The Firebrand Legacy by T.K. Kiser Page B

tried to keep mopping, but after a
moment decided it was rude and stood still, smiling politely,
leaning on the mop for support.
    Prince David rolled back his head and
groaned. “Look, I feel like a total jerk. I didn’t mean to offend
you or anything.”
    Carine plastered on a smile. “No need, Your
Majesty.”
    “I think your hair looks nice—really.”
    Carine suppressed a groan.
    “I’m making it worse,” he said, covering his
face. “I just don’t know; I mean, I love dragons. I never met
someone who didn’t—at least, not someone who hates them. First I
made you uncomfortable with all that enchanted stuff and then today
pointed out your haircut. I’m usually not this obtuse, I swear.
Please, just forgive me. Say you don’t think I’m a terrible
person.”
    “I don’t think that, Your Majesty,” she said,
but it didn’t satisfy him.
    “Look, let me make it up to you.” Prince
David’s eyes lit with energy. “I know. Do you like fireworks?”
    It didn’t surprise her that the prince had
some with him. They always lit off fireworks at Bastion Park the
day after Grievance and when the fencing championship concluded. “I
don’t like fire, Your Majesty.”
    “Right, okay.” He inhaled and then snapped
his fingers, smiling. “I know! You’re going to love this. Wait
there. I’ll be right back.”
    Prince David jumped down the stairs to the
lower deck and raced into his cabin, swinging the door shut behind
him. Carine watched, her heart softening. The breeze whistled
through her short hair, making her neck feel exposed. When he came
back a moment later, he pulled a scroll out from under his arm and
uncurled it just in time for the wind to pick it out of his hands.
The colorful page flapped over the edge of the upper deck and
sailed feet above the ship.
    Carine dropped the mop and ran down the
ladder, watching the flying sheet, fearing it would land in the
water below. She didn’t have to know what was on the picture to
know that the page itself was valuable. Paint and skills like that
were reserved for fine arts and valuable texts. Prince David ran
after it.
    They ducked under the mast as the picture
flapped around it. Carine jumped, reaching for the paper as the
wind died down. The thin sheet caught in her fingers, and she
slammed the page to the floor, spreading it out with her hands.
    “Thank the flames,” Prince David panted.
“Grandfather would’ve killed me.”
    Grandfather to him was King Marcel to
her.
    Prince David put his hands on his knees and
leaned over the picture. Carine knelt, hands spread out over the
corners. “It’s beautiful,” she said, offering a genuine smile as
she caught her breath.
    It was a painting of a Fletchkey chapel.
Unlike Navafort, Fletchkey was uncivilized. It was a vast expanse
from Navafort’s northern border all the way to the icy poles of the
continent. Within that Fletchkey region were dozens of nomadic
tribes. Some of those tribes worshiped dragons, a tradition that
most Navafortians rejected, favoring instead to pay tribute to
lesser beings: Kavariel and the Great Marcels. Even Alviar had
hinted that dragons were the Etherrealm’s mouthpieces, not its
creators.
    Despite its associations, the chapel was
gorgeous, brushed with soft-colored oil paint. There was white for
the birch trees that arched in a half-circle, green for the healthy
branches that wove together at the chapel’s roof, orange for the
tiny flowers that carpeted the grassy floor, and gold for the sun
that brightly shone into the chapel through the trees. A guitar
leaned against the trunk of one of the slender birch trees that
made up the wall. Carine had always wanted to hear a faun song.
When fauns played, plants danced, responding to their melodies.
    “You said you liked to draw,” His Majesty
said, pleased. He let himself fall back into a seated position. “I
hope you don’t hate me anymore.” His eyes, light brown and warm,
sparkled.
    “I don’t,” she said honestly. In