My Fated Dragon Prince

Call Me Milo

The cops question us for a long time, but the evidence is pretty clear. Ash has the imprints of his fingers on her neck, after all, and I’ve got bruises on my stomach that date back a lot farther than just today.

It shouldn’t be easy to fall asleep that night, but it is. Chuck is in jail—for now, at least—and I haven’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours by then. Falling asleep is the easiest thing in the world—especially knowing that, in some way, Archie is there, waiting for me.

“They really named their familiars after their best friends?” I ask the unicorn when I materialize back in my little dreamland. We’re in exactly the same place we were last night—the sea of silver grass and the Castle of Darkness.

Yes, but it was their choice. You don’t have to.

“You’ve been here for a year, haven’t you? What do they call you?”

Eleanor’s Familiar.

I frown. I hate being called Eleanor. “You didn’t correct them? Tell them I’m called Nell?”

I can only speak to you and the other familiars. They know you’re called Nell, which means the other Senses do. But even if they tried explaining that to Queen Ava, it wouldn’t matter. She’s… traditional. Not exactly one to use nicknames.

That seems rather stupid, but it’s hardly the point. “Okay. So I should call you Archie, then.”

You can call me whatever you’d like.

I want to call him Archie. Even if it’s a lie, I want to believe there’s a bit of my best friend in him. But I’m not ready to call him that. Not yet.

I understand, he tells me. Apparently he can read my thoughts even when they aren’t directed at me. I’m not exactly surprised; he’s a unicorn, after all.

“Is it always dark here?” I ask, glancing up at the sky. 

Yes. It’s always dark in Austen City, and it’s always light in Alexandria.

I recall both names from the letter. Peter Austen was the dragon, and Alexandria the phoenix. Again, I find myself wondering why I was transported here, rather than the city called Alexandria.

“Have you figured out why I’m here?” I ask him. “Have you been here this whole time?”

I’ve been listening in as best I can. I can’t hear inside the castle, but the guards talk enough to give me an idea. One of the king’s sons—a dragon—has rebelled against him. He is to be exiled from the Realm of Darkness—any minute now, as a matter of fact.

I glance toward the castle in surprise. A rebel dragon? That’s why I surfaced here, rather than Alexandria? “Can we get closer?”

Yes, but we’ll need to be cloaked. Look at my horn.

I glance at his horn, confused. It glows with a bright, white light, then settles back to its silver color.

We’re both invisible to them now. You can get closer—just don’t let them hear you.

I do as he suggests, marveling at the bout of magic I’ve just witnessed until I remind myself that this is only a dream.

By the time I’m close enough to make out the wrought-iron gates in front of the castle, I see him—a man, not much older than myself, being pushed and shoved by a group of loud-mouthed guards. The first thing I notice is that they’re all dressed in the sort of garb you might find at a renaissance festival or in a fantasy film; the second thing I notice is him. He’s tall and muscular, with shoulder-length, messy, chocolate-brown hair and even darker eyes. He doesn’t say a word as the guards open the gates and shove him through them; he stumbles, catches his balance, and continues on his way.

His clean-shaven, finely-chiseled face is covered in scratches and bruises, I realize as he limps toward us without seeing us. He’s been beaten.

I glance down at my own stomach, which is covered by my usual black tank top. I can feel them, though. I can feel all the bruises Chuck gave me.

The man comes to a stop when he reaches us and, to my surprise, turns to look at me.

“A unicorn and a phoenix, in Austen City. Never thought I’d see the day.”

I turn to look at the unicorn with wide, fearful eyes. “I thought you said we were invisible!”

Invisible to our enemies, as the spell goes, he explains. The magic seems to believe this dragon is not our foe.

He certainly doesn’t look like a foe. Frankly, he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. But looks can certainly be deceiving, and if I’ve learned anything in my eighteen years on this planet, it’s not to trust lightly.

The man looks amused by my comment to the unicorn. He tils his head to the side, looking at me with curiosity. “You’re dreaming, aren’t you?”

How does he know that?

Your clothes are a dead giveaway, the unicorn points out. Not exactly the fashion around here.

Right. Makes sense. “So what if I am?” I ask the man, putting a hand on my hip.

His dark eyes flash, and I find it extremely unsettling. No one should be allowed to be this attractive. “If you are, it means you’re the sixth Sense—and that, soon, you’ll be here in your waking state.”

“If I decide to come here. If I believe any of this.”

He chuckles. Why is he so… amused by me? “I suppose that’s your decision to make.”

I glance at the unicorn, who is watching the man intently. I decide to try my hand at mind-communication; after all, he’s already proven that he can read my thoughts. Can I trust him?

I don’t know, he admits. Like I said, the magic seems to think he’s not an enemy. But I’ve never met a creature of the Darkness that wasn’t.

“What did you do?” I ask the man. “To be exiled?”

He shrugs, calling my attention back to his garb. He’s wearing a long-sleeved, billowing white shirt beneath a leather jerkin, with thick, wool trousers. A longsword hangs from his belt, the hilt of which is as exquisite as his face. It’s all very… unsettling. “I disagreed with the king, also known as my father. It’s not a particularly exciting story. I’m much more curious what you two are doing here.”

“We don’t know,” I admit. “I just showed up here. The unicorn thinks I came here for a reason; he just… doesn’t know what it is yet.”

His eyes glint again. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

I cross my arms, even though all three of us know what he’s getting at. “Wonder what?”

“Whether the reason is that you were meant to meet me.”

I hold his gaze for as long as I can stand before his eyes are too much for me and I have to look away. They’re dark—nearly black—and yet, they’re full of so much depth, emotion, and even sensitivity. They don’t seem evil; he doesn’t seem evil. He seems just like me—a teenager with a few too many bruises.

“What’s your name?” I ask him, eyes still on the grass.

“Call me Milo.”