His magic reduced Sybil to a puppet with invisible strings. As long as the King’s stare was unbroken, she was his.
Her right hand rose up from where it rested on her knee and extended to the King. Yveun Dono took it with grace, all the while his eyes locked with Sybil’s, holding his magical control of her mind.
The moment his magic shifted and Sybil regained command of herself, it was too late. The King’s onyx claws were out, magic and pure rage woven between them. He brought them down on Sybil’s right hand, where they punctured through tendon and bone, ripping meat and flesh and stringy ligament as he shredded the offending appendage.
Her sister cried out in pain as the King twisted his wrist. He rendered Sybil’s fingers to nothing more than pulp, her palm in shreds, before cutting her hand off at the wrist. Leona stared darkly at her younger sister as she nursed the stub at the end of her arm. She could feel Sybil’s magic trying to regrow the appendage, but to no avail. Dragons could regrow almost anything if their hearts and heads were intact—and if a stronger Dragon wasn’t committing himself to blocking the magical healing process.
“Dono, Dono,” Sybil wailed. “Forgive me. Spare my life.”
Yveun Dono looked down at the bloodied mass of what he had hailed as one of his Riders in disgust. His magic was still locked with Sybil’s, stopping hers from healing the wound. He started back for his throne.
“Very well.Iwill spare your life.” The King sat. “And I will defer to your commander, my Master Rider, for administering any remaining discipline.”
Leona met her King’s red eyes, still glowing with magic in the near darkness of the room. He radiated effortless authority. She dissected his decree, looking for the scrap of his true will in it. If there was one, he was hiding it. The King appeared to be giving her a genuine choice.
She met Sybil’s eyes. Her sister was still huddled, wounded. Pathetic tears streamed over her cheeks and soiled the floor upon which their King walked.No half measures.Sybil had given the King her word and failed time and again. Now her eyes had the audacity to seek forgiveness in light of her shame. Her sister clung to the desperation to live more than she sought the glory of their house.
Shameful.
Leona wouldn’t explain her actions. If her sister had any sense left in her, any pride remaining as an Anh of House Rok, she would know. They were one body, and they worked to serve one mind—Yveun Dono’s. Any who didn’t were a cancer ravaging the system, leeching resources for their own selfish gain. There was only one course of action when a tumor had grown.
Sybil’s eyes went wide in shock the second Leona’s hand plunged into her chest. The sharp edges of ribs raked against her fingers and wrist. Her blood mingled with her sister’s for what would be the last time. Leona held Sybil’s frantically beating heart in her palm. Golden blood dribbled from the younger Dragon’s mouth.
She stood over her sister’s corpse, the heart still twitching in her fingers with the dying pulses of Sybil’s magic. She offered the organ to the King.
Yveun Dono turned his head in a slow, deliberate side-to-side. “It was your kill.”
Leona raised the heart to her mouth, tearing into it with her teeth. Her canines rendered the tissue into thin strips that were palatable on her tongue and easy to swallow. Power surged through her; Leona’s head swam. She gorged herself on magic and meat until her vision blurred and her stomach felt fat.
“Imbibe her strength. Take her magic.” Somehow Yveun Dono was right before her. She hadn’t even heard him move. “Take your trusted two—Andre and Camile.”
His hand was lacing around hers. He was touching her. The King was touching her. Leona’s whole body flushed on a high she had never felt before. Magic mingled with hers, filled her, overwhelmed her.
Golden blood slicked between their fingers, the sticky liquid fading in the air. Leona looked up at her sovereign and breathed the taste of blackberries. If she was ever to die, she would want it to be by his hand; she would want him to be the one to feast on her heart and engorge himself with her essence. She would want her magic to cloud his head and make him feel heavy. She would want him to be drunk on her as she was drunk on Sybil.
“Take your fastest glider and make your way to Loom.” He lowered his chin and met her eyes.
“I will take back what is rightfully yours,” Leona uttered.
The King’s other hand snaked in her hair, under her braid. It tensed, claws scratching against her scalp, hair tangled and pinched between his fingers. The mostly-eaten heart fell to the floor with a dull, wetsplat. Leona locked eyes with Yveun Dono, giving him the ability to take over her mind if he so desired. He could take whatever he wanted from her. There was nothing she wouldn’t give.
“Not quite,” he rasped. His voice consumed her, his magic thrilling her to the bone. Leona’s chest swelled to press against his, as if she was offering him her own heart—everything she ever was and would be. “You will act as my hand. For I am the only one totakewhat ismine.”
Yveun Dono yanked her head back. Leona hissed, more in delight than pain. His canines raked against her bottom lip. The kiss exploded violently, smearing across their mouths with the bright sharpness of heavy summer berries, as the King used Leona’s body for vindication of every heated truth he breathed into her exposed skin.
13.CVAREH
Florence hadn’t said a word for two hours. She’d argued with Arianna for a short five minutes, then slumped against the wall on her stool, staring at nothing. Cvareh might only have known the girl for about four days, but it had been a long four days mostly spent in close quarters. He could read her, if only just.
Cvareh had studied the people of Loom all his life. He’d learned of the Five Guilds and the specialization of each of them. He’d studied Fenish, the language of the people. But being on the ground itself was a surreal experience. It was like he knew the notes, but he couldn’t hear the melody that was being sung. He could say “Rivet,” but he didn’t understand what that really meant—and every look from Arianna over the past few days had confirmed as much. But nothing made it clearer than Florence’s expression.
The girl was in distress. A line marred the space between her brows, her young face twisted in a scowl. Cvareh understood the plan Arianna had laid out—more or less. He knew of Ter.4.2, and the Underground seemed like a logical enough choice to move quickly without being discovered. He understood the word “prison” in the sense that his mind could come up with a definition, the equivalent word in Royuk, but somehow he wasn’t speaking their language yet. The gravity he felt at the idea of a prison break was a weightless cloud compared to the lead in Arianna’s eyes and, so plainly, Florence’s heart.
He wanted to help. Petra had made him smile thousands of times when he was sad. His sister knew exactly what to say to encourage him. But he only had four days of knowledge to draw from when it came to the young Fenthri.
“Florence?” Arianna gave him a cautionary look the moment her pupil’s name crossed his lips. The girl was oblivious to her teacher’s protective urges, but her eyes came into focus slowly at the sound of her name. Cvareh put his pride aside and sought an absolution from his ignorance from someone who was twenty years his junior. “Can you explain to me how your revolver works?”
“What?”
