Freeing him to love Greta, wholly and truly, and without compromise.
Greta had loved the king, even in his remote iciness, but dwelling in the unrestrained warmth of his devotion was like being kissed by the sun itself. Every day, she threw herself into that love with wilful abandon,pledging herself not only to the kingdom of Gevra but to the man who ruled it.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ he murmured now. ‘An oil painting at our feet.’
Greta gripped his hand where it rested around her waist. ‘Sometimes, the magic of this place feels a dream.’
He hummed his agreement. ‘One day soon, it will all be yours.’
‘Now is hardly the time to talk about marriage,’ she chided, even as a flurry of heat erupted inside her. There was another, graver matter at hand, and it bore a heavy weight. ‘We’re about to go to war.’
‘Hardly,’ he said, with a low huff. ‘This little skirmish will be over before you can say,I can’t wait to be your queen, Alarik.’
Fern dipped suddenly.
Greta’s stomach swooped as they hurtled towards the Blackspires. Alarik clutched her tightly to him as he directed the dragon over the peaks and into the low-hanging clouds.
They crossed the border into Vask, gliding towards a sea of crimson armour. There must have been at least fifty thousand soldiers, the combined forces of Vask and Ryberg coming to topple Gevra’s weakened king.
Or so they believed.
As they dropped from the sky, surrendering their cloud cover, a chorus of shouts rang out. The soldiers slowed, tipping their heads back to reveal the shock on their faces. Some fell to their knees in wonder, while others went still, trying to make sense of the sight before them: a dragon spun from the legends of old. A beast riding with flame in its teeth.
On Alarik’s command, Fern circled lower, closer. The soldiers drew back, leaving a lone figure riding out front. Clad in her spiked gold armour, the avaricious Queen Regna chose to make herself known to the mighty winged beast. Whorls of long white hair streamed from her helmet as she leaped from her horse and vaulted forward, her sword raised to the sky, as if to claim the dragon for herself.
It occurred to Greta that the visor of the queen’s helmet was too narrow. She must not see them, riding on its back.
‘Go on, Fern,’ said Alarik. ‘Say hello.’
By the time Queen Regna spotted the king of Gevra sitting atop the dragon, it was already too late. Fern reared her head back and released a roar that shook the very foundations of the earth. Then the fire came, an inferno so vast and hot and unforgiving it turned the queen of Vask to ash, until there was nothing left but her helmet and the gleaming blade of her sword. All around her, the earth blackened, smoke curling up and dancing in the morning wind.
Thousands of soldiers froze in wide-eyed terror, silently awaiting their fate. Greta’s heart clenched, and for a fleeting moment, she felt their sweeping devastation as if it were her own.
She had known that same guttering fear, once as a girl trying to save her father’s life in the forests of Carrig. And again as a wrangler, on her knees in the Blackspires, when death had prowled too close.
Death was here again.
Only now it was theirs to wield.
Alarik lurched forward, readying his next command, but Greta grabbed his hand and pressed it to her heart. She turned into him,her hair brushing the underside of his chin. ‘Mercy,’ she whispered. ‘There is strength in mercy, too.’
She felt him hesitate, the fate of all those trembling soldiers teetering on the edge of his tongue.
Alarik had already done enough. He had shown the true power of his kingdom in a single, calculated blow, and enacted vengeance on the queen who deserved it. The message was short and sharp, delivered by a ferocious, fire-breathing dragon.
The kingdom of Gevra would never again beg or bow to another.
But it could show mercy. It could know peace.
‘All right, wildling,’ he murmured, as though he could hear the wish in her heart. ‘Here is your peace.’
At a command from her king, the dragon burned a line in the earth, the wall of flames dying out to reveal the king’s first and final warning.
A black, smoking boundary.
Stay on your side. Or burn like your queen.
The soldiers drew back from it in their droves, falling over each other in their haste to obey.
