‘Except it’s always the same people doing the sacrificing,’ Atlas spits.
I feel as if I’m slowly shrinking, the courage that has fuelled me all night dwindling. If I don’t listen to the Koinamens for Wyvernmire, the Bulgarian dragons could wipe our entire country out. If she has nothing to use against them, then she, Queen Ignacia, the rebels … all of us will suffer.
‘I will employ you as my translator,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘You’ll work at the Academy, under the supervision of Dr Hollingsworth herself, with a competitive salary and an honorary degree in Dragon Tongues.’
As Wyvernmire speaks, two things happen. I feel Atlasmove his foot backwards, then forwards, pushing a large stone towards me with the side of his shoe. And, in the treetops, high above the General’s head, I see a flash of pink.
I let Wyvernmire’s words tug on the edges of my imagination. My family, safe and free in Fitzrovia. Sophie and all the other recruits pardoned. Me working at the Academy for Draconic Linguistics to keep the Bulgarian dragons in check. And Atlas … If we were to marry, he would become Second Class.
‘Together we’ll make Britannia greaterandensure its security. But only if you let go of your rebellious notions.’
The vision vanishes, evaporating suddenly as I remember the way the Bulgarian dragons pulled Rhydderch’s head from his body. The dead Third Class girl’s bloody face. My father’s eyes as he was led out of our house and pushed into a Guardian car. The images Wyvernmire’s words have created are just an illusion, one that hides the ugly truth that my parents saw from the beginning.
‘People shouldn’t fear their prime ministers, Wyvernmire,’ I say slowly. ‘Prime ministers should fear their people.’
Atlas snaps round to look at me, bewildered at the utterance of this rebel slogan. They are words I didn’t understand until now. Wyvernmire’s smile fades. I drop to the ground, seizing the stone at my feet, as the sky fills with fire. Chumana lands on the General’s back with a terrible screech and Wyvernmire dives out of the way, slipping on the mess of dead leaves as flaming tree branches fall around her. I lift the stone and smash it through the top of the loquisonus machine.
Wyvernmire lets out a strangled gasp as the glass ofthe machine splinters, its insides split open. A dial flies off, landing in the undergrowth.
‘Viv!’ Atlas shouts.
He drags me out of the way just as Chumana and the General hurtle into the remnants of the glasshouse. Chumana’s jaw is locked round the General’s leg and he roars in agony as her teeth tear through his scales. From somewhere above comes the whir of a plane. The dragons suddenly lurch off the ground, hovering in mid-air, and, as the General’s talons rip into Chumana’s side, Wyvernmire’s hair is splattered with blood. She gets to her feet, shielding her face, and calls to me.
‘Give me the code and I’ll call my troops off.’
She still doesn’t see. That was the last loquisonus known to exist. She’s just a pawn in a game played by Bulgarian dragons now. Atlas pulls me behind a tree.
‘Look,’ he says, gesturing upwards. ‘It’s Marquis.’
My heart jolts. Of course it is. Marquis’s plane circles above us, gradually getting lower. Atlas kisses me.
‘You were glorious, Viv.’
I shake my head. ‘What are we going to do now? Without the loquisonus, the Bulgarians are just more powerful. They could take over Wyvernmire’s government if they want to—’
‘Butyouwon’t be part of it,’ Atlas says fiercely. ‘Whatever happens, you’ll know that you refused to sacrifice people. We’ll find another way to protect Britannia, one that doesn’t involve becoming Bulgarian dragon f—’
Marquis’s plane shoots a stream of fire down on to a tree, just missing the General’s head.
‘Your cousin’s aim isn’t the best,’ Atlas mutters as he peers through the smoky forest.
I slip my hands beneath his jacket and round his back, holding him close as the plane searches for a place to land. For a moment, I pretend we’re not in the middle of a battlefield. I even close my eyes. I see the next few years together, conjured not by Wyvernmire’s lies, but the smell of Atlas’s shirt pressed against my face. Planning Britannia’s resistance from the safety of rebel Scotland. Holding hands as we watch Ursa play in a dragon-filled countryside. Spending spring mornings asking the questions not yet scribbled in secret notes, discovering the parts of each other we don’t yet know. Atlas twirls a lock of my hair round his finger as another dragon crash-lands a few feet away.
‘Viv,’ he says carefully, ‘I have to stay here, to help the injured rebels.’
I nod, my eyes still closed, because it’s pointless to argue. Helping people is part of who Atlas is. I know he needs to prove to himself he can still do so, even without the priesthood.
‘I have to look for Sophie, then go to Ursa,’ I say. ‘I won’t leave either of them again.’
He presses his lips to my forehead. ‘I’ll find you when the battle is over.’
We stumble backwards as the fire spreads closer. It’s all around us now, roaring so loudly it almost drowns out the sound of the plane.
‘It’s going to land on the tennis court,’ Atlas says, pointing to the clearing through the trees.
I flinch as gunshots sound and he pushes me towards the clearing. ‘You’ve got to gonow.’
‘Wait, I—’
