Good, because I will not.
Rosanthra suddenly flies up next to us, her scales shimmering like rose and moonstone. Sevrin is riding her bareback, because there were unsurprisingly no stray saddles on the Island of Dragons. He is so obviously exhausted, having experience riding a bone wyrm, but not a dragon. He looks over, catches my eye, and gives me a little two-finger salute. His face is painted like a skull, like always, and his mouth is set in a straight, stubborn line.
I want to cross the gap between us, wrap him in every blanket on the continent, and kiss his soft lips.Maybe later. Definitely later.
Gareth shifts so he flies just ahead of me, dark hair streaming behind him, and even from here I can feel how tense he is, but I think it’s for a different reason than Sevrin. Gareth, like his brothers, has spent time here, manning his post. None of them have said much about it, but I’ve got the feeling that their memories here haven’t been exactly pleasant.
We’re within a mile of the cliffs when the first warning shots streak the air above our heads, a bright blue magnesium flare meant to say, “Hey, asshole, we see you.” Ebron banks left and I grip the saddle. Sylvara, Gareth’s silver dragon, shrieks a reply, and the other female dragons roar softly.
The Dravari dragon riders are already airborne by the time we’re close enough to shout greetings. Six dragons, uniformed riders in similar leather armor, fanned out in a perfect attack formation. It’s beautiful, if you’re the kind of person who likes watching things like dragon formations. Which I kind of am now.
Ebron doesn’t slow down. He’s a powerful male dragon. He’s intimidated by no one.
We approach, and the leader of the Gore Rock patrol barks at us. “Halt! State your business, and identify!”
Gareth is the one to answer. He bellows, “Prince Gareth of the Dravari, with my brothers, Prince Lucien and Prince Alaric, and our new wife, Princess Harper, as well as a royal liaison, King Sevrin. We’re here with urgent business! Stand aside!”
There’s a moment of confusion, maybe stunned awe that their surprise visitors are their leaders, and then the dragon rider shouts, “To what do we owe the unexpected visit?”
“We’re not here for a visit,” Gareth says, less polite. “You didn’t receive word of us coming?”
“Not a word.”
Something must have gone wrong with the letter.
Gareth sighs. “We need to land. Now. I can explain everything once we’re warm and fed.”
The patrol doesn’t move, but the leader leans in, eyeing the many dragons that follow us. “What in the goddess’s name is that?”
“We’ll explain it all once we land,” Lucien yells, more than a little irritated.
But then the leader catches sight of Sevrin and Rosanthra, and suddenly it’s a whole new ballgame. “Who’s that rider?” the leader demands.
“King Sevrin of Volcaris,” Gareth says, daring them to react.
The next second, every weapon in the Gore Rock patrol points at Sevrin. The air vibrates with a tension so raw it could gut a whale. I shoot a pleading look at Lucien, who rolls his eyes and flies closer to Gareth, so they’re a united front. The four of us, princes and princess, glare across the distance, shielding a Hollowborn with only our names and whatever natural fear these dragon riders have of their royalty.
Ebron seems to beat his wings faster, drawing attention to his much larger size. The other dragons are nervous, their riders snapping orders and exchanging hand signals, but they stay in front of us, the dragons obeying their riders, even if they don’t want to. The Dravari are careful, but they’re not idiots.
Finally, the leader’s dragon edges forward. “The Hollowborn are our enemies. Why is one with you? Why should we allow one on Gore Rock when our whole job is to prevent them from that very thing?” he asks.
“He’s not our enemy any longer,” I say, and my voice comes out cold as the wind. “He’s with us now. With your leaders.”
That throws them. “You expect us to believe you’ve chosen a Hollowborn as a… as a pet?”
Sevrin’s lip curls. “I’mnobody’spet. And if you don’t want to end this conversation in a pile of broken bones and guts, I suggest you lower your swords.”
Prince Gareth draws himself up taller. “Allowing us to land is not a request, it’s an order.”
The leader’s face turns interesting colors, but he signals his squad to ease up. “You’ll land at the outer yard. Any tricks… and we’ll have to handle the Hollowborn ourselves.”
Gareth gives a hard look. “Actually, you’ll be doing as we say. We’ll be landing, and you will all remember who you’re speaking to.”
The man flinches, then nods.
We descend together, with Ebron leading, and the wild dragons circling above like a second moon. The fortress is carved into the rock itself, with massive grey stone walls, smoke curling from dozens of watchtowers, and a smell of burning coal that feels like it’d never leave your nose. The yard is full of soldiers, all in their battle leathers, all staring up at us as if they’re not sure whether to salute or shit themselves.
We hit the ground and dismount. Ebron snorts and bobs his head, stretching his wings so wide the nearest soldiers scramble back a dozen paces. Sylvara lands next, then Verdraxa, Nythera, and Rosanthra. The wild dragons land a short distance away, radiating gratitude for finally being done with their flight.
