We paused on a terrace where I could see the lower levels of the city—the market, the outer gates, and the forest far below. Snow drifted in slow spirals, catching on rooftops and banner poles. It caught in her long black hair now that her hood was thrown back, on her lashes and her cheekbones, where I longed to kiss every flake of it off.
Her fingers were still laced with mine.
Hours later, and neither of us had let go.
I glanced down at our joined hands. My thumb shifted, almost imperceptibly, brushing her knuckle like a question.
“I’m going to change Anaria’s mind,” she started, hardness snapping back into her voice like a shield she was raising back into place. “I’m going to make her see the Triune is not a threat. That you are not a threat.”
“That’s not up to you,” I said softly, as a shiver ran through her, something in me aching—wildly—to pull her closer and tell her she’d never be alone again.
To beg her to come back with me to Frostveil and start a new life. To be my princess and wear dresses and drink shitty coffee with me every morning and read by the fire until the night wore itself out, and then we’d go to bed, and I’d strip off that dress and lick every inch of her beautiful body until she moaned out my name.
Exactly like she had earlier.
But…she loved it here.
This was her home.
“I’ll convince her you are not to blame for any of what happened,” I murmured. “I will do whatever I must to make her understand. Perhaps we aren’t so different, she and I,” I mused. “Perhaps there is no need to worry, Lyrae,” I gestured to the rebuilt, peaceful city below us. “Anyone who shares your dream will surely understand your choice.”
“You’ve never met Anaria,” Lyrae shot me a sharp look. “She’s young, but she has endured more than most of us, including me. Don’t underestimate her.”
“I won’t,” I promised, as a shadow swept over us, blocking out the stars.
A massive black dragon cut across the sky, powerful wings beating slow as he swooped in for a landing—Zephryn. And behind him, a golden wyvern glided withsleek, predatory grace, circling once, then angling toward the Citadelle.
Lyrae released my hand and drew her hood back over her head.
The loss of warmth was immediate. Like someone had let winter rush back in.
“Let’s go,” she said, her voice flat. “We shouldn’t keep the queen waiting.”
The Citadelle gatesopened like the jaws of some ancient giant—twin wooden beams reinforced with iron, flanked by Dreadwatch soldiers that dipped their heads in greeting as Lyrae and I passed through.
On the flattened plaza, Ryland was already dismounting, hair wind-tossed, cheeks flushed from the cold. Varian followed, rolling his shoulders before he helped Ariel slide down from the golden wyvern, swearing beneath her breath and yanking her hood back to reveal a tangle of white hair.
“Never again,” she muttered. “If you all decide to fly somewhere, I’m taking a carriage. Or riding a godsdamned horse, even though I hate them, too. Ordying, which would be a far better option.”
Ryland’s grin flashed. “You did great.”
“I barely survived,” Ariel sniffed—then her gaze landed on me. Moved slowly to her sister.
Wary appraisal turned to pursed-lip speculation, then a slow, knowing smile.
Ryland raised his brows. “You two got here fast.”
“We did,” I said before Lyrae could. “Just getting a tourof the city before we meet the queen. I am impressed,” I added softly as Zephryn shifted from an enormous black dragon to an equally intimidating, very naked male with wild black hair.
“This is a beautiful city. After only hearing about Tempeste my entire life, the stories did not do it justice.”
Ryland’s smile faltered, “a tour,” he said slowly. “Well. That’s…good.” His eyes moved to Lyrae, the furrow in his brow deepening. “Are you ready for this? You’re not alone, Ly. This isn’t just you standing judgment. We’re all with you.”
“I’m ready,” she murmured, in a low, distant voice edged with nerves that sounded nothing like herself.
Zephryn was belting a dark robe around his waist, making him look no less threatening. “I’ll take you to the queen. According to Torin, she’s waiting in the throne room, and we should not keep her waiting.”
Tristan followed, pulling on a loose shirt over breeches and boots that he’d stashed somewhere up here.
