Gareth, Lucien, Alaric, and I walk forward, side by side, with Sevrin just behind us. The soldiers on the ground stare at him as if he’s a disgusting animal. None of them speak, but their hands drift to weapons.
A high-ranking officer, I assume, a big man with a scar down his face and the posture of a champion fencer, steps out to greet us. His expression is hard to read. I can’t tell if he’s happy to be seeing his leaders, mad to be seeing Sevrin, or if he doesn’t give a shit about any of this.
“Your majesties," he says, with the slightest bow. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Gareth does the talking. “We’re on a mission from the king. It’s critical to the future of our people, and possibly yours.”
His eyes flick to Sevrin, then to Rosanthra, who is lurking behind him with murder in her pupils. “And the Hollowborn?”
“Is essential to our success. I’ll explain everything once we’re settled,” Gareth says. “Until then, just understand that he’s under my personal protection.”
A few soldiers scoff. One actually spits on the ground. The officer ignores them, but his hand tightens on his sword.
Lucien, ever the charmer, steps forward. “We have a letter from the king that will explain everything.”
The officer’s jaw clenches. “Show me.”
Lucien produces the letter, stamped with the king’s seal, and offers it with both hands. The officer opens it and reads, his eyes darting over the words with increasing disbelief. At leastthisI can read on his face. I find it easier to figure out what I’m in for if I can read people.
“This…” he says, voice tight. “This is not possible. The king would never?—”
“He did,” says Alaric. “If you need confirmation, you can send a dragon rider with a missive, but we’ll be long gone by the time you receive an answer.”
His gaze flickers between us, looking for any sign of deceit. Finally, he folds the letter and tucks it into his coat. “Very well. You have our hospitality, such as it is. But if the Hollowborn causes any trouble?—”
“He won’t,” I cut in, maybe too quickly. “We’ll be out of your hair in a day.”
His gaze runs over me. “And you’re…”
Lucien answers for me. “Princess Harper Stormvale of the Dravari.”
He nods. “The princes married… I never thought it would happen.”
“We’re not as bad as they say,” Lucien teases, followed by a wink.
“I’ve actually trained with you before,” the leader says. “I’m Kaelen Windcrest, and although we only crossed paths briefly, I was always impressed with the three of you.”
Gareth reaches out his hand and they shake. “I remember you. You look–”
“Different,” Kaelen offers. “When I volunteered to be the commander of Gore Rock five years ago, I was a different man. Enough blood and death will change anyone.”
“May the gods protect you,” Alaric says.
“May the gods protect you,” Kaelen repeats, bowing his head.
We wait for a true offer of hospitality, but none comes. We’re just standing in the cold, staring at each other, while time ticks away.
“We should talk inside,” Kaelen finally says, glancing at Sevrin again. “I have questions.”
“Questions we’ll be glad to answer,” Lucien offers politely.
His face softens by a millimeter, but then he turns and shouts orders at the assembled soldiers. “Feed the dragons. Prepare their food, rooms, and baths. Position our men accordingly.”
The soldiers disperse, leaving just the officer and two aides. He gestures toward the keep. “This way.”
We follow, shoes crunching on tiny rocks. Sevrin keeps his distance from the dragon riders, hand constantly touching the hilt of his sword, his thoughts hidden beneath his bone mask. I want to say something, but there’s no privacy here. Every word will be overheard and reported.
Once inside the fortress, we’re ushered into a stone room with a long table and exactly zero windows. “I hope you don’t mind the decor,” the officer says, with what might be a hint of sarcasm. “We don’t get many visitors.”
