The subtle nod of his head confirms he’s a tracker, one who’s currently searching the air for lies.
“Your surname is an unusual one…rare,” Lorn Noctis observes, his gaze growing slightly more intense as he studies me.
“It didn’t used to be,” I goad, and an immediate edge nicks through the room.
“No, it didn’t,” Noctis agrees, clasping his hands behind his back as he starts to orbit me, forcing me to track his every step like prey would a predator.
It’s a tactic I’ve used myself when trying to unsettle someone I need information from. I never realized how fucking annoying it was until now.
“I’m going to cut to the chase, Ever. It’s been a long day and I’d like to get back to Paragon City sooner rather than later. We heard the whispers coming from the Channeler clan about King Noctis and some of his decisions recently. If this is Lord Quall trying to make a move on behalf of Duke Dowzer, he lacks the numbers and overall strength and intelligence to pull it off. Why else would he set up such an obvious trap in his own territory? King Noctis will pardon your involvement in such idiocy, but only if you revealeverydetail of what the duke and the lord hope to accomplish and how.”
I’m taken aback by the scion’s little speech, filing away the helpful nuggets of information—not that I’ll ever see Enslee again to tell her. We knew there were issues amongst the dragon clans and kiths, but the Crown is good at keeping the extent and details of their infighting quiet. Enslee and her advisors would be eager to know that King Noctis thinks a Channeler duke and lord are trying to overthrow him.
All eyes are on me, and I feel the press of their judgment and silent questions. I shake my head and blow out a breath.
Here we go.
“You can shove your pardon up your regal ass, or the king’s, I don’t particularly care which. For the record, I don’t know anything about the duke or the Qualls or any plans they might have. I’m not working for them or any other members of The Horde. I doubt that means anything to you since I’m certain you’ve already made up your mind and aren’t going to believe me despite your Thrasher over there giving you the ol’ nod of approval. Save us all the trouble of a monotonous and useless back-and-forth and just kill me now. I too am tired of being here and would be happy to leave sooner rather than later.”
A rumble of disapproval ripples through the drakes around me, their dislike over my show of disrespect coming through loud and clear.
Good.
I’ll do what it takes to protect the people I care about no matter the cost. And I really am fucking tired.
The scion glances purposefully at the Thrasher, who nods even though he looks shocked to be doing so. The tracker pulls in another deep breath as though he’s second-guessing his own affinity and double-checking for even the faintest hint of deception, but we both know it’s not there.
“Do you want to die, Ever?” Lorn asks evenly.
I scoff. “No, but when has that ever stopped the likes of you?”
“So, you’re not working with the Channelers, the duke, or the Qualls, and you want me to believe that your presence here isn’t some kind of trap?” He pauses and studies me for a long, drawn out moment.
I roll my eyes, which only serves to make him more intrigued.
“You don’t seem to like me very much. Why is that?”
I tsk. “Come now,Lorn, I can’t be the first person you’ve run into that thinks you’re a prick.”
A warning growl sounds off from behind me, and one of the large guards who escorted me in here steps closer, anger radiating off him. The scion raises a hand to keep the male from erasing any more of the miniscule distance between us, and I bite back a smile.
Excellent. I’m getting to them.
“You will address the scion with respect,” another male orders, a fulminating glare aimed at me.
“If I respected him, I would,” I snap back, matching his glower.
“Enough,” Noctis commands, and several snarls quiet instantly. “You’re baiting me,” he notes, not nearly as annoyed as I’d like him to be. “How curious.”
Apprehension tightens my throat at the flicker of intrigue that alights in his blue eyes.
Shit.
I wasn’t trying to pique his interest, I was trying to piss him off so he’d rip my throat out and be done with it before they had a chance to torture me for answers.
“First things first though. Stanzin, give me your knife,” Noctis orders, and the Thrasher steps forward, unsheathing a blade from his thigh and handing it, hilt first, to the scion.
A trill of fear resonates through me as Noctis strides closer, a wicked-looking blade in his hand. I press back in my chair despite myself.
