“That’s Farrow,” Aeson supplies, gesturing to the drake with the dark complexion and deep red armor. “Ogdan, Tove, Jori, Chastain, and Blay you met in Lairwood.”
My attention moves to the Shield from the lirocar, the one in purple armor with long golden brown hair and gray eyes. Blay. He gives me a friendly smile and doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest when I don’t offer one back.
Aeson waves behind him at a Channeler and then over to the big Thrasher guarding him. “This is Gatlin and Karis. I have two other members of my Wing, Herm and Sondar, who you’ll meet when they return from assignment.”
I find myself wondering what kind ofassignmentwould have pulled two members of Aeson’s detail away, but I let the question float off and settle somewhere else in my head when Lorn starts introducing members of his Wing.
“This is Nils and Urser,” the heir tells me, nodding his head at the two drakes in burnt orange scale armor that are flanking him. “That’s Razeer and Atol.” He gestures to another Shield and a Channeler. Both are positioned behind everyone else, their bodies angled to show that one is guarding a door over by the sitting area, and the other is keeping an eye on the archway across from him. “You’ll meet the rest of my Wing another time.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” I snark while slinging an impudent glower at both scions. “I’m Ever,” I offer politely and then look over at Farrow to answer his question. “Where I’ve been for the last sixty-two years is safe; the rest is none of your business.”
The affable gleam in Farrow’s black gaze gutters out. His countenance shifts to something that’s more confrontational, and it’s clear this isn’t a male who’s used to being denied or defied.
“The Scorch?” Aeson asks, but it sounds less like a question and more like a conclusion.
Shock pings through me, and my head snaps so fast in the commander’s direction I feel and hear my neck pop. A satisfied little smirk slinks across the asshole’s face, but I already know I fucked up and want to deck myself.
Rookie fucking move, Ever!
I school my features and study Aeson as he ambles casually from the archway toward his brother.
“Don’t look so surprised, Claws. It wasn’t that hard to figure out when you know what pieces to put together. We’ve been getting reports of wyvern activity in that area for decades. People still think there’s a Reward for Capture order, so they call in sightings. It’s never been worth looking into before now.”
Raw panic pumps through my veins, but I don’t react. We have strong wards in place that keep our camp hidden. No one, not even The Horde, has ever found it, and despite what Aeson’s claiming, there are patrols out there who look.
The Scorch is a massive stretch of wasteland. The commander can send his best trackers, but it’ll take them forever to pinpoint anything of value, and even if they do, they’ll still never get inside. Enslee won’t open those doors to them for any reason, not even me.
“You were with wyverns?” Chastain asks, the look on his too pretty face a mix of bewilderment and disgust. “But they betrayed us.”
I scowl over at him. “Not all of them.”
“Enough of them did,” Lorn argues.
I throw up my hands in exasperation. “I can say the same thing about dragons.”
“Yes, your feelings about The Horde have been crystal clear, but I don’t see that same level of resentment for the other Arcs who turned on the Syphons. Why is that?”
“Oh, there’s no love lost between me and the Tainted, I promise you that, but I’m not going to condemn—”
“Who are the Tainted?” Aeson interrupts, and I draw back, stunned.
“Tainted sorcai,” I answer, confused. “They’re sorcai, but their magic is darker. It stinks like it’s unnatural or going bad somehow. It changes them, makes them different. That’s who I escaped from in Newden.”
“I thought blood brokers had you?” Ogdan inserts, suspicion thick in his tone.
I let loose an irritable huff, confused as to how they’re not getting it. “The blood brokers work for the Tainted,” I explain, expecting the light to finally go off, but instead, I’m met with looks of uncertainty and puzzlement. Realization clammers like a gong in my head, and apprehension floods my system. “How do you not know about the Tainted?”
Lorn and Aeson share another one of those annoying cryptic looks, but I’m reeling too much to give a fuck about what it could mean. There’s no way The Horde doesn’t know about a psycho group of magic users who kill, kidnap, and drain Arcs? Their victims are the people the dragons are responsible for protecting. The Syphons have known about the Tainted for a while now. Are these dragons that out of touch with what’s happening in their own territories?
A loud knock rhythmically thuds through the room. I look around, but I have no idea which of the surrounding four doors it might be coming from. Razeer strides to the one he’s been watching and opens it. A statuesque woman practically floats in on a sea of ruffles. She gives a respectful nod to Razeer as she passes and then starts to glide our way.
She wears a round headdress made of blush-colored pearls and beads that makes her look even taller than she already is. Her pale pink dress is sleeveless and tight on her torso before cascading into a rippling mass of fluttering fabric that drops to mid-calf before spilling into a long train of ruched pleats and tucks behind her. Her honeycomb-yellow eyes are fixed on Lorn, and with each step she takes toward him, my heart starts to hammer harder and harder.
Is this his mate? Am I sitting on her bench in her room and she’s here to demand I give it back? I stand, prepared to do just that, but I have no idea where I’m supposed to go. So I do my best impression of a statue and freeze right where I am.
The ruffled goddess stops in front of Lorn and executes a smooth and polished curtsy that I couldn’t dream of emulating even if I practiced it for years. The veneration in the female’s actions and overall countenance helps to snap me out of my open-mouthed fascination.
“My apologies for the wait, My Scion. How may I serve you today?”
