She knew he was no more. Dead. Nothing else would have kept him from her, and she had felt the moment their bond had been cut, a tether forever snipped. Standing in her den, the pain of it had punched her in the chest, stolen her breath, brought her down.
And yet …
Joining the ranks of a pride and availing herself of their protection and resources meant she would have to take another mate. She would be expected to bond and breed to help rebuild dragonkind’s dwindling numbers. She couldn’t fathom it.
A lump formed in her throat. She had been unwilling to pay such a high price these last two years. She’d preferred going it alone, living with the ache of Sigurd’s lost bond and trusting their lives to no one else.
And there was the other reason. She looked down at the boy merrily swinging from her leg. Could she trust dragons to accept him? Some would see him as an aberration, an affront to dragonkind and the old ways.
As her son pulled on her leg, demanding attention, her gaze scanned the den, skimming over the familiar glowing gems and piles of gold stacked along the far wall, like firelight in the gloom, sustenance for her soul. At least there was that. When she felt weak from a lack of food, she clung to the energy her hoard imbued within her.
She continued searching, scanning, seeking—
A sudden sound behind her—from deep inside the mountain—echoed dully. Again.
And again.
A series of staccato thuds, of thumping beats, one afteranother … like boots pounding toward her, matching the increasing tempo of her heart.
She turned slowly to face the den’s opening, her wings snapping wide and shuddering in quick and ready defense even as her stomach bottomed out weakly at her clawed feet.
She held her breath, hoping it was nothing. And yet it continued, growing in volume and intensity. Pounding … the rush of heavy footsteps.
They were coming. Nearing the entrance to her den. Any moment now, they would emerge from the darkness.
Her wings vibrated, juddering, and she lifted slightly on the air to make herself look bigger, more intimidating.
Clearly she had been spotted when she was out. Followed. Hunted. Her fear, always a fetid, lingering taste in her mouth, was to be made reality at last. She didn’t waste time being angry with herself, or calling herself careless, weak, stupid. This felt inevitable.
The spiky frill, sharp as obsidian around her face, snapped wide and hummed, arming, shielding, readying for a fight as she waited to confront this threat.
This, the final stand … the end.
They arrived, warriors crowding the opening of her den. A dozen humans with their stink, with their sweating fists clutching weapons, with their brutal eyes like knives scraping over her, her den, her home with its bounty of treasure. Greedy, murderous brutes, the lot of them.
They called dragons monsters, but they were the monsters. Hunting her kind into the ground, intent on wiping them from existence. And they thought they had succeeded, too. She knew this, knew it was the thing that kept the dragons who still lived safe. The thing that had kepthersafe these last several years.
Humans, swollen as blood-gorged ticks with their victory, their triumph, had stopped looking for them. When they did venture into the Crags, it was to hunt for treasure, relics of the dragons’ past. Spotting her, finding her … it was just luck.
Bad luck for her.
Cold washed over Ashild in a bitter wave. Opening her mouth, she let loose a roar loud enough to shake the mountain, alerting any dragon within range that one of their own was in trouble. Not that they could help her. Orwould. Even if they were out there, close enough, even if they chose to investigate, they would not get to her in time.
The boy cowering at her feet whimpered, shrinking into a trembling ball. He’d never witnessed this side of his mother, never heard her thunder, never seen her teeth before.
One man stood at the front of the warriors. Older than the ones flanking him. More gray than brown in his beard. He was big—for a human. Barrel-chested. Legs like tree trunks. The others held themselves motionless behind him, astonishment at the unexpected sight of Ashild writ all over their faces.
Graybeard didn’t look surprised, though. He didn’t look alarmed. He looked … delighted. Like he’d just stumbled upon a treasure, a wondrous minn deep in the Crags, overflowing with jewels, and she supposed, in a sense, he had. At her back were piles of gemstones that had been in her family for generations. But she didn’t think it was just her hoard that made his eyes gleam. His eyes roamed over her likeshewas the prize. Adragonwhere there should be none. Where there should only be hazy memory and lore and ghosts and whispered rumors no one took seriously anymore.
“Glad I still carry this,” he growled.
His thick, paw-like hands flexed around the grip of his battle axe. He swung the bone blade wide on the air as though testing it out. She had not faced such a blade, hewn from dragon bone, in a long while. Not since the Hormung—that final battle of the Threshing when so many of her kind had fallen. Her father. Her mother. Her grandparents. Almost every member of her pride had died that day. She had hoped to never see such a weapon again.
She’d fled with a small group of survivors, Sigurd one of them. After that they hid. Avoided humans with their insatiable wolves … letting them think they were gone. Extinct. Dead.
They buried themselves deep in the Crags. Buried their magic. Let humankind think they’d won.
His gaze dropped, went soft for a fraction of a moment as he stared at the child cowering at her feet.Herchild.
