Page 98 of Song of the Heart Scale
We stayed like that for a moment. Her on the desk, me standing between her legs, the world momentarily quiet around us.
“I hate how right you are,” I finally muttered.
“Get used to it.” She leaned in to kiss me lightly on the cheek. “It’s going to happen a lot.”
I pulled her into my arms and held her tight, grounding myself in the only thing that made sense anymore.
Her.
20
DAMIEN
The Gilded Serpent always smelled like perfume and power.
Even now, cloaked in shadow, I felt the undercurrent of tension and indulgence that made this place what it was: a den of secrets wrapped in silk and soaked in wine. Music filtered through the walls, a slow, sensual rhythm plucked by nimble fingers and breathy flutes. Every note echoed the careful seduction the house offered—not just of the body, but of information.
I kept to the far side of the hall with the hood of my cloak pulled low. Lysandra had promised discretion, but this meeting was a risk. Not just for me, but for the war I was trying to win before it began. If Lord Mercer saw through the game, if Thorne caught wind of this—
No. I couldn’t afford to think like that.
I passed through a beaded curtain into the upper-level lounge, where the favored patrons lounged like kings in a den of sumptuous velvet. From my vantage point, I spotted Lord Mercer immediately.
The man was every bit the legend whispered about in Dragon Valley. Broad and compact, with the build of a man who still trained daily, even if his hair had silvered at the temples. He was dressed plainly for someone of his status – black trousers and a high-collared tunic – but his midnight leather coat lined with Nightwing insignias in silver thread unmistakably marked him for who he was. A scar bisected his chin at an angle, giving his otherwise stately face a crooked finish.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.
The girl beside him was laughing, draped over his arm like a warm shawl, but Lord Mercer barely blinked at her. His eyes were elsewhere, scanning the room with the calm of a man used to battlefields.
Lysandra appeared beside me like a wraith, her perfume preceding her. “He’s more punctual than usual,” she whispered. “That’s either a good sign or a very bad one.”
“Let’s hope it’s the former.”
She arched a brow. “I’ve done what you asked, Your Highness. But from here, you’re on your own.” With that, she disappeared again into the haze.
I slowly approached, letting Lord Mercer catch sight of me before I spoke. No sudden movements. No threats. Just the exiled prince in the flesh.
Lord Mercer stiffened. The girl stopped laughing.
I pulled back my hood.
“Prince Damien,” he said flatly. His voice was low, gravelly but clear. “This is either incredibly brave or astoundingly stupid.”
“Both,” I admitted. “But necessary.”
He waved the girl off with a flick of his fingers. She slipped away without question, though her wide eyes lingered on me. Lord Mercer gestured to the seat across from him. “You have five minutes. Use them wisely.”
I perched on the chair, every instinct on edge. “You command the most elite force in Elaria. The Nightwing battalion doesn’t take sides lightly, but neutrality in times like these is no better than complicity.”
His brow twitched. “I’m not fond of speeches.”
“Good. I’m not fond of giving them.”
A beat passed.
“Thorne crowned himself through the blood of our father, and now he’s consolidating power with fear and fire. The people are already turning against him—songs are being sung, stories are spreading. The Immortals gave a sign and he ignored it. You know what’s coming.”
Lord Mercer took a sip of wine. “I also know what came before, and what you were. An exiled boy whose own father cast him off. You carry no titles. No court. No army. Why should I wager my men on you?”
