Instantly, his dragon mark draws my eye, and I’m tempted to step closer and really study it. I stop myself, figuring there will be plenty of time to look when we’re beating the shit out of each other. Aeson puffs up a little as I take him in, and I shake my head at his arrogance. Not that I can really fault him for it—if I had muscles on muscles like that, I’d never put clothes on.
“That’s an interesting battle strategy, lass,” Ogdan lilts, his gray eyes bright with mischief as he approaches.
I sigh.
“Not a very original one though,” Tove jibes as she joins the party.
“I like it better when you’re both giving me the silent treatment,” I declare flatly. “And it’s not a strategy,” I lie. “I don’t carry around a change of clothes on the off chance someone wants to fight me. And no dragon means no scale armor either, dang it.” I snap my fingers and make an exaggerated pouty face.
“At the rate you’re pissing people off, maybe youshouldstart carrying around fighting gear,” Tove counters.
“Scion,” Ogdan calls, interrupting my caustic retort and nodding in the direction of the entryway. Three concerned-looking drakes I’ve never seen before are standing there over by the room’s entryway.
Aeson nods, his features darkening slightly with concern, and then he walks away without another word, Ogdan and Tove right on his heels. I try to eavesdrop on what’s going on with the visitors, but Ventis calls up my own battle dummy from the ground and runs me through a series of drills to establish my baseline for the simulator. By the time I’m done, Aeson is back on his side of the cube, and Sondar is putting what looks like tiny neon green stickers on the commander’s temples, shoulders, wrists, and ankles.
Ventis steps into my line of sight, a case in her hand with bright green stickers no bigger than my pinky nail. These must be the tactors. Without asking or telling me what she’s doing, she places a sticker on each of my temples, shoulders, wrists, ankles, and one on my chest.
“Are you going to tell me what I’ve done to offend you, or should I keep pretending that you’re not looking at me like I’m a puddle of piss you just stepped in?” I ask the female evenly as she works.
She doesn’t immediately respond, but her scowl cuts so deeply into her features, I’d be surprised if it doesn’t leave permanent marks. She pulls in a measured breath as though readying herself for something.
I do the same, only more discreetly. Just when the silence starts to skirt uncomfortable, she finally looks me in the eye.
“Who is your mother?” she asks me point-blank, a hard edge in her ice blue eyes.
I study her for a moment, wondering where she’s going with this. It’s not odd that she’s curious, but something in the way Ventis is asking makes me think this isn’t about curiosity, this feels like it’s about condemnation.
“Does it matter?” I counter, examining her reaction to my purposeful evasion.
“It does,” she responds simply, giving me nothing more than that.
I narrow my gaze at her. “Why?”
She considers me carefully. And she must see the obstinacy set in my features, communicating that if she wants me to answer her questions, she better be willing to answer mine.
“Because I grew up with Paloma—Queen Tenebrae,” she quickly corrects. “We were very close. And I’d like to know who the king betrayed his mate for.”
I keep my face blank, my body still, as defensiveness washes over me. A dogged determination glints in her gaze when I don’t fulfill my end of the unspoken bargain and answer her question now that she’s answered mine.
She shakes her head and her stare grows distant. “When the scion informed me of who you were, I thought I could remain impartial, professional, but you look like him—like your father. I wasn’t prepared for how that would make me feel. I’m trying not to, but all I see when I look at you is the way he betrayed one of my dearest friends, and…” She trails off, her face forlorn and her words haunted.
I nod, my exhale tired as her words fall heavily between us. She’s hurt and heartbroken, and I’m the only one left to aim it at. It’s unfair and frustrating, and yet, as much as I want to hold her wrongful estimations against her, there’s something in the loss shrouding her that quiets my hurt and calms my indignation. I’ve been there, wounded and suffering and needing someone to blame. I understand the need to try to make sense of something nonsensical.
“I met the queen,” I tell the commander placidly, willing to extend a little grace and empathy despite her resistance to offer me the same. “She gave me this oval-shaped, dark brown candy that her sons loved, and I instantly shoved the whole thing in my mouth. It. Was. Awful. To this day, I can’t remember what it was called, but I will never forget the taste.”
I scrunch my face in disgust and fight off a shiver of revulsion at the dusty memory before continuing.
“I quietly panicked because I did not want this candy in my mouth anymore, let alone have to eat it, but what else could I do? I didn’t want to offend the queen or her sons—who apparently had horrible taste in treats. But she must have seen the dilemma written all over my little face, because she held the bottom hem of her dress up to my mouth and told me it was okay to spit it out if I didn’t like it. So I did. I spit this glob of nastiness right into the middle of her beautiful dress, and she didn’t even bat an eye.”
A sad smile slips across my face, and my throat grows tight as I recall the softness in the queen’s voice and the kindness in her face as she took my hand and gave it a comforting little squeeze.
“I was so nervous, so worried about upsetting her, about ruining her pretty clothes, I started to cry. And then she wrapped me up in a firm hug and let me. She wiped my tears with the clean part of her skirts, and she asked me all about the things I liked to do and eat, about my favorite games and subjects. When I was finally done feeling emotional, she held my hand and said, ‘Ducky, let’s go find you the treat you deserve,’ and we raced to the kitchens and told the chef all about my favorite tart…and then we made it. The queen rolled out pastry dough and helped hand whisk custard becauseItold her that’s how the cook did it back home.”
My fond smile dims with sorrow, and I notice Commander Ventis lifting a hand to her mouth to hide the tremor of grief there. I take a moment to lock my own sadness down so I can continue.
“I think your loyalty to the queen’s memory is admirable. I was only six when we met, but even then, it was obvious she was the kind of dragoness who merited it. If anyone felt betrayed by my existence, it wasn’t her. She was kind, and she was loving, and she didn’t deserve to die the way she did.”
I pause, a flash of blood suddenly marring my vision as screams fill my head, echoes of Queen Tenebrae’s horror when her begging and pleading for the lives of her sons fell on cruel and heartlessly deaf ears.
