“Oh, dear Gods,” I whispered. It was one thing after another in this fortress of evil.
I had only been in Bara's laboratory once, when Raven took me back to the manor at my request. By then, it had been mostly cleaned—the moths and remains removed. But I'd seen enough to recognize the set-up.
Glass cases lined the walls, sitting on steel shelves. Within some were white emperor moths, in others were cocoons attached to bare branches, and in the remaining cases were moth larvae squirming over large bones cut in half to reveal the marrow. That was what the larvae fed on—bone marrow. And that was where the magic lay.
“Keep going,” the King said. He took my hand and tugged gently, leading me away from the evidence of Nahel's cruelty.
We followed his knights through yet another doorway, out into a dark room. Before they could hold their lanterns aloft, light burst from high above, illuminating a massive room with a wood-plank floor and rough stone walls that swept up to become a ceiling. Dining tables spotted the space, their chairs empty. Although the room was big enough for an army to dine in, the ceiling was only twenty feet or so above us—not high enough for the Dragons to shift. At the far end of the room stood another doorway. Through it strode Chief Nahel of the Crimson Feathers.
Chapter Thirty
The underground dining hall rang like a war drum, the sound of pounding feet and wings echoing off the stone.
Okon warriors poured into the room after their chief, their gray flesh gleaming and blue veins glowing like frozen lightning. Cold shimmered around them, frosting the tables and chairs they flung out of their way, while their great wings folded back in preparation for attack. Nahel stood at the head of them, sauntering forward, his bone-thread blade humming in his hand.
“Stay close to me.” Raventar stepped in front of me, pulling his lava-glass sword free. The blade looked like black crystal, its edge whispering as it cut the air. Flames burst along its length—the King's magic adding to its threat.
My heart thundered, but I nodded and pulled my wings tight to my back. “I won’t leave your side.”
Glancing at me, Raven pulled his lava-glass dagger and handed it to me—the same dagger that Tara had used. “Just in case.”
I took it, the blade glinting but not bursting into flame. I didn't have Fire Magic. No matter. The blade had its own magic and would still slice through armor and bone.
“Thank you for returning my groom, King Raventar.” Nahel's gaze slid possessively down my body. Then he shouted at his men, “Bring me Eliel. Kill the rest!”
The Okon warriors charged, rushing forward to meet the Dragons like a tidal wave of frost, steel, and feathers.
Sir Vanoak roared, his lava-glass blade cleaving through an Okon’s armored chest as if it were cloth. Fire burst from the wound, and the winged man shrieked before collapsing in steaming ruin. Sir Foxren leapt onto a long table, eyes glowing green, and hurled himself into the fray, carving a burning path through two warriors at once.
Sir Neriver and Sir Lohawk fought back to back, blades flashing, every strike singing as lava-glass met enchanted flesh. Even so, the Okon were relentless. They fought through wounds that would have slain a normal warrior, their glowing veins pulsing brighter as they pressed forward.
Cold crashed into heat. Frost hissed against burning blades. The air steamed, and mist rolled downward to collect on the floor, turning the hall into an eerie battlefield.
I understood then why the King had instructed his knights to give mercy only if possible. In this battle, mercy would get you killed.
Raventar moved like a living inferno, carving space around me, every sweep of his sword leaving scorched arcs in the air. He blocked, struck, and shoved our enemies back, fire arcing from him to shield me whenever an Okon lunged too close.
And then Nahel joined the fight.
He darted in, impossibly fast, bone-thread blade flashing pale in the overhead lights as he came for the King. Raventar, bent from delivering a death blow, barely caught the strike against his sword, smoothly using his momentum to swing himself into line with Nahel. Lava glass met bone silk, the two weapons shrieking as if in pain. Nahel twisted, slipped under Raventar’s guard, and slashed.
The blade bit Raven’s arm.
My mate cried out and staggered, his sword dipping as the silk magic surged through him. His fingers contorted, muscles locking. “Eliel!” he growled, staggering as he tried to stay upright. “Behind me!”
Nahel laughed softly. “It only lasts a few minutes, Your Majesty. But that's all the time I need.” He lunged again.
Baring his teeth, the Dragon King raised his sword with both hands, but his movement was slow, dragged down by invisible chains. Nahel’s blade arced toward his chest.
“The King!” Sir Vanoak shouted and ran for us, but three Okon swarmed him, driving him back.
All around the room, Dragon knights fought, not to kill their opponents but to reach their king. Fire flashed. Men shouted. Blades sang as they tried to do their duty. But the knights would not reach the King in time. I knew it with certainty.
Time seemed to fracture.
Raven’s eyes widened. He knew it too. Death was inevitable. But instead of shouting in denial, he said the only thing that mattered. “I love you, Mate.”
I didn't respond, too focused on acting.
