Saga nearly sobbed in relief as she reached Elisava, the wet hide cutting through the heat in an instant. Elisava hauled her toward the stable doors, and soon they were falling to their knees in the courtyard, coughing and gasping for breath.
A torrent of angry Zagadkian assaulted Saga’s ears, and sheturned toward the sound. Elisava held the same disapproving expression as when she chastised Rov, and something about this made Saga’s lips pull up at the corners.
“Are your brains pickled? You risked your life for that murderous beast, you crazy fool of a girl! It is not worth it!”
The fire burning in the stables had been contained, but it was too late—the beams and framing collapsed to the ground. Ash and smoke billowed skyward, but as Saga gazed up, it was a white form she searched for.
And when she did not see Havoc, her smile only widened.
Hours later, bells tolled through Kovograd, mournful and tired as the city itself. News had spread through the fortress: The Urkans had retreated for the night, returning to their camp on the banks of the Kovosk River.
Now Saga dragged herself through the corridors, not quite certain if she was heading toward her chambers at all. A guttural sound ricocheted through the hallway, and Saga paused as the hairs on her arms lifted. The sound came again, and this time she recognized it. Before she had time to think, she was rushing down the corridor.
Men shouted, growls shaking the walls. And then, a howl—the same she’d heard in the hull of that ship. Saga was now running toward the chaos and screams of men. A door slammed and Rov’s frustrated voice reached her ears.
“He cannot be eased!”
Saga rounded the corner and skidded to a halt before Rov and Kass’s Druzhina. Their armored coats were smeared with mud and gore, exhaustion etched into their faces. One battered-looking warrior sagged against the wall, nursing a fresh gash in his arm. Another was sprawled on the floor, feeding a bandage through a tear in his breeches. And as Rov turned to Saga, a wound shone red against his brown cheekbone.
“What is not…so?” she stumbled in Zagadkian.
Rov scowled at the door, answering her in Íseldurian. “Is nothing, Printsessa. You must not trouble yourself with such matters.”
But the shattering of glass and a low, mournful howl from within the room had her stepping closer. “It is Kassandr? What has happened?”
Rov ran a hand down his haggard face. “He is…not himself.”
“What has happened, Rov?”
“Is…trapped,” he said. “No one can calm him. Bring back to himself.”
Saga chewed on her lip, staring at the door. “I will try.”
Rov’s laugh was anything but amused. “Printsessa, no, you cannot—”
“He won’t harm me.” Saga was surprised at her certainty—she felt it in the very marrow of her bones.
“Is not in control—”
“He won’t hurt me,” repeated Saga, sending her most assertive gaze at Rov. “Let me try. And if I succeed, then you and the Druzhina must go and get some rest.”
Perhaps it was due to exhaustion, or perhaps it was the determination he read in Saga’s eyes, but Rov relented with a dramatic sigh. Muttering in unintelligible Zagadkian, he retrieved a key from his pocket and slid it into the door.
Then Rov paused, sending Saga a sidelong glance. He pulled a dagger from his hip and held the hilt toward her. Saga stared at it blankly, but her mind replayed those gruesome sounds in the gallery—Kassandr ripping out throats and tossing men as though they were made of straw.
She pushed the dagger back to Rov. “What good will a blade do against him?”
Rov’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “Is madness. Kassandr will carve out my entrails and wear them as a necklace.” But at Saga’s unrelenting stare, he sighed. “You are certain?”
She nodded.
And with that, he turned the key and eased the door open. Sagakept her movements slow and steady to avoid startling the beast as she entered the room, but she could not suppress her gasp as she took in the space. It looked as though a windstorm had crashed through it. A heavy table was upended, its chairs reduced to kindling. Clothing was torn, the walls and floors gouged with claw marks, and shards of glass scattered the floor.
And there, with his back to her, was the beast. Saga stared. His back was broad and covered with wolf-like fur, with bony protrusions bursting along the length of it. These spikes were as long as her hand and curved to sharp points, and Saga’s gaze traced their path down his spine where they gradually diminished, giving way to a barbed tail. There was something decidedly wolf-like about him, and yet so much more that was entirelyother.
Saga felt her pulse in her wrists, her knees, her temples. His tail lashed back and forth, breaths sawing heavily in and out from him. Saga had a moment of trepidation, wondering if the smoke from the stables had addled her mind.
But she took another step forward, then slid the door closed behind her. The click of the latch was loud in the silent room. Tufted ears pricked.
