Alaska is its own country. Renée might’ve seen nearly every beautiful spot of American countryside on her parents’ business trips, but looking at the browns and greens and whites of this state has an enchanting, remote quality that she hasn’t felt anywhere else.

Maybe that’s why the Aradazos had chosen here to build Spearefell. Or, Renée supposes she should call them King Stefan and King Horace, as the they’d told her when she arrived. But, since her parents had paid for the Grail Package, Reneé’s allowed to prelude their titles with “my uncles.” Because here, she is their niece, Princess Guineviere.

Which is terribly cliché, but Renée hadn’t realized it until she’d told her so-called uncles who she’d wanted to be. They hadn’t batted an eyelash, though, so maybe other guests—adventurers—had gone with the cliché too.

The story Renée’s parents had bought for her is that she’s a princess traveling to her uncles’ land for the big Festival, where she’ll get to meet a selection of dragons, one whom she’ll spend the rest of her stay with. The Kings decide behind the scenes which dragon will be Renée’s companion. Spearefell, usually only open in late spring and summer, takes up enough land to have a castle and festival grounds. There’s a small town built too, until everything kinda looks like a children’s fantasy book. How’d they’d gotten a mob of dragons to actually agree to any of this, though, is what’s truly unbelievable.

Renée fiddles with her skirts. Her brown hair’s been combed back into a neat woven bun, threaded with local flowers and herbs around her honest-to-goodness tiara. Her gown, shortened so she doesn’t drag dirt, with sturdy riding boots. She’d gotten measured especially for all her outfits before she’d arrived, even got to pick what colors she’d wanted. This gown is violet with a cloak of emerald green, complete with bell sleeves and a gold trim bordering a white bodice and waist sash. She sits on a throne beside the kings in the windy shade of a pavilion overlooking the festival. Definitely royal material.

People bow to her, call her Majesty. They harp on how much of an honor it is to have her here. Even a few starry-eyed adventurers get into it. Not one of them look at her with judgment or pity, not even one of the actual Riders, a man bedecked in chainmail. He and his dragon both bow too.

It’s stupid, but Renée almost cries. This whole thing’s stupid, really. She’d been so caught up in novels that her parents decided to send her to what’s basically a month long Ren Faire in the hopes she’d get it out of her system.

Still, when a horn blares, Renée’s heart pounds until her nerves tingle.

King Stefan stands, spreading his arms to the gathering crowd. “Welcome, one and all, to our great kingdom’s Festival! Today we celebrate new beginnings! And this Festival has been especially blessed…” oh boy, he’s smiling at Renée, “by the arrival of our dear niece, Princess Guineviere!”

The crowd cheers. For her. Renée’s throat tightens on a grin.

How pathetic is she? Seriously.

“Of course, Princess Guineviere shall be bestowed the honor of blessing our grounds, as well!”

Stefan offers his hand, set with different rings. Renée takes it, following him to the edge of the pavilion, where the Rider in chainmail awaits her with another bow. She takes his hand next.

“My lady,” he says, in the same reverent tone as before, “It is an honor.”

His eyes are green, flecked with brown around the edge and clustered under his irises. He has smile lines and no dimples. Renée nods at him, hoping it comes off as regal.

Should she wave at the people, Princess Diaries style? The kings had briefed her on behavior before, but now that she’s here, she can’t seem to remember. The wind keeps blowing and blowing, fresh and cold, focusing her on how much she’s internally pleading for her tiara to hold.

Glancing at the kings, she waves like Julie Andrews. Her uncles don’t look disapproving, and the crowd cheers.

Most of them are paid, and the rest are here to RP like rich people can. Renée tries to remind herself that she has a right to be here. Her parents, however clipped their voices, freely paid for this opportunity before flying off to who-knows-where.

She swallows through her dry mouth. The gates to the largest enclosure open. A flock of dragons sit statue-straight, wings slightly arched to show off all their colors. They’re mostly Alaskan breeds, all long-winged and muscled from near-constant flights or, for the lake breeds, burrowing and swimming. They nearly blend into the landscape, flecked with camouflage patterns.

They’re a lot smaller than their ancestors, but what fantasy story is really historically accurate?

The Rider’s dragon isn’t an Alaskan breed, but sleek obsidian, wing membranes matching his scales’ coppery shine. His scars say he’s actually seen combat, as does his human companion’s prosthetic arm hidden by a glove and metal. Maybe they’re here for their own sort of paid vacation.

Either way, the Rider’s an accomplished actor. He gestures to the dragons grandly, saying, “They’ve been waiting for you.”

Nothing shows on the dragons’ expressions. Then again, Renée’s only studied them from books. The rational part of her tells her they’re waiting for pay, not her.

She shoves herself firmly in her tiara and steps forward. The dragons introduce themselves as she looks at each one. Twelve in all. Goodness, the kings are loaded.

One thing they all have in common is their voices have a rumbling edge, like an avalanche just before the big crash. Some she can tell are masculine, others feminine, but some don’t hint at anything specific. The majority of them, however, list gender neutral pronouns. Renée at least remembers that she has to curtsy with each introduction.

Three of them are definitely not Alaskan. One of them, Easter pastel, keeps shuddering. It takes a second for Renée to realize they’re shivering. Meant for warmer climates, then? At least they’ve got a huge blanket buckled on.

Also, they all speak perfect English. Probably a requirement for the job.

A particularly sharp wind sings headlong at Renée. A mountain brown wing, splotched with pine green, cups over her. She’s never seen the unique flexibility outside of pictures.

Looking up, she sees a dragon the size of a fancy tour bus, blinking narrowed dichromatic eyes at her. One is almost white-blue, the other storm cloud grey. A grizzly brown fur ruff bristles behind what at first appear to be horns, until they flick towards sounds. They’d introduced themselves as Elyan. Renée’s glad she hadn’t been the only one to embrace cliché.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” they say, bowing their head low, “You showed signs of discomfort in the cold.”

Renée bobs more than curtsies. “Thank you, Elyan. I—” sound regal, sound regal, “I am unused to this weather. I…don’t—I do not visit my uncles often enough.”

Elyan hums. Renée can feel the ground hum with them.

“I was hatched in these lands,” they tell her, “But I believe I can confidently say even visitors can adapt.”

Renée doubts it. “Of course. My uncles were also generous enough to provide me with appropriate riding attire. I suppose you fly often?”

She might have come to a fantastical resort, but Renée’s not completely stupid. She can guess why Elyan, out of the other dragons, is the one to cover her from the wind.

“I do,” Elyan replies, “though I prefer heights closer to the ground. I am not suited for northern air currents.”

In other words, exactly what Renée had told King Horace. Not all of us are experienced Riders, alright?

“If Your Majesty would permit me,” Elyan says, “perhaps we may take a turn together? Not all of these mountains are monstrous.”

They’re paid to let her on their back. Paid to respect her, to call her Majesty. To not look at her and see what Renée sees whenever she glances at the mirror: a baby-faced skeleton who has to ask her friends to remind her why not eating is Bad.

But damn. Elyan looks incredibly sincere.

Renée feels shaky. “I’d like that.”

Oh, shit, she’d forgotten to speak Regal.

Elyan simply crouches, offering their paw. In a flurry of green and sky, Renée finds herself in a dragon’s saddle. Her heartbeat rattles her jaw.

“Hold on, Majesty,” Elyan advises.

Renée manages a reply, gripping the saddle horn. She’s ridden horses before, but those horses didn’t have wings that stretched and flexed. Is this what all those heroes and heroines feel like? Towering over the world? Finally able to achieve that hidden dream to touch the sky? Do they feel tangible power straightening their spines?

After a few seconds, the Rider comes over and helps strap her legs to the dragon’s side. Renée jumps and works on her other leg, mumbling flustered apologies. King Horace had given her a thorough tutorial on this stuff too.

“Riding can be a magnificent experience, Your Majesty,” the Rider says kindly, “Taking a moment to observe your surroundings is encouraged.”

Yes. That’s what she’d been doing. Definitely not having a spiritual experience or shaking her younger self to the point of screaming.

A couple adjustments later, Elyan asks, “Is all well, Majesty?”

Renée can’t help laughing a little. “Yeah. Um, yes. Everything is—very well.”

She can’t believe she still has muscle left. Her body doesn’t fit right around her as always, but up here…up here, it’s. Not so bad.

Renée quickly wipes her eyes. “Whenever you wish, Elyan, we may go.”

Elyan readies. Renée leans forward.

In one bound, Renée soars.