The King's Gamma (#Wattys2024)

Two - Paws, Paperwork, and Princely Problems

The constant drone of the jet engines had long since faded into background noise, but that didn't make the flight any less excruciating. I shifted in my plush leather seat for what felt like the hundredth time, my tail twitching restlessly beneath me. The King's guards sat motionless across the aisle, their disciplined stillness making my own pent-up energy feel even more pronounced. I'd already counted all the rivets in the ceiling (347 in the main cabin, 42 in the lavatory), memorized the emergency procedures card, and now found myself absentmindedly braiding and unbraiding a section of my dark red hair.

"Would you stop fidgeting?" the King murmured without looking up from his paperwork. His golden eyes remained fixed on the documents spread across his lap, the dim cabin lights glinting off the silver streaks in his otherwise jet-black hair.

I stuck my tongue out at him, knowing full well he wouldn't see it. "Not my fault your royal jet doesn't come with in-flight entertainment," I grumbled, stretching my legs out as far as the cramped space would allow. My boots thumped against the seat in front of me, earning a disapproving glance from one of the guards.

The King finally looked up, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation. "Most people would consider a private flight with lie-flat seats to be the height of luxury."

"Most people haven't been sitting still for thirteen hours," I countered, rolling my shoulders until they popped. "I'm half-dragon, remember? We're not built for this much inactivity."

Before he could respond, the pilot's voice crackled through the cabin. "Your Majesty, we're beginning our descent. Please prepare for landing."

I practically vibrated with excitement as I pressed my forehead against the cool window. The landscape below grew larger by the second - rolling green hills giving way to dense forests, and finally, the long black scar of the private airstrip cutting through the wilderness. The plane touched down with a slight jolt, and I immediately unbuckled, bouncing on my toes like an overeager puppy.

The King gave me a warning look as the cabin door hissed open. "Patience, Macey. Protocol dictates the guards disembark first."

I huffed but forced myself to wait as the dozen or so warriors filed out with military precision. Each moved with the same lethal grace, their black tactical gear making them look like shadows given human form. When it was finally my turn, I grabbed my father's old military duffel - the fabric worn smooth from years of use - and practically skipped down the stairs, my boots hitting the tarmac with a satisfying thud.

The scene before me was something out of a war movie. Two perfect rows of additional guards stood at attention, forming an honor guard that stretched from the plane to a waiting black limousine. Every single one had the same golden skin, the same jet-black hair, the same sharp regal features that made them look like they'd been carved from the same block of marble.

I rocked onto the balls of my feet, my tail twitching beneath my jacket. "So," I whispered loudly to the King as he descended behind me, "is this, like, a mandatory look for royal guards? Or is there some kind of cloning program I don't know about?"

The King sighed - a sound I was quickly becoming familiar with. "Just get in the car, Macey."

The limousine was sleek, black, and smelled like expensive leather and faintly of gun oil. I sank into the buttery-soft seat, immediately running my fingers over the polished wood trim before getting distracted by the mini-fridge. "Ooooh, snacks?" I asked hopefully, already reaching for the handle.

The King didn't even look up from the fresh stack of paperwork he'd produced from somewhere. "No."

I slumped back, defeated. "You're no fun."