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On the nights when Helene feels loneliest, she is always visited by the dragon smitten for her attention.
He comes to her wicked in the shadows of the night sky, having flown to her villa’s balcony in secret and emerging in the gentle warmth of her work chamber at a distance that almost seems intentional to put her at ease.
Like any other night when Helene feels emptiness swallow her whole, Paris appears, quietly perched in a chair she’s set out for him as his gaze wanders like a cat mildly curious by its surroundings.
In some ways, she supposes she should be disturbed by the presence of an unpredictable dragon who has come without anyone else knowing to her place of residency. Him being here unannounced welcomes many headaches that Helene would rather not deal with - from political issues to diplomatic ones and all the discrepancies that come in between - but yet she can’t find it in herself to chase him off, penning document after document as she reads through various reports delegated to her and tries to make sense of news spreading throughout her empire instead.
In particular, there’s been a report about Belliana merchants facing hefty tariffs for bringing goods into Kylon territory, complaints lodged en masse flooding her desk as guild after guild discuss the unfair taxes levied on them and beg for the imperial family’s interference in such unfair dealings.
A pen taps on the report of one man in particular, of a Morgan Smith who claims to have been threatened by Kylon guards to be extorted for the various pelts and fur clothing he was hoping to sell. Such a report could easily instigate diplomatic tensions. And handing an excuse to the Kylon for them to start war over is about the last thing she wants to do.
Helene sighs.
She could travel to the border and investigate right now if she wanted to. But she’s already on the brink of passing out as it is, late night fatigue buried so deep inside her that she feels like she might pass out the moment she teleports there.
But Helene also doesn’t like to sit around on issues that require her wholehearted attention: intra-imperial affairs are one thing but disputes between hostile empires certainly qualify as a political catastrophe she does not want to happen.
She taps her pen some more. And more. And more.
“Careful,” says a voice, “you might just break that thing in half at the rate you’re going.”
Her gaze yanks up.
Gray eyes meet green.
She purses her lips. Flits her gaze over the man perched like a specter in her office, watches how his expression dissolves from a teasing look to gentle puzzlement as her silence extends.
“No need to stare holes into me.” Paris Valerian, son to the current king of Kylon, says without shame. “You don’t need to make it so obvious that you’re into me, princess.”
She ignores his wasteful commentary, pointing the end of her pen at him. He in turn blinks at her, a vague note of curiosity singing in his eyes.
“Are you aware of all the issues within your borders, Prince Paris?”
The curiosity in his eyes brightens. He crosses his legs, looking closer to the prince he’s supposed to be rather than the man who has barged into her villa with zero accountability for his actions.
“I’m aware of most things, yes.”
“How surprising.”
He frowns. “Why is that?”
“I heard you’re a man who only knows how to indulge in his own pleasure. I’m surprised to know you could care about anything else.”
While perhaps her comment may appear as a sneer, in truth it’s what she’s heard about the man. Many have claimed him to be hedonistic: a cruel individual whose pursuit for the throne and his own enjoyment has seen him crushing any and all opposition like a tyrant in the making. And all of the Kylon nobility she's interacted with have testified to such claims, only adding with a stammer that the appearance of Prince - Duke - Fian has seen him being a lot calmer since.
Paris - a man who seems to think little of his reputation and littler of defending himself - tilts his head, shrugging quite exaggeratedly at the claims she’s laid before him like there’s nothing he can do but accept them whole.
“I have no excuse,” he says. “When you’re a dragon like me, you find that this world loses its luster. Awakening as a dragon gives me everything I could ever want. Strength, power, money…all of those follow me the moment I wish for them.”
“And yet, you’re still not the Crown Prince of Kylon.”
She thinks she sees his eye twitch. She tries her best not to leer.
“Don’t pour salt in my wound like that, princess.” He says, running a hand through his hair. “But it’s true dragons can’t get everything they want simply because they want it. That’s why we’re such persistent bastards: we want things that fill the void we ourselves can’t. Is it so wrong to turn to mortal pleasures in order to alleviate the crushing nihilism we face?”
She frowns, tapping her pen on her chin. “You speak as if dragons are unfulfilled creatures at heart.”
Here, the silver of his eyes glows. “You wouldn’t understand, princess. It’s maddening to awaken as a dragon. Maddening to one day wake up and realize that everyone around you is different. Unnatural. Like aliens.”
“Aliens?”
“I can’t see people as anything other than some sort of strange species that are no better than ants. They’re not like me. They don’t feel what I feel. They don’t understand what it feels like to be all alone, to crave and crave and crave for something that drowns out the pain of a loneliness that no one else can feel.”
Her lips purse. She’s learning more about this man every minute. “You have Fian Hylde. He’s a dragon too. Doesn’t he understand you?”
Slits shine in Paris’s eyes as he scoffs at that. “Yes and no.”
“ Explain .”
“Well…He satisfies the part of me that craves draconic companionship: the need to mingle with that of my own kind. I won’t deny that kid is good for me. But if I was just satisfied with just his company I wouldn’t be here now would I?”
His gray-silver eyes lock with hers. It’s hard not to read the implication in his words.
She thinks she shouldn’t entertain his drivel further. But he’s also piqued her interest, gaining knowledge about the psychology of awakened dragons more important to her than ignoring Paris’s suggestion-laden words.
“I heard dragons only imprint on one person in their lifetime.”
Paris furrows his eyebrows. “Yes,” he says, “that’s true.”
“Is it true that once you imprint, it’s impossible for you to love anyone else?”
“Well you’ve seen what happened with my aunt. And she hasn’t even awakened.”
Indeed, Helene has heard the story of Madeline Hylde. Almost everyone in Belliana has: the scandal nearly incited Kylon’s fury, after all, and easily mired the common people into fears of a possible war.
Helene leans back in her seat. Her mind flutters to images of other people in her life. “Is it really that painful to be rejected by someone you love?”
“Considering how much you reject me, I can say so.”
“Very funny.”
The man exits his seat. He approaches her, standing in front of her.
His hand reaches for her face, knuckles brushing against her cheek.
Helene watches him. Does not let her gaze stray as his gentle touch slides against her skin.
If she wanted to, she could pull away. If she wanted to, she could lean into his touch. And if she wanted to, she could pin him to the ground right now with her wind magic without batting an eye at the ease with which he touches her.
But she doesn’t want to bother with any of that. So her gaze only watches as dragon-slitted eyes roam to her lips.
“You tell me not to long for what I can’t have,” he says. “And yet, I can't help but have hope when you don’t throw me out like this.”
Her eyes close. She pulls away, crossing her arms as she turns on her heels and opens up her eyes again.
“You bark an awful lot for a dog,” she says, “maybe I should just do as you suggest and toss you out to fend for yourself.”
“You spare no punches, princess.” There’s a sigh from behind her. “If you keep showing your dislike so openly like this, I’ll have no choice but to whine to you about it.”
There’s the sound of footsteps.
Paris circles her, standing in front of her. Helene can’t help but notice the way his hand is playing with the ring of his collar, fingers toying with it as if finding fixation with its movements.
“To get back to your original question, I can make myself useful. Ask me anything: it’s your loyal dog’s job to fetch you what you need.”
A pause. Then, she takes him up on his offer without hesitation.
“Then do you know about the Belliana merchants being harassed by Kylon soldiers with unfair tariffs and threats of extortion?”
Paris blinks. “Are you talking about the same merchants who wrecked havoc on our fur product-based economy by undercutting local sellers to gut their competition?”
It takes Helene a second to adjust.
She’s surprised by the familiarity with which he speaks. After all, it’s completely unexpected of him to showcase this much knowledge when he always acts rather arrogant.
“Kylon has a habit of bullying Belliana sellers into compliance with inane rules. As I recall, you require Belliana merchants to have a license to import chairs and require a hefty annual fee that takes out more from their pockets than our own fees do.”
Paris hums. “That’s news to me,” he says, “but I know Kylon has had issues with quality control in that department. My old man has complained more than enough about the nobility demanding better Belliana-based imports that don’t fall apart on them.”
She lifts her chin. “Are you implying Belliana goods are faulty, Prince Paris?”
“I’m implying that there’s room for negotiations. Quality control in exchange for less harsher licensing fees.”
She mulls on his words. “That doesn’t solve the issue with our merchants.”
Paris approaches her. “I’ll go solve it for you then,” he says. “Give me the command, master, and I’ll do it for you.”
His fingers slide under her chin, tilting it up. She in turn cranes her head against his touch.
“Do as you wish.”
He pulls back. Bows mockingly.
“Your loyal dog will be gone shortly. Don’t miss me too much, Your Highness, I’ll be back by your side soon enough.”
The man goes to her balcony. His form elongates into a dragon’s, wings pounding wind into her villas as he takes off into the night sky.
Helene goes to make a cup of tea.
She wonders, while sipping on the taste of dull poison, if that man forgot she can just teleport him there.
But then she supposes that there’s a method to his madness, that he must have sensed her desire to rest alone and found a way to excuse himself.
“He’s sharp,” she murmurs around a porcelain lip, “I’ll have to be careful.”
Her cup clicks on a saucer.
Helene wonders, in the loneliness of a night bereft of a dragon, if it would be okay to admit she wanted him to stay just a moment longer.