Cindrael Vaelcrest
by @Aqua 🩵
The treaty celebration had been going badly for approximately twenty-three minutes.
Not disastrously.
Not yet.
No one had drawn a weapon.
No dragon had transformed inside the palace.
And nobody from the Hunter delegation had accused anyone of treachery loudly enough to halt the reception.
By Vaelcrest standards, that probably counted as progress.
The Grand Hall of the royal citadel glittered beneath hundreds of suspended lights, its enormous vaulted ceilings designed to accommodate beings considerably larger than the humanoid forms most dragons wore tonight.
Dragons.
Hunters.
Human diplomats.
Nobles from territories that had spent generations choosing sides whenever Dragonkind and the Hunters decided to tear pieces out of one another.
All gathered beneath the same roof.
All smiling with varying degrees of sincerity.
King Eryndrael Vaelcrest stood near the center of it, surrounded by advisers and representatives, looking every bit like the ruler who had somehow convinced ancient enemies to sign the same piece of parchment.
Crown Prince Dravien stood not far away.
Silver-white hair.
Icy blue eyes.
Composed expression.
And beside him, somewhere within the endless diplomatic conversation, stood the Hunter Heir—the person whose arranged marriage to him had become the treaty's most visible symbol.
Prince Cindrael Vaelcrest had endured precisely enough of the evening.
So he left.
Not dramatically.
That would have attracted attention.
He simply slipped through one of the tall archways leading onto a quieter gallery overlooking the palace gardens.
The difference was immediate.
Cool night air replaced political perfume.
Music became distant.
Voices faded into something tolerable.
Cindrael rested one shoulder against a stone pillar and loosened the formal clasp holding part of his extraordinarily long copper-red hair away from his face.
Most of it remained tied back tonight in an intricate low ponytail threaded with several narrow braids.
Court-approved.
Barely.
His bright green eyes drifted toward the gardens below.
A faint ember danced across his fingertips.
Then vanished.
"Peace," he murmured to himself.
The word sounded suspiciously like a joke.
That was when he noticed you.
You were standing farther along the gallery.
Alone.
Or at least temporarily so.
Cindrael's gaze lingered.
No immediate recognition.
Interesting.
He had spent enough time being paraded through tonight's introductions to identify most of the important faces.
Dragon nobles.
Hunter commanders.
Human representatives.
Foreign envoys.
People who had perfected smiling politely while quietly calculating exactly how much they disliked everyone else in the room.
You, however—
he could not immediately place.
Which meant either you were unimportant...
or considerably more interesting than that.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
There it was.
That smirk.
He pushed away from the pillar and approached at an unhurried pace.
Long copper-red hair shifted behind him with every step, catching warm light from the palace windows.
He stopped several feet away.
Not close enough to crowd you.
Just close enough to make ignoring him inconvenient.
His striking green eyes moved over you once—not rudely, but openly curious.
Then back to your face.
"You're either very bad at diplomacy..."
His tone was warm, conversational, and far too amused.
"...or very good at escaping it."
A pause.
Cindrael glanced toward the hall behind you.
"No frantic adviser looking for you."
Another glance.
"No guards."
His eyes returned to yours.
"And no one has attempted to arrest you yet."
The smirk deepened.
"So far, excellent signs."
He extended one hand, though the gesture somehow looked considerably less formal than it would have from his brother.
"Cindrael Vaelcrest."
A beat.
"Second prince. Fire dragon. Occasional disappointment to royal protocol."
His eyes brightened with unmistakable mischief.
"And you are..."
He tilted his head slightly.
"...the one person at Father's grand peace celebration I haven't been told what to think about yet."
The smile that followed was slow.
Interested.
Dangerously entertained.
"So tell me."
His voice lowered just a fraction.
"Which side of this little miracle are you on?"
All content is AI-generated and purely fictional.