“What does it say, Oric?” Lorn demands regally.
Tahir flinches, shooting me one last scathing look before she turns to the heir.
“My Scion, please forgive me, but she’s lying. The reading must have been tampered with somehow—”
“What does it say?” Aeson growls, his patience paper thin.
A small, frightened squeak sneaks out of the Oric, and I almost feel bad for her. Then I remember that she just called me a liar after insinuating that my body was destroyed because of my scars. And just like that, every ounce of sympathy I might have evaporates.
“B-breed…” Tahir stammers. “Dragon, My Scion. It says that she’s a dragon. But bloodline…her kith…” Anger hardens her features, and her gaze goes from honeycomb to a brittle-looking amber. “It’s flagging her as a Syphon, My Scion. But that can’t be—”
“Thank you, Oric. Your work here is done. I would remind you that everything you witnessed and confirmed in this room stays in this room, or else. You are dismissed.”
Tahir’s eyes grow wide and her mouth opens and shuts like a water-starved fish. Her shocked stare darts from Lorn to me to Aeson and back again.
“But, My Scion, you don’t understand. It says she’s a Syphon, but she can’t…that’s not…there’s mo—”
“You. Are. Dismissed,” Lorn decisively barks, the ice in his tone and eyes freezing Tahir’s stuttered argument before more can slip out of her mouth.
Her lips clamp closed with alarm, and she flinches when Razeer takes a step away from Lorn’s side, striding over to open the door before looking pointedly at the soon-to-be ejected Oric. Tahir hesitates for another second before her head falls in defeat, and she dips into another smooth curtsy that makes me want to roll my eyes while coughing “kiss ass” at her.
“Yes, My Scion,” Tahir submits solemnly, and then she all but sprints for the door, her ruffles swishing noisily in her wake. She shoots me one last vexed glare before disappearing through the doorway, and I quickly add her name to the ever growing list of assholes I need to watch my back around.
The room is dead quiet as Razeer shuts the door and resumes his place next to Lorn. The drakes all around me look surprisingly dumbfounded. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was because they didn’t believe anything I was saying until right this minute. Some of them arewaybetter actors than I initially gave them credit for, because I thought a few were definitely on my side.
I sit down on the bench and stretch my arms across the back, making myself comfortable. “Is this a good time for a“told you,” or should I hold off a little longer?”
Lorn scowls at me, but a prickle of unease skitters across the back of my neck when Aeson’s pensive gaze stays locked on the rug at our feet.
“Are there others?” Lorn asks after a beat, the question sounding more haunted than I think he realizes.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
A palpable hope pulses through the room, one I rush to stomp out before it catches.
“If I survived, who’s to say others didn’t? But as far as I know, I’m the last of my kindred.”
Lorn doesn’t even glance in the direction of a Thrasher to confirm what I’m saying is the truth. Not that it would matter. I’m not lying.
I’m also not telling the entire truth.
Iamthe last born daughter of the Tenebrae line. Enslee, my twin, was born exactly two minutes before me.
I’m not technically the youngest out of all of the survivors, but the other Syphons are kith, not kindred. A pivotal distinction the scions haven’t picked up on.
Lorn shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It seems the fates have been busy,” he mumbles to himself.
“Fuck fate,” Aeson and I both angrily whisper at exactly the same time.
Our eyes catch for the briefest of seconds before he looks away. His stare settles on one of the archways and the darkening sky beyond as though it’s beckoning him, and I can see he’s struggling not to answer.
An ache starts to spread through my chest, throbbing in time with my thrumming heart. I rub at it, drawing small circles over my sternum. A cavern reopens between me and the members of The Horde. They watch me like some apparition they’re worried will disappear altogether or coalesce and attack. All of them but one.
His gaze on me shouldn’t matter. My interest in his thoughts should be nothing more than a means to an end. His touch should be repulsive. And yet, none of those things are true. Which is a huge fucking problem because I loathe everything he represents. A fact that should make loathing him and the others easy, but here I stand, my wrong popsicle dripping down my white-knuckled grip as I ponder if I was ever right about anything.
And if I wasn’t…what the fuck does that mean for me now?
Lorn runs a hand through his white hair, brushing the locks back like he’s daring them to disobey. He takes a step forward, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.
