MY MYSTERIOUS COMPANION divests themselves of clothing and slumps to the floor, asleep. Leaving me alone with the worst person in the world, myself.

          You, Xuan, are a coward, I remind myself.

          I took a spear to the right leg and fell down a cliff. Hanya, the captain of my guards, tried to catch me. Her scream still echoes through my ears. After fifteen years as my bodyguard, I hope she doesn’t subsume into self-castigation. With almost one hundred percent certainty, I bet my mother would offer her a promotion. 

          Waking up at the bottom of the cliff, halfway down the mountain, bleeding from my thigh and with a broken foot, I crawled my way into this cave. I am selfish to hope that my battle mates surmise me dead. They will mourn, throw lavish parties, and elegantly wear white for a few months, but I will have escaped my gilded cage.

          I will be free.

          The thought terrifies and excites me.

          My cave companion mumbles and groans, shivering in the dark as the sun sets and we fall into complete and utter darkness. In the distance, like a faint whisper in the wind, I can barely detect the fading sounds of fighting. My mysterious companion was right. The dragon riders are departing.

          Shifting, I stretch out my right leg and groan. Praying to Xir for a blessing of healing will fall on deaf ears, yet I continuously call out. The Venterated Four have cursed me. The blessing of magic became monstrous in my hands when I can rot whatever I touch. Yet even the gilded chains around my neck hadn’t broken under my desperate fingers. The only thing I can do is wrap my thick outer robe around my leg. My leather gloves are crusty with blood, and I peel them off, throwing them into the darkness.

          Who can stop me?

          Combing my fingers through my long-tangled hair, I wince as they snag on knots and leaves. The damp, musty cave is rank with the smell of our musky sweat, the coppery tang of blood, and dirt. This discomfort is worth my escape.

          Left alone with my thoughts and the reality of my situation, I spiral like a bird caught in a tornado. It doesn’t matter how many books I’ve read; I’ve never fended for myself. Can I do this? 

          “I am a beautiful empty cup,” I whisper into the darkness.

          “You are a monster,” my mother's voice maliciously coos to me.

          “What do you do other than laze around your room and dress up in pretty clothes?” my brother's voice mocks.

          “Your highness, let me open these nuts for you; your hands are too soft and weak,” Lyda’s voice joins them.

          I cover my face and whisper a scream. Xuan, your beautifully lavish life is truly a chore to exist in. What do you have to complain about, you spoiled, pampered coward? I bang the back of my skull against the cold rock.

          The night creeps by as I untangle my long hair and breathe through the pain radiating across my leg. I cannot stop thinking about who I am without my crown. 

          Maybe I am just a pretty empty thing, and wanting more is the same as a bird wishing to swim with the fish. Yet, I’ve left my lavish cage and expect the world to lead me to a more beautiful life of freedom. This won’t go well. The Venterated Four will test me. Running will cost me, and I spend the night acquiescing to future struggles and pain.

          “I am a beautiful empty cup,” I remind myself. “But a cup even broken can find a new use.”

          My cave mate sleeps on, unaware of my growing anxiety.

 

 

***

 

 

Morning light rouses me, painting the cave with gray shadows. Something taps my left ankle and I jump, startled, remembering that I’m not alone. The movement sends a jolt of stinging pain up to my hip.

          Through gritted teeth, I greet the other person. “Ah, good morning,” I respond as good manners dictate, with the perfect soft smile that is lost in the shadows.

          “Are you injured?” the male says. His voice is low and rough as if he needs water. I lick my dry lips.

          “Yes.”

          “Can you get out of the cave without assistance?”

          I attempt to stand and grimace as pain blazes across my entire leg. “No. Talo’s dick that hurts.”

          My cave mate catches me before I fall. Baron Haun would laugh himself sick to have witnessed my moment of weakness. My cheeks flush with helplessness. What am I, a swooning maiden from a long song? Strong arms wrap around my waist and hold me close. Pressed up against the smooth skin of a naked torso, I know for sure my cave companion is a man.

          He’s a man with a very well-muscled chest and strong arms, I hypothesize, who can lift me with ease. I want to test this theory. My hands, unused to human skin under them, lightly stroke the top of his arm, fascinated at the warmth of his skin. It’s been too long since I’ve touched another person.

          The right thing would be to warn this mystery man of my curse. I bite my lip and selfishly enjoy the warmth

          “Hold onto my neck,” the gruff voice whispers in my ear. Shivers run down my spine, from pain and excitement.

          Why in Talos’ name am I acting like a green boy without experience? I am the crown prince of Kosu, the man others swoon for. I drape my left arm over his shoulder, surprised to feel tacky blood and a multitude of crisscross scars on his back.

          My companion carries me from the cave, and I’m set down delicately. In the light of day, we face each other, shocked. 

          He’s a dragon rider!

          The man is shorter than me by a hand. The top of his head comes up to my chin, but his body is deliciously muscled and stockier than my own. His distinct dragon leather and fur armor chest piece is absent. There is a ripped-up shirt tied around his chest, blood seeping through the brown cloth. In the middle of his chest is a geometric swirling heart— with two claw marks stretching out on either side like wings— that’s an angry pink like an old burn.

          The next thing I notice is his narrow, wisteria purple eyes. He’s a Jien Mau.

          Oh, he’s that Jien Mau, the war prize from twenty years ago. What was the boy’s name? I remember reading about him during one of my lessons. Chao? Chong? Cai? I can’t remember. As with most Jien Mau, he has short, curly black hair, a round face with a stubborn chin, and sun-kissed skin.

          They call him the Bloody Red Prince. The Monster in human skin and the “Pet of the Empire.” Up close, he mostly appears uncomfortable with my staring. His shoulders hunch and his brows furrow. He rubs at the pink mark as if to soothe a pain.

          Is this a trap? 

          Does he know who I am? 

          My clothing—no longer pristine—is undoubtedly of the Kosuian style, and anyone with that knowledge can read my noble status from the embroidery at the hem and sleeves.

          He hasn’t spoken a word.

          I paste on my most tolerant and neutral smile. “Thank you for assisting me in my time of need. You...” Words fail me when I accidentally put more pressure on my leg than it can hold. The limb collapses, again, and I yelp in an unprincely manner, clutching the rider’s shoulders for support.

          “Cheng.” He assists me in sliding down the side of a tree.

          Ah, that’s what his name was. The only son of the Jien Mau royal family that was given away.

          Cheng surveys the area with the eyes of a well-trained hunter. He wades through the thicket to the left, digs through the bramble, and pulls out a Kosu-style thin sword. The pocked metal glints in the sunlight. A Dragon rider holding a weapon is a chilling reminder that they are all vicious killers.

          I dig my left hand in the dirt as my right hand flexes in my lap. Cold magic seeps from my fingertips. The grass around me withers, and the ground cracks, dried and desolate. I don’t have enough energy for a large attack—maybe enough to make him violently ill—but enough to give myself a head start. The dragon rider makes a humming sound in his throat and swishes the blade through the air, chopping at a nearby bush. He drags the bush towards me.

          Is he going to cook me?

          Is it true that riders become cannibals like their dragons?

          Cheng sits down and places the sword on the ground, close enough that if I sit up, I can grab it. Not that I could do much with the weapon, my swordsmanship is abominable. Lyda was right: reading will not save mein a true battle. Thinking of my personal knights, Eason and Lyda, I send a quick prayer to Talos to guide them to safety.

          Still silent, the dragon rider strips the leaves from the bush. He then breaks limbs with his bare hands, then chops them into smaller pieces the size of his feet. He unties the sloppy bandage on my leg, ripping my robe for better access—my eyes track every twitch of his rippling muscles. Very gently, the dragon rider uses the branches to splint my ankle.

          “You are very talented at field medicine,” I compliment the man, forcing a smile. People love to be told how wonderful they are. I don’t like the idea of being in debt to the grumpy dragon rider. What could such a cruel person ask in return?

          “I’ve tended to wounded goats and eagles.”

          Was I—crown prince of Kosu—being compared to a goat? How impertinent. Not letting my irritation show, I chuckle, a light-pitched, flirty laugh quickly morphs into a hissing groan when he pokes around the wound at my thigh. I thunk my head back against the tree trunk and grit my teeth.

          “Mhn,” he muses, face unreadable.

          “To eat?” The words leave my lips before I can seize them back.

          Cheng pauses, and I tense, ready to strike. Pink flushes across his nose. “I wanted a friend. Akaimo ate them.” He rubs a hand across his dirty face. “Good enough to hobble on. Needs a sturdy stick.”

          Cheng’s hand drifts up to cover his fading bond tattoo, either in self-consciousness or as a nervous tic. If we were two nobles in a meeting, I would characterize his actions as shy, a trait I would use to expedite my agenda, knowing the other person is too weak-willed and nervous to stand up to my fake confidence and forceful insistence. I might even flirt to get my way.

          Thinking of a bloodthirsty and brutal rider as anything other than monstrous is laughable. Not even yesterday, I vowed to come to this very battlefield—where mother sent me—and help kill as many Rwynn soldiers and dragon riders as possible to protect the Langling mountain pass. If I kill him, I’d be a war hero, celebrated for decades. However, that would mean returning ot my cage.

          “Call for help.” Cheng stands up, leaving the Kosuian sword. He takes two steps south when my hazy brain catches up.

          Wait, no, don’t leave me.

          “Where are you going?” I ask the rider.

          “Away, out,” he answers, waving a hand south.

          “Home?”

          He traces the pink lines on his chest with his thumb. “Doesn’t exist.”

          “Then you don’t know where to go?”

          “Not here. South?” he responds.

           I want to pull out my hair and scream. Speak more.

          “You want to go to Langling?”

          “Ocean,” he says.

          Talking to a tree would be more informative. He’s a chiseled warrior, but I have the suspicion he’s not as strong with his brain. Langling’s ports were destroyed by the Rwynns. Kosu is the only country left where ships go out into the ocean for trade with the far-off islands in the east.

          “Langling’s ships were burned.”

          Cheng blinks at me, processing that information. Is he mad? Disappointed? Excited? What does he think? His face doesn’t twitch a muscle. The sweat and blood on my skin itch. I clench my teeth at a wave of aching pain radiating up from my ankle to my hip.

Around us, birds chirp, and the warm summer sun peeks through the clouds. A delightfully fresh breeze swirls through the tall, lush trees. Birds trill happily through the forest. It’s inconceivable that yesterday was the scene of a horrific battle.

          “Can you draw a map of where we are?” he asks, squatting in front of me. His arm wraps around his ribs. The bandage there is soaked with red, yet he doesn’t wince.

          I use a nearby stick to draw a rough sketch. I point with my stick to the top of the map. “Here is Dragon's Pit—we are down here.” I move the stick down to point at the triangles I used to represent Dragons’ Nest. From there, I direct the stick eastward to the edge, where I circle a dot showing Ellis Port at the edge of Kosu and its fallen neighboring country, Ajtan. “You would need to cross the mountains into Langling, then go through Jien Mau territory, which has been occupied by the Rwynns for twenty years, then sneak into Kosu and hurry to the port. There are three weeks before the monsoon season. During which the seas are impassable for months.” I stare into his purple eyes, firm. “I’m going to Ellis port. Together, our chances of survival double. A normal carriage ride would be fourteen days, but we will be traveling on foot, injured.” I lay out my plan to the rider. “If we push, we can make it.”

          His sharp eyes flick up and down my body. His micro-expressions are almost nonexistent, and I’m tempted to say he might not have deep thoughts. Either I am somehow becoming rusty at reading people, or he has one of the most impassive and permanently grumpy faces I have ever seen.

          “Mhn,” Cheng says with a curt nod.

          “What does that mean? Yes or no?”

          I need to get this man to play cards.

          “Yes.”

          “Fabulous. I am Xuan,” I introduce myself.

          “Can you do magic?” Cheng asks with zero subtlety. Without much effort, he lifts me to my feet, and I pant, leaning against the tree trunk, balancing on one leg as the other burns with pain. “Are you blessed by one of the four?”

          A blessing from Talos of the North would be of fire or shielding. Ephri of the South gives those she blesses gifts of air and art. Xir of the West and the setting sun. She is the goddess of healing; those blessed by her have a gift of nature and healing. Last of the four is Huiat of the East. Those with his blessing can control water and ice, and are said to have a sixth sense that allows them to see and know what others do not.

          My mother's warning rings in my head. I was not blessed by one of the four gods; I was cursed.

          “No,” I lie. Slowly, I hide my hands in my dirty sleeves. Being without my gloves is a mix of glorious rebellion and worry. Cheng doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t know to fear me.

          “Me either,” he says. 

          Huh, that’s odd for a Jien Mau. From what I read, most are blessed by Talos or Huiat.

          He hands me the sword on the ground. His calloused fingers trace the soft skin of my dirty palm, and his eyebrows furrow with a grimace. “Can you wield a sword?”

          “No,” 

          “A bow?”

          “No.”

          “Throw daggers?”

          “A little.”

          In any other instance, admitting so many shortcomings would be social suicide. I might as well show the nobles and social climbers where exactly to pull at my loose threads until I unravel. This man has no soft edges or sweet words. His actions are borderline callous, but still have a lingering hint of unease as if he’s scared of me. It’s odd.

          Cheng frowns, an expression his face naturally gravitates to. “Xuan, why were you in battle?”

          His bluntness cuts and disarms me. I can’t tell if he’s asking because he pities me being so useless or if I am being mocked. Probably both. 

          “Will you help me escape or not?” I snap at him, yanking my hand back.

          The dragon rider glances up at the sun, which is peeking over the horizon and coloring the world a soft pink. He runs a hand over the map, and finally, his eyes linger on my bandaged leg. He clenches his jaw as if resigned, and I know I’ve won.

          “Can you. . . speak to people?” The man mumbles. He gives me a firm expression as if his question is serious.

          Is . . . he asking me if I have social charm? I’m a bit offended. Have none of the tricks I’d been using on him worked? I am indisputably the prince who can make anyone swoon with a smile and words so sweet that my lips drip honey. I send him a charming smile, and the wrinkle between his brows deepens.

          Venterated four above, help me. He does need someone to interpret for him. I imagine he gets in fights a lot for all the scowling and sharp words he throws out. He won't be the most unpleasant company I’ve shared. For the price of freedom, I can make this work.

          My face relaxes into a practiced and politically neutral smile. “I have been told by countless people that I am charming .”

          “Mhn. You will talk to people. I will fight.”

          “Sounds like a plan,” I say, a real smile stretching across my face. 

          His lips twitch upwards, and I count that as a smile.