Chapter Text
The man was young. Beautiful in the way that spoke of palace gardens and poetry lessons. The crowd sighed—some in pity, others in appreciation at the sight of him.
"Wait! Please! Just give me another minute—"
Nobody heeded his plea.
Because beauty died just as easily as ugliness in Kaelos Citadel.
The blade fell and bit through flesh and bone, Hermione had grown to despise the wet sound of the finality it gave. Twenty-three. That was Prince Theodore of Northern Reaches, though his head no longer concerned itself with such titles as it rolled across the weathered stone.
Hermione didn't flinch anymore. Hadn't since the twelfth.
"Clean work." Mother's fingers pressed cold against Hermione's wrist. Empress Bellatrix of Velathyr wore mourning colors that did nothing to hide the satisfaction in her voice. "Barely any blood on the silver this time."
Below them, attendants rushed forward with blessed cloths to polish the guillotine's blade. Even a speck of tarnish on sacred silver would be blasphemy in their empire.
The crowd had transformed throughout the day. Horror at dawn, numbness by noon and now—dragon help them—entertainment. They cheered for blood the way they might cheer for theater. Hermione wondered if this was how the old world ended: with the slow rot of human decency instead of the dramatic withering of magic-starved lands.
"Next suitor!" The herald's voice cracked on the words. Even he was growing weary.
Another man stepped forward. Younger than the last, perhaps eighteen summers, with the soft hands of minor nobility and eyes that still held hope. Fool. Didn't he see the pile of heads? Couldn't he smell the copper-sweet stench of death that no amount of incense could mask?
Hermione remained seated. After the first dozen failures, standing felt like mockery.
"Princess Hermione," the young man began, his voice carrying poorly across the coliseum. "I am—"
"Your name matters only if you succeed," Uncle Rabastan interrupted from his place at Mother's left. The Lord Regent's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Present yourself for the first riddle."
The suitor swallowed, his throat working like a landed fish. For a heartbeat, she wanted to warn him. Run, she thought desperately. Just run. But the urge was already buried beneath the more pressing concern of her own neck.
"Listen well," Hermione said, her voice carried cold indifference that Mother had beaten into her since childhood. "You have one chance and ten minutes to answer."
The crowd quieted. Even now, after twenty-three failures, they hungered for the possibility of success. Or perhaps they simply enjoyed the tension before the blade fell. Hermione could no longer tell the difference. Father would've never allowed this bloodshed. Before the illness took his voice, he'd taught her riddles were for laughter, not for death.
"I am the theft that births empire," she began, watching his face pale. "I am the gift that demands blood. I sleep beneath silver wings and wake to the sound of breaking oaths. What am I?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Power?" he ventured.
Hermione shook her head.
The crowd sighed.
Magic. That was the answer. Stolen from the earth by humans, restored to the land by the dragon, waiting to destroy them all when humanity's greed broke their ancestor's promise.
If he had looked closer, he'd come to the answer easily.
But like the rest of them, this soft-handed boy came here only for glory. For the greatest empire that had survived the Age of Sand and the wonders it had built with steams and gears. He didn't care about its foundation. He'd missed the silver mixed into the executioner's blade that glittered behind him. He'd failed to notice the sleeping dragon carved into every crest, from the knight's shield to the tiny brooch pinned to Mother's dress.
Ten minutes passed like ten heartbeats and then the guards were dragging him away. He struggled then, and something in Hermione's chest twisted—the same useless ache she'd felt twenty-three times before. They always realized too late.
Twenty-four.
"The sun sets soon, darling. Hold your nerve." Mother smiled proudly, her hand stroking Hermione's wrist gently. "Three more, perhaps four and you'll be free of your uncle's game."
Free. As if she'd ever been free of twenty-four faces that would follow her into sleep. Twenty-four mothers who'd curse her name for the rest of her life. But the princess simply nodded, playing the obedient daughter Mother had crafted her to be.
Just like the Empress said, after few more of spare heirs, second sons and men who would rather gamble their lives for a throne than live quietly in obscurity, the sky finally began to darken. The last light was fading from the horizon, signifying Mother's victory in this power struggle.
"The Emperor's decree has been fulfilled!" Uncle Rabastan announced, his voice echoed across the arena. "No man has proven worthy. Princess Hermione of Velathyr will take no husband. She will rule as a Maiden Empress, devoted to the eternal slumber of our patron dragon!"
The cheer that followed was thin and forced. The whispers that slithered beneath it were far more honest.
"—the prophecy—"
"—born on the eclipse—"
"—she'll bring ruin upon the empire, dragon help us all—"
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself away. Just a few more minutes. Then she could retreat to workshop, where gears and springs obeyed logical rules and nothing bled. Or better yet, to sit at her father's bedside and pretend his illness was temporary.
The Empress rose first, a silent command for Hermione to follow. But as they turned to leave, something impossible happened.
The sun stopped.
The last sliver of orange that should have slipped below the horizon hung suspended now. The crowd murmured, voices rising in confusion and no small amount of fear. In Velathyr, they remembered omens.
"Your Majesty."
The voice came from directly below the royal platform. Hermione hadn't heard anyone approach—neither had the guards, judging by their startled reaches for weapons.
A man stood at the base of the stairs. No—stood wasn't quite right. He occupied the space as if he'd always been there, as if they'd simply failed to notice until he wished to be seen.
The man was tall, well-built, with hair so blond, it caught the suspended sunlight the way the knights' shields seemed to glitter. Weathered leather and straps wrapped his frame, the kind that spoke of months in ruins and forgotten tombs. But his skin—by dragon, his skin was unmarred. Not a scar. Not even the sun-damage that marked every ruin explorer she'd ever seen.
Hermione's first thought was that face alone could get him hunted and sold to slavery, yet here he was standing proudly before the royal family.
And his eyes...
His eyes were the exact shade of holy metal that decorated everything in Velathyr—from the threads woven into every imperial banner to the coins placed on dead men's eyes. Sacred silver. Dragon silver.
He bowed to Mother first.
"My Lord Regent." To Uncle. "Your Highness." To Hermione. Each movement was perfect, amused even. "I believe," he said, and his voice carried without effort to every corner of the coliseum, "that the day hasn't quite ended. Might I claim the honor of being the final suitor?"
Mother's nails bit crescents into Hermione's skin.
"The rules are clear," the stranger continued. "Until the last light fades, the contest continues." He gestured lazily at the frozen sun. "And would you look at that? The light persists."
"You dare—" one of the guards began.
"I dare offer myself to your princess," the man interrupted. "Unless, of course, the great Velathyrian Empire has decided to break its own sacred laws."
"Let him try," Uncle said in indifference, he'd stopped believing in miracles at this point. Probably already scheming to poison the princess' tea before her coronation. "The princess has proven... exceptionally clever today."
The stranger smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression.
"Your name, sir?" Hermione asked, standing for the first time in hours. Her legs protested, pins and needles shooting through muscles held too long in one position.
"I'm merely a humble wanderer who heard tell of a princess worth dying for, Your Highness," he replied, reaching closer to the platform. Even from this distance, Hermione could smell him—definitely not sweat or leather or any human scent in that matter. He smelled like lightning before rain or the air in the deep ruins, where old magic had died and left its ghost. "My name is not important."
"Many have died today," Hermione said flatly. "Your flattery is both unwelcome and unoriginal."
The words came out perfectly—Mother would be proud of that ice. No one would guess her hands were trembling beneath her sleeves.
He laughed.
"Then let's dispense with flattery," he said. "Give me your riddles, Your Highness. Let's see if your cleverness matches your reputation."
Such arrogance.
"Very well," Hermione said. "Your first riddle: I am the price of mercy, the weight of sleeping gods. I grow heavier with each year that passes, yet no scale can measure me. What am I?"
The crowd held its breath. Even the wind stilled.
The wanderer only pursed his lips as if he was disappointed.
"Debt," he said simply. "The answer is debt."
Hermione's heart stopped. He was right. The only suitor who managed to answer her riddle correctly since this spectacle began.
"Correct," Hermione said. Her voice steady despite her panic.
The crowd erupted. Mother's grip loosened slightly—surprise or calculation, Hermione couldn't tell.
"The second riddle," she said quickly, mind racing for something—anything—he couldn't possibly know. "I devour knowledge and birth ignorance. I am the comfort that preceded catastrophe, the blessing that became a curse. Emperors fear me more than death, yet invite me to every feast. What am I?"
This time he didn't even pause.
"Forgetting," he answered, then paused. "Or if you prefer the poetic, willful blindness. The thing that lets empires sleep soundly while their foundations rot."
The accuracy of it—the way he'd cut straight to the heart of what she'd meant—
"Hermione," the Empress hissed. "Do not—"
But Hermione already said it. "Correct."
Uncle Rabastan leaned forward now, genuine interest replacing his earlier indifference. A nobody who could stand before the empire's greatest mind and win? Miracle was real, it turned out. He was seeing possibilities now, a puppet with a brain and no baggage of Empress Mother unlike Hermione.
"Your final riddle, Your Highness," the wanderer said, and was he mocking Hermione? That slight emphasis on the title, the infuriating way his mouth curved—
"I am the truth in silver." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "I am the promise broken before it was made. I am the awakening that will end a bloodline. What am I?"
Silence.
The wanderer's smile widened.
"How remarkably specific," he murmured, stepping closer. Close enough that Hermione could see flecks of darker silver in those impossible eyes, like tarnish on their holy metal. "The answer, Your Highness, is vengeance. Divine vengeance. The kind that waits a thousand years to collect what's owed."
Hermione's mouth went dry.
He knew.
How?
The broken pact wasn't written in any history book. It wasn't whispered in taverns or sung in ballads. First Emperor of Velathyr kept the documents in a vault that required three keys—reigning Emperor's, his Empress' and the heir to the throne's. The servants who'd once known were long dead, their silence ensured with poison.
Only royal blood knew.
"Well?" Uncle's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. His eyes met hers, impatient. "Is he correct?"
Hermione's mind raced.
She could lie.
One simple 'no' and the guards would drag him to the guillotine. Twenty-five heads instead of twenty-four. What difference did one more make?
Hermione would rule as the Maiden Empress. Mother would control her like a puppet with strings and Uncle would resort to the one thing he always does when cornered: plotting their demise. Hermione would be trapped, yes, and likely dead soon, but she would still be innocent. Victim just like those suitors.
But if she lied... this man's blood wouldn't be on their hands anymore.
It would be on hers.
The slight curve of the wanderer's mouth was a dare, as if he could see straight through her skin to the frightened girl beneath the princess mask.
Go on, it seemed to say. Choose your truth.
Hermione opened her mouth to lie. Instead—
"Yes," she whispered. Then louder, "Yes. He's correct."
Cheers and wailing tangled together, twenty thousand voices trying to process the impossible. The cursed princess—the girl who'd killed two dozen suitors with her cruel riddles—had finally met her match.
Hermione heard none of it.
Because the wanderer was smiling now and it was the most unsettling expression she'd ever seen. As if she'd passed some test she hadn't known she was taking.
"What have you done?!" Mother grabbed Hermione's shoulders, shaking her. The Empress's regal mask shattered in a moment of fury.
"Calm yourself, Your Majesty." Uncle stepped between them, one hand raised in placation, the other already guiding Hermione forward with a grip just shy of painful. "The law has been satisfied. We have our winner."
Hermione's legs moved without her permission. Four steps down from the dais while the wanderer met her halfway, ascending with that same lazy grace. He knelt and Hermione extended her hand. Because that was what princesses did. They performed and bled in private.
His fingers closed around hers. Cold. It was the chill of metal that had never seen sun. When his lips brushed her knuckles, the kiss burned like frostbite. Her hand shook in his grip and his mouth curved against her skin. Hermione tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened.
"The princess seems reluctant," the stranger announced. "Perhaps she finds me unworthy."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Hermione caught fragments:
"—ungrateful—"
"—he won her fairly—"
"—thinks herself too good—"
But before she could speak, the wanderer continued.
"I propose a compromise." The wanderer released her hand and stood. "A final test—not of my worthiness, but of fate itself."
Hermione stepped back. "I've administered all the tests required by law."
"But not by tradition." His smile showed too many teeth. "The oldest stories speak of names and their power. Give me three days, Your Highness. Three days to court you properly. If you can discover my name in that time, my life is yours to take or spare as you wish."
The crowd quieted, hanging on his every word.
"And if I fail?" Hermione asked, hating how her voice betrayed her uncertainty.
"If you fail…" For a heartbeat, Hermione saw something else in his gaze—something ancient and vast, watching her through a human mask. "Then you become mine."
The crowd erupted in cheers. Women clutched their hearts, men whistled and shouted encouragement. They saw romance where Hermione sensed danger. They heard a gallant offer where she heard chains being forged. All they cared about was the possibility of the prophecy being proven untrue.
"Such appreciation for tradition," Lord Regent called out, his voice cutting through the noise. "A name-quest! Just like the old tales." He turned to the crowd. "What say you, Velathyrian? Shall our princess accept this noble challenge?"
"Accept! Accept!" The chant began in scattered pockets, then spread like wildfire.
"Stop this madness, Rabastan," Mother hissed, descending to Hermione's side. "You cannot seriously entertain—"
"The people have spoken," Uncle Rabastan interrupted. "And I, as Lord Regent, support their will." He gave Hermione a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Unless the princess wishes to disappoint her future subjects?"
Hermione felt the walls were closing in on her. Refuse, and she'd be further cementing her role as the villain—the cruel princess who executed twenty-four men, then rejected a fair chance when faced with a worthy opponent. Accept, and she'd—
What exactly?
The most brilliant engineer of this empire had nothing to fear, she'd find a way as she always did. He was just a man. Just a lucky man with strange eyes and cold hands and... made the sun stop.
"I—" Hermione started.
"The Princess accepts!" Uncle Rabastan's voice boomed across the coliseum before she could finish. He grabbed her wrist, raising her hand high. "Three days! Princess Hermione accepts the challenge!"
The roar of approval solidified Hermione's horror. Mother's face had gone white with fury but the Lord Regent was already speaking over her, cementing the agreement before it could be undone.
"The terms are set! Three days to discover his name! If she succeeds, his life is forfeit! If she fails—" He paused for effect. "—she honors her word as a princess of Velathyr."
The wanderer's smile widened. He bowed, deep and mocking. "I am grateful for the princess'… generosity."
As he straightened, the sun finally completed its descent. Darkness rushed in and for one breath, the shadows around him deepened until he seemed to be standing in a pool of absolute black, as if the light itself was afraid to touch him.
Then the moment passed, the gas torches were lit and he was just a man again. If he'd ever been just a man at all.
He descended backward, never taking his eyes off Hermione, and with each step he seemed to fade slightly like the darkness was claiming him by degrees. By the time he reached the bottom, Hermione could barely see him at all.
But Hermione could still feel those eyes on her. Could still feel the cold burn of his kiss on her knuckles.
"I'll see you soon." His voice caressed her ears despite their distance. "My dear princess."
Then the wanderer was gone, blending into the rest of the remaining suitors, leaving only questions and the lingering smell of lightning in the air.
Hermione balled her hands into fist, willing it to stop trembling. Yet they refused to obey her command.