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My mother sprints to me, narrowing her eyes at Seraxes with the promise of discipline brewing in her gaze. "Are you alright?"
I nod, "I think so." I groan as she helps me stand. "I think she hates me."
"Seraxes must learn her place!" Sylvane shouts so the stubborn beast hears. Instead of sticking around for a tongue lashing, Seraxes launches into the sky and makes her way to her stable, disappearing from my sight.
"She's going to be the death of me," I mutter as Sylvane helps me to the lounge inside the stable.
"Give her more time," she says, setting me down on the couch. "She will learn to respect you." She looks me up and down once more. "Are you sure you're alright? I can fetch Faolin – "
I wave her off. "I'm fine. I'll rest awhile. I know you have flight maneuvers to complete. I'll wait here until you're done."
She hesitates, but after a momentary silence, she nods her head and leaves.
A pained groan escapes my lips and anger stews in my lower belly. That dragon could have killed me. What do I need to do for her to see I'm not her enemy?
It takes me several attempts, but I'm able to peel myself from the couch and shuffle through the stables until I reach Seraxes' pen. She's spread out comfortably, lounging like she doesn't have a care in the world. I'm ready to tell her I quit. She wins, I won't be her rider, we can both go back to the way our lives used to be before we were reintroduced, but something deep within me can't and won't accept that failure. With my mother and the other Basilius riders out doing their final flying maneuvers of the afternoon, I take this rare moment of privacy to talk to my dragon.
"Listen," I say in hushed tones, even though we're the only ones here. "If we don't learn to trust one another, neither one of us is going to get what we want."
Seraxes ignores me, not the least bit interested in me or what I'm saying. Sylvane assured me that the dragons can understand what we're saying, but I'm beginning to wonder if Seraxes is hard of hearing or just plain hardheaded. I suppose stubbornness would suit her, since it's one of my attributes as well.
"Seraxes," I try again, resting my forehead against the gate to her pen. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. I'm sorry you have been riderless the last twenty-one years. It wasn't my fault, and it certainly wasn't on purpose. I hope you know I would never knowingly harm or hurt you."
Seraxes stiffens, though she still hasn't turned to look at me.
Seeing the slight change in her demeanor as a glimmer of hope, I open up to her. "I know it will take you some time to trust me, and probably longer to forgive me, but please know that I will work every single day for the rest of my life to make sure that you get the life you deserve. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here, if you will have me."
Still no response, though she hasn't moved a muscle or even snatched up the snack I toss beside her. We're clearly at a stalemate, but at least she hasn't attempted to bite me or breathe frost in my direction. I'll take that as a win.
"She is trying to determine if she believes you or not."
I whip my head toward the stable entrance and see Thrane Basilius leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest and one ankle crossing over the other. The sunlight gives his long, white locks a heavenly glow. Unlike the other male Frost Elves who prefer wearing their hair in pristine braids, Thrane opts to have his loose. Perhaps it's his way of rebelling against the norm, or maybe it's a way for him to stand out amongst the others. He looks regal in an effortless way and the power that exudes from him isn't lost on me.
"And how long will it take for her to decide?" I ask when he approaches.
His cunning grey eyes slide to my white scaled dragon before refocusing on me. "She hasn't spit ice at you," he says with a shrug, "so I would say she's leaning toward believing you. Perhaps, she will accept your apology."
"How will I know if she has? When she doesn't try to throw me to my death?" I issue the questions with a little more sass and sarcasm than necessary, but Thrane isn't moved.
"Those are good questions."
When I first met Atlas, I thought he was hard to read, but Thrane is worse. No hint of a smile, no mirth in those icy grey eyes, even his body language screams he doesn't care about anyone other than himself. The way he scans me up and down now, incredulously and unapologetically, should rile me up enough to hurl insults his way, but I keep my mouth shut and return the sentiment. I eye him top to bottom, sizing him up, hoping to find some kind of chip in his immaculate emotional armor, but find nothing.
"It's interesting."
"What is?" I ask.
"How the long-lost daughter of Enver Sol and Sylvane Basilius has finally come home. You have peculiar timing, Cousin."
I furrow my brow, squaring my shoulders to his with my back to Seraxes' pen. "And why is discovering my true heritage peculiar in timing?"
I catch the slightest uptick at the corner of his mouth. If I hadn't been staring so hard, I would have definitely missed the evidence of his amusement. "Because" – he approaches me, each step powerful and with utmost surety in himself – "this year during Levanora is when the next heir to the Frost Throne is to be officially declared. Until you arrived, there was no one else to contend for the throne except me."
"And you think I am here to stake my claim?" I scoff, standing taller. This Elf won't intimidate me. "How very insecure of you, Cousin." I say the last part with the same amount of disdain he used with me. "Last I checked, I already have a throne with my name on it."
Thrane chuckles darkly as he takes another step closer. "Ahhh, but is it your name etched on the Golden Throne or is it Bastian's?"
"I no longer intend to marry him."
