***Devon Whittle***

I'd always been a little intrigued by the Young Dragonslayer, a little intimidated by his lack of flaws. I figured that he'd always remain a mystery to me, but I never expected him to be a medical one, too.

"He's displaying signs of immunity, Your Grace," I say with a bow to the Queen, eyes cool but head buzzing.

I've practiced those words in my head so many times they don't even sound real anymore. Immunity to dragon venom is unprecedented. There is no end to the good we could do with his blood, the studies that could be pursued. A lot is riding on my shoulders with this meeting, which is why I blanch a little at the Queen's next words.

"I see," she says. "We'll put that immunity to a good use. Once he's deemed ready, send him off to retrieve Poppy. I expect him to be gone within the week."

No, I want to blurt. But that's not a word you use around a queen lightly. I need to think of a refusal wrapped in respectful, intelligent packaging, and fast. Queen Eliza is well known for quick wit and her impatience for those that couldn't keep up with it.

"If I may speak frankly, Your Grace, I don't believe his potential-"

"Are you attempting to disobey your queen?"

Yes.

"Not at all, Your Grace," I say, head lowered respectfully. I lick my lips, buying time I probably couldn't afford. "I am only providing you with my insight on-"

"I don't have time for your wordplay. State your intentions and leave."

Again, I'm thrown off. The Queen loves banter and has strictly enforced courtesy among her daughters in etiquette lessons, something Marigold had complained about often. It seemed uncharacteristic of Queen Eliza to address me so bluntly. But I quickly realize my error in my assumption that the Queen would respond as she usually would: she lost two of her children no less than a week ago. Of course she wouldn't care about preserving her usual standard of etiquette.

I glance at her from under my eyelashes. Usually rumors get warped as they pass from one pair of lips to the next, aggrandizing a small truth into an ostentatious distortion, but up close it's plain to see that the Queen's beauty could not be exaggerated. It was said that no amount of mixing would produce a paint that could capture the dusky shade of her skin or the emerald hue of her irises, no marble could be chipped into the liking of her fine collarbones and sharp lips. It was as if all artistic efforts were in vain because they were attempting to replicate the work of a higher power with a much defter hand then anything human.

But today her imperfection is marred by grief. There's a stiffness in her, a suppressed agitation that coils her muscles until she is as immobile as the throne she sits upon. Her grip on the armrests is so tight her knuckles are white, her rage honing her gaze until it's as sharp as the blade of a knife.

"Your Grace," I begin carefully, "while Nathaniel does display certain signs of immunity, his lucidity comes and goes. He has improved remarkably over the past few days considering the state we found him in, but we do not believe he is capable of managing himself. We would highly suggest monitoring his-"

"You want to keep him. Here. To study," she states flatly.

Before I open my mouth to respond, her mouth curls. "No," she says.

I blink at her. "Your Grace...?"

"I am your queen. I do not have to explain myself to you," she says, leaning forward. A few locks of hair softly fall over her shoulder, but aside from that every movement is so slow and precise it seems almost inhuman. Her eyes, wide with hate, send goosebumps down my arms.

"But," Queen Eliza continues after a achingly long moment, relaxing back into her throne, "that would be a dictatorship, wouldn't it? My husband and I are not Soranians; we believe in healthy, respectful relationships between the ruling class and its citizens. So allow me to explain."

My eyes momentarily flicker to the empty throne next to her. The King was nowhere to be seen after the incident at the ball.

"Nathaniel, you see, is a brilliant soldier," she says sharply, dragging my eyes back to her. "A remarkable young man crafted by the Gods for swordplay, wouldn't you agree?"

My thoughts flicker to the time I caught him practicing in the courtyard, the uninterrupted beat of metal against metal, a dance as quiet as a whisper that would build up and explode with a ringing clash.

I blink the memory away.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"I'd even go so far as to say that it would have been a waste of his potential - Becoming a royal guard, standing stationary inside a boring old castle all day. Laughable, really. Do you have any guess as to why he would do something like that? Guess! I implore you."

"I can't say, Your Grace."

"I'm disappointed. It's a good thing you've pursued a medical career; you haven't the imagination for anything else," she replies, her mouth quirking upwards. "He's in love, you see. Desperately so."

"I... see," I say, unsure of what she wants to hear.

"No, you don't," she laughs bitterly. "Nobody did. Nobody except for-"

Queen Eliza's words suddenly cut off, as if something had lodged in her throat. I advert my gaze and give her a few moments to compose herself.

"I understand his significance to the medical field. But I cannot abide his presence in the castle," she says tiredly, the venom laced in her tone all but gone.

Although I try to hide it, the devastation on my face is plain to see. Her gaze grows thoughtful.

"However, I do not wish to obstruct medicinal advancements... How would you like to accompany him on his quest? You will be allowed to have one more person accompany you to aid your research."

All thoughts in my mind come to a complete standstill. It's a completely baseless plan. All the supplies and necessary materials are right here in the castle. Books too precious to risk transporting outside the castle, instruments too fragile to carry on horseback... But what choice did I have? 

"It would be an honor, Your Grace," I blurt.

She smiles. It's a bit frayed at the ends, but genuine.

"If that is all...?" she says after a pregnant pause.

"Yes, Your Grace. Thank you very much." The words feel childish coming out of my mouth. Clunky, awkward. She closes her eyes and leans back into her throne, dismissing me.

My footsteps are silent on the long trek to the double doors leading out of the throne room. Before I reach for the handle, the queen clears her throat. In the silence it's loud enough to make me jolt.

"Since I have compromised for your sake, I would like to make one last request," she says, eyes still closed.

"Anything, Your Grace."

"Take a raven from the rookery and use it to keep in touch. I will have a royal decree written that you can use as credit to purchase necessities you may come across on your journey. In return, you will leave by sundown. And not a word of this to anyone. That is all."

That's not nearly enough time to prepare, to gather data and supplies and confer with other members in the medical unit. But at the same time, it's better than anything I could have hoped to ask for.

"Of course, Your Grace."

I wait a few moments in case she has anything else to say. Then I open the door.

"I..." the queen starts suddenly, trailing off. I turn back to look at her as she clears her throat. "...apologize for my crude manner of speech," she finishes, her eyes still closed. "I am not well."

"I understand, Your Grace."

And then I make my leave.

I make it about ten paces before a rough arm hooks around my shoulder, sending me stumbling.

"Well would ya look at that?" says Nathaniel with a grin just a touch too wide to be genuine. The movement causes blood to trickle from the cracks in the scars on his face. "Looks like you and I will be getting pretty chummy, huh?"

Before the dragonfire Nathaniel had been entrancing to the eye. Unlike Queen Eliza and her inhuman beauty, Nathaniel had been bursting with life, soft scars, sweat and sunburned skin peeking under a head of soft brown hair. With his profession all those imperfections couldn't be helped, but it only added to his charm. It never made him ugly.

But now... He wasn't just ugly. He was grotesque.

I hadn't been exaggerating when I told Marigold that over half his body had suffered under the yoke of dragonfire. It was as if someone had drawn a line right in the middle of his torso - his left side was a taunting reminder of the knight he used to be while his right side was just a hideous mess of damaged tissue and bloody fissures. Ironically, he would have died if they'd been normal burns - they wouldn't have automatically cauterized and he probably would have bled to death.

I whip my head around, checking if anyone has seen him yet. "You're supposed to be-"

"Yeah, yeah, resting in bed. But I feel great! Better than great! Fan-fucking-tastic, perfectly capable of watching after myself, I'll have you know," he says, slapping me on the back with his good hand in a way that's supposed to be friendly but actually slightly hurts.

I rerun his previous words over in my head.

"How much did you overhear?" I ask sharply.

"Enough! And before you ask - not gonna tell you how. That's a secret," he giggles. More blood runs. "Man, can you believe Eliza? When there's a tiara on your head suddenly the whole world revolves around you. She can be such a bit-"

I shove my hand over his mouth, careful not to apply too much pressure to sensitive areas.

"You'd best watch your tongue," I snap, trying to sound fierce but mostly coming off as desperate.

A glint flashes in Nathaniel's brown eyes, the only warning I have before something warm, slick and wet runs over the entirety of my palm.

He breaks away with a laugh, promising to meet me with flowers when I return to the medical wing. My eye twitches as I stare at the small pool of bloody saliva dripping off my palm.

Maybe "immune" wasn't the most accurate term for Nathaniel in regards to the side effects of dragonfire.

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A/N: What do you think about the Queen? Personally I like her a lot, but I guess I'm a little biased. Also, Devon, what do you think about him? I also like him a lot. But again with the whole bias thing.