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The mountains rose for another two days before Roland finally saw it.

At first he mistook it for another snow-covered peak.

Then the morning mist shifted.

His breath caught.

Frostspire.

It was unlike anything he had imagined.

The fortress did not merely stand upon the mountain—it had become part of it.

Great towers of white stone climbed toward the heavens, their windows gleaming with pale blue crystal that caught the winter sun like frozen stars. Vast bridges stretched across dizzying chasms, connecting towering spires carved directly into the mountainside. Frozen waterfalls spilled down sheer cliffs, glimmering like sheets of polished glass.

Massive dragon statues stood sentinel over the winding road.

Beyond them, hundreds of banners danced in the cold wind.

Above the city, wyverns circled gracefully through the crisp mountain air.

Roland had expected something dark.

Something cruel.

Instead...

"It is..." he whispered before he could stop himself.

Verex glanced toward him.

"...Beautiful."

The Dragon King's crimson eyes softened.

"I've always thought so."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Roland continued staring.

It was the first time he realized that Verex did not see Frostspire as the heart of an empire.

He saw it as home.

-

The gates opened long before they reached them.

Thousands of Dragonborn with scales of every colour imaginable lined the broad avenue leading toward the palace.

They knelt as one.

"My King!"

Their voices echoed through the valley.

"Welcome home!"

Verex acknowledged them with a simple nod.

No grand speech.

No triumphant display.

His attention drifted, almost instinctively, toward Roland.

The young king sat a little straighter in his saddle, visibly overwhelmed by the scale of everything around him.

Whispers rippled through the gathered crowd.

"The human king..."

"So that's him."

"He's smaller than I expected."

"Our king brought him himself."

"I've never seen His Majesty escort anyone."

Curiosity filled the air.

But there was no mockery.

No hatred.

If anything, there was bewilderment.

Verex had returned from seventeen campaigns alone.

Now he rode beside a human.

And no one understood why.

-

Verex dismounted first.

Before Roland could attempt climbing down from his taller northern horse, the Dragonborn had already crossed around.

He stopped.

Not touching him.

Simply offering one clawed hand.

Roland hesitated only briefly before accepting it.

Verex's hand dwarfed his own.

Warm.

Steady.

Roland stepped carefully to the ground.

His legs wobbled after weeks in the saddle.

Without thinking, Verex's other hand settled lightly against his elbow to steady him.

Only until Roland regained his balance.

Then it disappeared immediately.

Never lingering.

Never assuming.

Roland looked up.

"...Thank you."

"You've ridden farther than most people ever do."

"I'm glad to know I looked graceful."

"You did not."

Roland stared.

Then Verex's mouth twitched.

The smallest hint of amusement.

Roland bite back his laughter

"You are terrible."

"So I've been told."

It was the first time the conversation felt...

Easy.

Almost natural.

For just a heartbeat.

-

The palace itself was warmer than Roland expected.

Immense braziers burned with blue dragon-fire that filled every corridor with gentle warmth.

The ceilings soared overhead, supported by carved pillars depicting the history of Dragonborn kings stretching back hundreds of years.

Crystal chandeliers shimmered above polished marble floors.

Servants bowed deeply.

Nobles knelt as Verex passed.

Roland instinctively slowed his steps.

He suddenly felt painfully aware of how foreign he looked.

How small.

How alone.

Verex noticed immediately.

Without a word, the Dragon King slowed his own stride.

Not enough for anyone else to remark upon it.

Just enough that Roland no longer walked several paces behind.

It was a tiny gesture.

Yet somehow...

It eased the knot in Roland's chest.

-

Eventually Verex stopped before a pair of immense carved doors.

Two guards opened them at once.

"My king."

Verex inclined his head.

"You may leave us."

The guards bowed and disappeared.

Roland stepped inside.

Then stopped completely.

"This..."

The chambers were enormous.

A roaring fireplace warmed a comfortable sitting room filled with shelves already lined with books.

Beyond it stood a spacious bedchamber draped in rich blue fabrics embroidered with silver thread.

A marble bathing room stood ready, steam curling gently into the air.

Tall windows overlooked endless snow-covered mountains disappearing into the horizon.

The room was magnificent.

But that was not what stole Roland's breath.

Near the largest window stood another room.

Its ceiling was made almost entirely of glass.

Northern light poured through it.

Canvases rested upon polished easels.

Shelves held carefully arranged pigments, brushes, charcoal, palettes, oils, and fresh linen canvas.

An artist's studio.

Complete in every detail.

Roland stared.

His feet carried him inside almost without his permission.

His fingers drifted across the smooth wooden easel.

The brushes.

The unopened paints.

His voice emerged scarcely louder than a whisper.

"...A studio."

Verex watched quietly.

"I was told artists require good natural light."

Roland slowly turned.

"For... me?"

"They are your chambers."

"I..."

He looked around again, unable to believe what he was seeing.

"I don't understand."

"I asked what was needed."

"You asked?"

"I did."

Roland picked up a fine sable brush with almost reverent care.

It was of exceptional quality.

Better than any he had owned in Dyrestone.

His throat tightened.

"I left all of mine behind."

"I know."

"You replaced them."

"Yes."

Roland looked down at the brush in his hand.

For several long moments, he could not find the words.

Finally...

"...Thank you."

Verex stepped farther into the room.

The northern light reflected softly from his icy blue scales.

"Are the chambers acceptable?"

Roland looked at him, astonishment still plain upon his face.

"They are far more than acceptable."

His gaze wandered slowly across the studio again.

"They're... beautiful."

A silence settled between them.

Not uncomfortable.

Simply thoughtful.

Verex's eyes came to rest upon one of the blank canvases.

Then back to Roland.

"Do you still paint?"

The question surprised him.

Roland lowered his eyes.

"I haven't..."

His fingers tightened gently around the brush.

"...since I heard word of your march on Dyrestone."

Verex's expression became unreadable.

"I see."

"I could not."

Roland smiled faintly, though there was sadness in it.

"Every canvas reminded me of what I was about to lose."

Another quiet silence passed.

Then Verex spoke, his deep voice unexpectedly gentle.

"When we were children..."

Roland looked up.

"...you told me butterflies should be painted because they never stay."

Roland blinked in surprise.

"You remember that?"

"I remember everything."

The words hung between them.

Verex stepped toward the nearest window, looking out over the snowy mountains.

"I kept wondering whether you still painted."

Roland's heart gave the faintest, most confusing flutter.

No one had asked him that question since his father died.

No one.

Verex turned back to him.

"You owe me no answer today."

His crimson eyes drifted once more to the untouched easel.

"But..."

He paused.

"I hope, one day, this room is no longer filled only with blank canvases."

Roland followed his gaze.

For the first time since surrendering his crown...

He imagined placing paint upon canvas again.

Not because he had forgotten Dyrestone.

Not because he had accepted captivity.

But because, somewhere beneath the grief...

The part of him that had always loved beauty was still alive.

Verex inclined his head respectfully.

"I shall leave you to settle in."

He crossed the room and paused at the doorway.

Without turning, he said quietly,

"If there is anything you require... ask."

Then he was gone.

The heavy doors closed with a muted thud.

Roland stood alone in the silent studio.

The fire crackled softly in the other room.

Snow drifted beyond the tall windows.

Everything was still.

It should have felt peaceful.

Instead, it felt unfamiliar.

Slowly, almost cautiously, Roland wandered back toward the bathing chamber.

Warm steam curled lazily through the air, carrying the scent of cedar and lavender. The stone floor beneath his bare feet was pleasantly warm, heated by the mountain's hidden springs.

The bath itself was unlike anything he had ever seen.

Perfectly round, carved from a single block of pale granite, its surface smooth from centuries of use. Clear water shimmered gently, faint wisps of steam dancing across its surface.

Roland reached out.

His fingertips barely touched the water before warmth spread through them.

He closed his eyes.

Warm.

He had almost forgotten what truly warm felt like after days of travel through the northern cold.

Slowly he began removing the layers he had worn for the journey.

The thick cloak Verex had given him.

His gloves.

His boots.

His tunic.

Everything was folded with unconscious care and placed neatly upon a nearby bench.

Old habits.

His mother had always insisted that even difficult days deserved orderly endings.

When nothing remained between himself and the rising steam, Roland hesitated only a heartbeat before lowering himself into the bath.

The warmth embraced him instantly.

He inhaled sharply.

Every aching muscle loosened.

The stiffness in his shoulders melted away.

His feet, chilled from days in the saddle, almost tingled as feeling returned.

He sank deeper until only his face remained above the water.

For several long moments...

He simply breathed.

No soldiers.

No horses.

No endless roads.

Only silence.

Eventually he drew his knees toward his chest, wrapping both arms around them beneath the water.

He rested his forehead against his knees.

The position was almost childlike.

Small.

Protected.

The steam drifted quietly around him.

"I don't understand," he whispered.

His own voice sounded strange inside the empty chamber.

He had prepared himself for imprisonment.

For cold stone cells.

For chains.

Perhaps not literal ones...

But invisible ones.

Isolation.

Humiliation.

Every lesson history had ever taught him suggested that conquered kings were not treated kindly.

Some were executed.

Some disappeared quietly.

Some spent the remainder of their lives forgotten in lonely towers.

Instead...

He had been given warm clothing before he could ask.

A horse fit for a king.

Meals prepared according to his tastes.

Privacy.

Gentleness.

His own title.

Now...

A suite grander than the palace he'd left behind.

And an artist's studio.

His fingers tightened around his legs.

Why?

The question refused to leave him.

Verex had conquered his kingdom.

That much was undeniable.

Families were grieving because Dragonborn banners now flew over Dyrestone's walls.

Roland himself had surrendered his crown.

Nothing about that could be softened.

Nothing.

And yet...

The conqueror himself...

He remembered butterflies.

He remembered paintings.

He noticed when Roland skipped meals.

He watched to make sure he was warm.

He had quietly ordered a room filled with paints because he remembered what a frightened little boy had loved twenty years ago.

Roland buried his face against his knees.

It made no sense.

He wanted to hate him.

Part of him insisted he should.

It would be easier.

Cleaner.

Safer.

But hatred became strangely difficult whenever Verex looked at him with those solemn crimson eyes, as though he were forever worried he had already caused Roland too much pain.

Then the journey.

Verex riding beside him instead of ahead.

Offering him warmth without making a spectacle of it.

Quietly inviting him to dinner because he had noticed Roland was barely eating.

Never demanding conversation.

Never forcing gratitude.

Never asking for anything in return.

Roland groaned softly, pressing his forehead harder against his knees.

"I don't understand you."

The words disappeared into the steam.

Outside, somewhere in the vast citadel, Verex was likely surrounded by advisers and generals, making decisions that shaped kingdoms.

Yet somehow Roland could not reconcile that image with the man who had paused on the road simply to admire one of his sketches.

Or who had remembered, after twenty years, that he preferred natural light when he painted.

His eyes stung unexpectedly.

He hadn't cried.

Not when he surrendered.

Not when he watched the Dragonborn banners replace his own.

Not when he crossed the border into another kingdom.

He had refused himself that.

His people had needed to see their king stand with dignity.

But here...

Alone.

Hidden by curling steam.

The first tear escaped before he realized it.

Then another.

They disappeared unnoticed into the warm water.

"I miss home."

His voice trembled.

"I miss the orchards."

He laughed weakly through the tears.

"The east garden..."

The one where he'd spent entire afternoons painting wildflowers while ministers searched the palace for their absent king.

The old apple tree.

The little pond where ducks nested every spring.

The smell of fresh rain on Dyrestone's stone walls.

His library.

His people.

His home.

He wondered how they were faring.

Whether the markets had reopened.

Whether children still chased one another through the streets.

Whether the baker still burned the morning bread every Tuesday.

Whether old Mrs. Haverford still scolded anyone who tracked mud into the temple.

He hoped so.

He hoped life continued.

He had surrendered precisely so it could.

If Dyrestone lived on...

Then perhaps his choice had been worthwhile.

Even if he would never see it again.

The thought hollowed something inside him.

He closed his eyes.

The silence lingered.

Eventually the tears stopped on their own.

Roland remained curled quietly in the water, listening to the distant hum of the mountain.

Somewhere beneath him, ancient springs flowed unseen through the heart of Frostspire, warming the citadel from within.

The mountain has a warm heart.

He thought to himself.

Roland wondered, despite himself...

If perhaps the Dragonborn king did as well.

The thought startled him.

He opened his eyes immediately, almost guilty for having entertained it.

"No," he whispered to himself.

"You mustn't forget."

Whatever kindness Verex showed him...

However genuine it seemed...

Roland was still a hostage.

The doors to these beautiful chambers would open only with another's permission.

His kingdom was no longer his own.

His freedom had been surrendered alongside his crown.

He could appreciate kindness.

He could even be grateful for it.

But he could not mistake it for liberty.

Holding on to that truth felt necessary somehow.

Like an anchor.

Even as the warm water soothed his body, Roland promised himself he would remember both realities at once.

Verex Frostscale had taken everything from him.

And somehow...

He was also the one trying, in quiet and careful ways, to ensure that what remained did not break.

-

Roland awoke to silence.

Not the comforting silence of Dyrestone's gardens, broken by birdsong and rustling leaves.

This was different.

Snow muffled the world beyond his windows until Frostspire seemed suspended outside of time itself.

For several moments, he simply lay beneath the thick quilts, listening to the crackle of the fireplace.

Then reality returned.

He was no longer King of Dyrestone.

He was a royal hostage.

His chambers, magnificent though they were, remained a gilded cage.

He dressed slowly in the winter clothing prepared for him before wandering into the painting studio.

Morning light poured through the great glass ceiling, bathing the empty canvases in soft silver.

Roland stood before one of them for a long while.

His fingers hovered over a brush.

Then retreated.

"...Not yet."

A gentle knock interrupted the quiet.

"My lord?"

The voice was unfamiliar.

"You may enter."

The doors opened cautiously.

Two young Dragonborn stepped inside.

Both bowed deeply.

The first was a woman, perhaps a few years older than Roland. Her scales were a rich forest green, polished like emeralds, with warm amber eyes and elegantly swept horns adorned with simple silver bands. Though tall by human standards, she carried herself with quiet grace rather than intimidation.

Beside her stood a broad-shouldered young man with bronze scales burnished like autumn leaves. His golden eyes seemed perpetually on the verge of smiling, though he maintained proper decorum. A neatly folded towel rested over one arm.

The woman spoke first.

"My lord, I am Lyra."

The bronze-scaled Dragonborn inclined his head.

"And I am Dain."

Roland smiled politely.

"It is a pleasure to meet you."

Both attendants exchanged a brief glance.

They had expected fear.

Perhaps resentment.

Not kindness.

Lyra recovered first.

"His Majesty has assigned us to attend to your household."

"My household?"

"You will require assistance while living here."

Roland looked around the spacious chambers.

"I have never had attendants of my own."

Dain blinked.

"You... haven't?"

"I dressed myself."

"I prepared my own paints."

"I often carried supplies for the castle artists."

The bronze Dragonborn looked genuinely bewildered.

"But... you were a king."

Roland laughed softly.

"So everyone keeps reminding me."

The sound eased the tension in the room.

Dain's tail gave the smallest twitch.

Lyra smiled despite herself.

Perhaps...

This human king would not be difficult after all.

—

As the morning passed, the three slowly settled into an easy rhythm.

Lyra helped unpack Roland's belongings from the carefully packed travel chests.

His favorite books.

Letters from his late parents.

A silver paint knife worn smooth from years of use.

Dain busied himself arranging furniture and tending the fire.

Neither spoke unnecessarily.

Neither hovered.

Roland appreciated that.

Eventually Lyra held up a framed painting wrapped carefully in linen.

"My lord?"

Roland turned immediately.

His expression softened.

"My mother's."

The portrait showed a summer meadow bursting with wildflowers beneath a bright blue sky.

The brushwork was unmistakably Roland's.

"I painted it after she passed."

Lyra regarded it quietly.

"It is beautiful."

Roland smiled sadly.

"She loved flowers."

"We have many gardens here."

The words escaped Lyra before she thought better of them.

Roland looked surprised.

"In Frostspire?"

"His Majesty spends much of spring there."

Dain chuckled.

"Far more than most people realize."

Lyra sighed.

"You shouldn't gossip."

"I wasn't."

"You absolutely were."

Roland looked between them.

"...The Dragon King enjoys gardening?"

Both attendants blinked.

"You didn't know?"

Roland slowly shook his head.

"I assumed..."

He stopped himself.

"What?"

"I imagined kings had little time for flowers."

Dain grinned.

"Ours somehow makes time."

"He grows winter roses."

"And rare herbs."

"And vegetables."

Lyra folded another shirt.

"He insists on planting many of them himself."

Roland stared.

It was difficult to reconcile that image with the towering conqueror who had marched an army across half the continent.

—

By midday, Roland found himself asking questions.

"What is the palace like?"

"Does everyone know everyone?"

"How long have you both served here?"

Lyra answered patiently.

"I've served the royal household for eight years."

"My mother served before me."

Dain smiled proudly.

"My father trained the palace guards."

"I was too clumsy."

Lyra snorted.

"You still are."

"I've improved."

"You walked into a pillar yesterday."

"There was poor lighting."

"There was noon sunlight."

Roland laughed.

This time, both attendants laughed with him.

The room suddenly felt far less empty.

—

Late that afternoon another knock sounded.

Lyra opened the doors.

Both attendants immediately bowed.

"My king."

Verex entered wearing dark blue robes instead of armor.

Without his crown or breastplate, he looked less like an unstoppable conqueror and more like... simply Verex.

His crimson gaze settled first upon Roland.

"You look rested."

"I slept well."

"I am pleased."

His eyes briefly moved toward Lyra and Dain.

"Has everything been satisfactory?"

"Perfectly, Your Majesty," Lyra answered.

"They've been wonderfully patient with me," Roland added.

Verex gave the two attendants a subtle nod of approval before returning his attention to Roland.

"I hope the chambers have become more familiar."

"They have."

"And the studio?"

Roland glanced toward it.

"I've spent most of the morning there."

"You painted?"

Roland hesitated.

"...Not yet."

Verex accepted the answer without disappointment.

"There is no hurry."

Silence lingered for a moment.

Then Verex spoke again.

"I wondered..."

Roland looked up.

"...if you might accompany me."

"Where?"

The faintest smile touched the Dragon King's face.

"The palace library."

Roland blinked.

"The... library?"

"It seemed an appropriate place to begin showing you your new home."

Dain's eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly.

Lyra hid her surprise rather better.

In eight years of service, neither had ever heard of the Dragon King personally giving someone a tour of the palace.

Verex continued, apparently unaware of their astonishment.

"You may go anywhere within the inner palace."

"I remember."

"It is easier to do so if you know where everything is."

Roland considered the invitation.

The palace still frightened him.

So did the man standing before him.

Yet...

Books had always felt like safe places.

Finally, he nodded.

"I would like that."

Verex inclined his head.

"Good."

He stepped aside, waiting rather than commanding.

Roland slipped on his cloak before joining him.

As they reached the doorway, Lyra quietly called after him.

"My lord?"

Roland turned.

"I hope you enjoy the library."

Dain smiled.

"I suspect you will."

Roland returned the smile.

"So do I."

Together, the human king and the Dragon King disappeared into Frostspire's winding corridors.

Behind them, Lyra watched until they vanished from sight.

Then she looked at Dain.

"Our king has never shown anyone the royal library."

Dain folded his arms thoughtfully.

"I don't think he's showing Roland the library."

"No?"

"I think..."

He smiled knowingly.

"...he's showing Roland a piece of himself."

-

The halls of Frostspire stretched on like the veins of the mountain itself.

Roland walked half a pace behind Verex, his footsteps almost inaudible against polished stone.

Neither spoke much.

Not because the silence was uncomfortable.

But because neither seemed quite certain what should be said.

Sunlight filtered through towering crystal windows, casting pale ribbons of blue across the marble floor. Servants bowed as the Dragon King passed. Palace guards struck their spear shafts lightly against the stone in salute.

Every time someone knelt before Verex, Roland was reminded of the gulf between them.

He had once inspired the same gestures.

Now he merely walked beside the man who had inherited them all.

Verex seemed to sense where Roland's thoughts had drifted.

"They're staring."

Roland offered a small, apologetic smile.

"I hope I am not causing too much gossip."

"You are."

Roland looked embarrassed.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't say I minded."

The answer surprised him.

Verex glanced sideways.

"The palace has needed something new to discuss."

Roland laughed quietly.

"I suppose I've provided that."

"You certainly have."

A faint smile touched Verex's face.

"I've heard three contradictory rumors already."

Roland looked intrigued despite himself.

"Oh?"

"The first is that you're a dangerous sorcerer."

Roland blinked.

"I can barely light a candle with magic."

"The second is that you're secretly a prince disguised as a king."

"I don't even know what that means."

"Neither do I."

"And the third?"

Verex's crimson eyes sparkled with unmistakable amusement.

"The third is that I've brought home the most beautiful man in the south because I intend to marry him."

Roland stumbled mid-step.

His cheeks became crimson.

"I..."

Verex calmly continued walking.

"I've learned not to encourage palace rumors."

"You said that remarkably calmly."

"I've had practice."

Roland hid behind the collar of his cloak, trying unsuccessfully to cool his burning face.

Verex pretended not to notice.

He was smiling.

A real one.

—

They climbed a broad spiral staircase that seemed to wind endlessly upward.

Finally, Verex stopped before two immense doors carved from pale cedar.

Each was inlaid with silver constellations stretching from top to bottom.

Roland's eyes widened.

"...Stars."

Verex rested one clawed hand upon the bronze handle.

"My favorite place."

The doors swung inward.

Roland forgot how to breathe.

The library seemed almost endless.

Shelves climbed three stories high, connected by graceful iron walkways that curved between towering bookcases.

Thousands upon thousands of books filled the room.

Sunlight poured through a vast domed ceiling made almost entirely of crystal, illuminating drifting dust like tiny stars suspended in the air.

Rolling ladders stretched along the shelves.

Comfortable chairs sat beside enormous fireplaces.

Scholars worked quietly at long tables.

The scent of old parchment, leather bindings and cedar filled the room.

Roland stood motionless.

"...By the gods..."

Verex watched his expression carefully.

"I thought you might like it."

"Like it?"

Roland laughed softly in disbelief.

"I think I could happily lose myself here for years."

"I often have."

Roland looked at him.

"You spend much time here?"

"Every week."

"You read all of these?"

"Not all."

Verex's voice carried the faintest hint of embarrassment.

"...Only several hundred."

Roland stared.

"Several..."

Verex cleared his throat.

"I read quickly."

Roland couldn't help smiling.

"I see."

The Dragon King led him between the towering shelves with surprising familiarity.

His large hand brushed gently across worn leather bindings as though greeting old friends.

"This wing contains histories."

He continued onward.

"Natural philosophy."

Another turn.

"Medicine."

Roland slowed.

"You have medical texts?"

"Thousands."

"I thought Dragonborn relied primarily upon battlefield healers."

"We do."

"But understanding illness saves more lives than treating wounds."

Roland nodded thoughtfully.

"I agree."

Verex looked almost pleased.

"I thought you might."

They continued deeper into the library.

Eventually Verex stopped before a shelf tucked into a quiet alcove.

Unlike the others, these books showed obvious signs of frequent use.

Several contained folded ribbons marking favorite passages.

Others bore careful repairs to worn bindings.

Roland smiled.

"These are yours."

Verex looked mildly surprised.

"How did you know?"

"They've been loved."

For a long moment, Verex simply regarded him.

Then...

He reached for the first volume.

"I read this every winter."

Roland accepted the book carefully.

It was an old collection of northern legends.

The margins were filled with neat handwriting.

"You make notes."

"I forget things."

"You remember conversations from twenty years ago."

"I forget names."

Roland laughed.

"That seems unfair."

Verex selected another.

"This one."

It was a beautifully illustrated study of rare alpine flowers.

"You enjoy botany."

"I garden."

"So I've heard."

Verex raised an eyebrow.

"From whom?"

Roland smiled innocently.

"I promised not to reveal my sources."

"I see."

"I also heard you're particularly proud of your winter roses."

Verex looked almost scandalized.

"Lyra."

Roland tried very hard not to laugh.

"I can neither confirm nor deny."

"They've betrayed state secrets."

"I'm not certain flowers qualify."

"They do."

Another laugh escaped Roland.

The sound echoed softly through the quiet library.

Several scholars looked up briefly before returning to their work.

Verex found himself thinking that laughter belonged here.

—

They wandered for nearly an hour.

Books became an unexpectedly easy language between them.

Roland spoke enthusiastically about illuminated manuscripts from Dyrestone.

Verex confessed a fascination with ancient kingdoms that no longer existed.

They compared favorite poets.

Debated whether history was better understood through rulers or ordinary people.

Neither noticed how naturally conversation had begun to flow.

Then Verex stopped before an enormous circular chamber.

The ceiling arched into a crystal dome through which the pale afternoon sky was perfectly visible.

The shelves here were different.

Globes.

Star charts.

Brass instruments.

Celestial maps.

Roland's entire face lit with unmistakable delight.

"Astronomy."

Verex smiled.

"My favorite collection."

Roland moved immediately toward one of the tables, forgetting entirely that he stood beside the Dragon King.

An enormous hand-painted map of the heavens lay open beneath glass.

He leaned over it with childlike wonder.

"This chart..."

His fingers hovered carefully above the parchment.

"...it's from the Northern Observatories."

Verex stopped.

"You recognize it."

Roland looked up in surprise.

"Of course."

"I've never met another person who did."

"My father and I spent nights mapping the summer constellations."

Verex stared.

"My mother taught me the winter sky."

A silence settled between them.

Not awkward.

Reverent.

Roland slowly turned another page.

"You have The Wanderer's Atlas."

"I do."

"I've searched for this since I was fifteen."

Verex looked genuinely astonished.

"You know it?"

"I practically memorized the copy in our monastery library."

Verex crossed the room in three quick strides.

"You've read Chapter Nine?"

Roland looked delighted.

"The section about calculating eclipses?"

"It proves the old imperial charts were wrong."

"I know!"

Roland laughed.

"The mathematics are brilliant."

Verex laughed too.

The sound was deep, warm, and utterly unguarded.

Several scholars glanced toward them in open surprise.

None of them had ever heard the Dragon King laugh inside the library.

Neither Verex nor Roland noticed.

They were already bent over another chart together.

Their shoulders almost touched as Verex pointed toward a familiar constellation.

"In Frostspire we call that the Dragon's Crown."

Roland smiled.

"In Dyrestone..."

He traced the same stars with one slender finger.

"...we call it the Scholar’s Lantern."

Verex looked at him.

"The same stars."

Roland nodded softly.

"Different stories."

For a long moment, they simply stood beneath the crystal dome, looking upward where the afternoon sky waited beyond the glass.

It struck Roland then that although their kingdoms had been separated by mountains, language, and war...

They had both grown up looking at the very same heavens.

The realization settled quietly between them.

-

Neither of them realized how much time had passed.

The library's great crystal dome had slowly darkened as afternoon drifted toward evening, and servants had quietly lit lamps throughout the vast hall. Golden light danced across polished shelves while snow drifted lazily beyond the windows.

Roland reluctantly closed The Wanderer's Atlas.

"I fear I've kept you here far longer than you intended."

Verex gently slid the book back into its place.

"I intended to spend the afternoon here."

Roland looked at him.

"You did?"

Verex nodded.

"I simply expected to spend it alone."

Something about the quiet honesty of the answer made Roland smile.

"I'm glad you didn't."

The words escaped before he had time to consider them.

For a heartbeat, silence settled between them.

Verex's crimson eyes searched Roland's face, as though trying to determine whether he truly meant it.

Then, with a small inclination of his head, he said simply,

"As am I."

—

They left the library together.

This time, the silence between them felt companionable.

As they wandered through Frostspire's endless corridors, Verex abandoned the formal pace expected of a king. Instead, he walked slowly, allowing Roland time to admire everything that caught his eye.

They passed galleries lined with centuries of Dragonborn history.

Massive tapestries depicting ancient battles hung beside peaceful landscapes of snow-covered valleys.

Roland stopped before one painting.

It showed a Dragonborn family gathered around a hearth while snow fell outside.

No crowns.

No armor.

Only warmth.

"It isn't what I expected."

Verex followed his gaze.

"What did you expect?"

"More victories."

"There are enough paintings of war."

His voice was thoughtful.

"I have never understood why rulers commission reminders of bloodshed when there is already so much of it."

Roland looked at him in surprise.

"You don't enjoy military paintings?"

"I've lived enough military history."

There was no bitterness in his tone.

Only quiet fatigue.

"I would rather remember what we fight to protect."

Roland found himself studying Verex instead of the painting.

The Dragon King's profile was illuminated by the afternoon light.

For just an instant...

He looked tired.

Not physically.

But as though the weight of an empire had settled across his shoulders long ago.

—

Further along, they entered a broad circular gallery whose walls were covered with landscapes.

Rolling green hills.

Golden wheat fields.

Coastal cliffs.

Autumn forests.

Roland slowed.

"They aren't northern."

"No."

"They're from every kingdom."

Verex nodded.

"When my ambassadors travel, I ask them to commission local artists."

Roland blinked.

"You collect paintings?"

"I collect perspectives."

The answer caught Roland off guard.

"If I wish to understand a kingdom," Verex continued, "I could read its laws."

He paused before another landscape.

"Or..."

His gaze lingered on the brushstrokes.

"...I can see what its artists believed was worth preserving."

Roland stepped closer to one canvas depicting a shepherd watching the sunset.

"No throne."

"No palace."

"No famous battle."

Verex smiled faintly.

"And yet..."

"It tells you everything."

Their eyes met.

Roland's expression had softened into one of genuine admiration.

"You understand art."

"I appreciate those who do."

A warmth rose unexpectedly to Roland's cheeks.

—

As they continued, servants bowed respectfully.

Some smiled discreetly upon seeing their king engaged in quiet conversation.

Others exchanged curious glances.

Verex noticed none of it.

He was explaining the history of an ancient observatory built into Frostspire's highest tower.

Roland listened with complete attention.

"...and once every twenty-three years," Verex was saying, "the northern lights pass directly above the observatory."

Roland's eyes widened.

"Can you see them from there?"

"The entire sky becomes green."

"I've only seen paintings."

"I'll show you."

The promise came so naturally that neither of them stopped to think about it.

Only after several steps did Roland quietly ask,

"You would?"

Verex looked almost puzzled by the question.

"Of course."

Roland smiled to himself.

—

Eventually, they reached a pair of towering glass doors framed by white stone entwined with carved vines.

Warm air drifted through the narrow opening.

It carried scents entirely foreign to the snowy mountain outside.

Fresh earth.

Flowers.

Growing things.

Roland stopped.

"...Impossible."

Verex rested one hand upon the bronze handle.

"My second favorite place."

The doors opened.

Warmth embraced them instantly.

Roland's breath caught.

The conservatory stretched farther than he could see.

Its soaring glass ceiling arched high overhead, supported by elegant white columns wrapped in flowering vines.

Crystal panes allowed the pale winter sunlight to pour inside, while hidden channels of warm water beneath the stone pathways kept the air comfortably mild.

Trees flourished where no trees should have survived.

Lemon trees.

Orange blossoms.

Fig trees heavy with fruit.

Beds of herbs perfumed the air with rosemary, mint, and lavender.

Winter roses bloomed beside delicate orchids.

Small fountains trickled gently between winding paths.

Bright birds flitted freely among branches, their cheerful songs echoing beneath the glass roof.

At the center lay a still reflecting pool filled with white lilies despite the snowstorm visible beyond the crystal walls.

Roland stood completely motionless.

His pale blue eyes slowly filled with wonder.

"...It's alive."

Verex watched him instead of the garden.

"Yes."

"I've never..."

Roland turned slowly in a circle.

"...I've never seen anything like this."

"You aren't meant to."

Roland looked back.

"It took almost two centuries to build."

He stepped onto the winding stone path.

"My grandmother began it."

"My father expanded it."

"I completed the eastern wing."

Roland followed, almost afraid to touch anything.

"You worked here?"

"Often."

"You?"

Verex gave him an amused glance.

"I do know how to use a shovel."

Roland laughed.

"I wasn't questioning your abilities."

"I believe you were."

"I was questioning whether kings are allowed to garden."

"They're allowed."

"Do they?"

"No."

Roland smiled.

"I thought as much."

Verex knelt beside a bed of pale blue flowers, brushing one broad claw gently across their petals.

"They're frost irises."

"They bloom only after the first deep freeze."

His touch was astonishingly careful.

Almost reverent.

Roland watched the enormous Dragonborn handling fragile blossoms with a gentleness that seemed wholly at odds with the warrior who had conquered kingdoms.

"You truly love this place."

Verex nodded without looking up.

"When the court becomes... loud..."

He searched briefly for the right word.

"I come here."

"There are no politics among flowers."

"No."

"No expectations."

"No."

"Only patience."

Roland smiled softly.

"I understand."

Verex looked up.

"You do?"

"My mother used to say gardens never demanded perfection."

Roland's gaze drifted toward a climbing rose.

"They simply asked you to keep showing up."

For a long moment, neither man spoke.

The quiet was filled only by birdsong and the gentle murmur of water.

Then Verex rose and gestured farther into the conservatory.

"There is something else I'd like to show you."

Roland followed him along a winding path shaded by flowering trees.

They crossed a small stone bridge over a narrow stream until the garden opened into a secluded courtyard beneath the great glass roof.

In its center stood an old apple tree.

Its branches were bare for winter, but carefully tended.

A simple wooden bench rested beneath it.

Roland stopped.

The sight stirred something deep within him.

An apple tree.

So much like the one in Dyrestone.

Verex's voice was quieter than before.

"I had it planted years ago."

Roland looked at him.

"Why?"

The Dragon King's crimson eyes lingered on the weathered trunk.

For several heartbeats, he said nothing.

Then, almost too softly to hear, he answered,

"...Because once, when I was a lonely little prince visiting a southern kingdom..."

He looked toward Roland.

"...someone invited me beneath an apple tree."

Roland's breath caught.

Memory washed over him like sunlight breaking through clouds.

A frightened human boy.

A blue-scaled Dragonborn child.

A paintbrush offered with trembling hands.

A butterfly with bright blue wings.

Neither of them spoke.

They simply stood beneath the tree together, separated by twenty years, a conquered kingdom... and memories that neither had ever truly left behind.