sundancer… That would be...’ He shook his head.

  ‘That is a possible solution, but not the only one.’ Fáolan stood up from his cushions, his tail lashing behind him as he looked Veolar in the eye. ‘One way or another, I, Fáolan of the Lasthúirs, pledge to help you as my future subject. Heed my words.’

  ‘Why?’

  It had not been much longer before Veolar left, bidding a stiff farewell. With the two alone in the room, the black-scaled dragonar made no secret of his confusion.

  ‘Why?’ said Fáolan. ‘Would you rather this continued?’

  ‘No, and I understand wanting to help. But inviting him to study in the Sundancer Wing? Don’t you think this is a little much?’

  Fáolan sighed, plopping back down on the cushions. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. This was the first thing that came to mind.’

  ‘Strength is one of the Twelve Virtues,’ said Monny. ‘Even if he could not beat them, he should stand up to those who show ill will. Not cower.’

  ‘This was not the first time,’ argued Fáolan.

  ‘So? Unity’s teachings do not change a second, third or a hundredth time. Strength. Steadfastness. They remain constant. A guide for every dragon.’

  Fáolan clenched his muzzle tight. Monny was right.

  Tell me, Fáol,’ he said when Fáolan was still searching for a response, and failing. ‘Is it an act of kindness, a prince for his subject? Is it a sense of duty? Or are you doing this out of pity for him?’

  Fáolan blinked, caught off-guard by the question—which seemed to him a veiled accusation. Why was he helping this dragonar? He was not sure himself.

  ‘It will not matter for him,’ he said at length.

  Monny considered him, and nodded, once. ‘I guess it won’t.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Fáolan nodded curtly. He was not expecting much else.

  ‘I have heard of his line,’ continued the King Lightbringer; even as they had met in oe of the less opulent palace chambers, numerous arrases stared down at them, gleaming with gold and silver thread under the light of three ornate chandeliers, ‘and knew one branch lived in Lascridh, though I was not aware the young scion has moved here. And you say this dragonar might be the last Sparkcaller in their line?’ He tapped a claw against the floor contemplatively. ‘I will have to keep an eye on him. A family leaving the noble ranks is a rare, if sad, occurrence.’

  ‘Is there nothing to be done about how he is treated?’

  The king regarded Fáolan, eyes hard. ‘He should handle these matters himself, son.’

  ‘Is it not our duty to help?’

  ‘Our duty is to Cavria,’ said the king. He stood up, paced around, before stopping at a depiction of some-or-other ancestor on the background of green thread, looking up. ‘We must tend to our empire, take care that it flourishes under our rule. I respect you wanting to make it the best place for everyone, but we cannot possibly watch over every dragon. There are matters one must take care of oneself, as guided by Unity’s will.’

  Though gentle, the king’s words carried a reprimand that did not escape Fáolan’s notice. He said, ‘Eamon said the same thing.’

  ‘Your friend knows well. And if the young Lord Sparkcaller cannot abide by the virtues of Unity, it might be for the best that he leaves the Cavrian court.’ Father looked back to Fáolan, calm and impassive as mountains’ sheer cliffs, and seeming just as approachable. ‘There is no place for weak links amongst our ranks.’

  Fáolan willed his claws not to squeeze the soft carpet underneath. He knew these were the rules—had lived with them all his life. And yet, now, with Veolar—a dragonar who did not fit, who should be cut from the shining web of Cavria’s elite—he found himself doubting it. It did not feel right to look upon a dragon such as he, and instead of reaching out a paw to help, discard him into a margin and deny him the life he should have. With a wave of newfound resolve that surprised Fáolan with its intensity, he set his eyes on a goal: he would help Veolar, at least until their Accessing Ceremony. After that—were Unity to decide his noble line should end, that would be Unity’s will, and with that Fáolan could argue not. But should Veolar possess accessing prowess, he would make sure everyone knew Veolar ál Thiamar Túirengair had a place amongst the nobles of Cavria.

  Keeping the scales on his neck from rising—it would hardly be proper in front of the king—Fáolan bowed and said, ‘I understand.’ And he turned to leave.

  ‘Fáolan?’ the king called. Fáolan stilled, unsure what to expect. He turned his head, meeting Father’s gaze again. ‘I can tell you do not plan to leave this matter be.’ Fáolan’s claws twitched. ‘Do mind, son, ones such as him are those who could benefit most from a friendship with a prince. Be careful of giving out kindness, or else dragons might exploit it.’

  Fáolan stood still for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, Father.’

  Leaving the chamber, he could not stop his mess of jumbled thoughts. He had met many dragons who had tried to worm their way into a friendship with him to come into the grace of a potential future king. Monny seemed to be the only one who wanted to get to know Fáolan, not simply build connections with the Prince Lightbringer.

  Where did Veolar fly in all this? Fáolan was not sure, though he had sensed no deceit from the dragonar. Still, only time could tell. If Veolar proved to only want to exploit Fáolan, he would be more than ready to cut the ties, but if he truly was who he had claimed to be, then he needed help.

  And that was left for Fáolan to give.