I stare.
He’s gorgeous.
A beast the size of a draft horse, all rippling obsidian muscle and long, powerful legs.
His mane is living fire, burning in shades of gold and white and violent blue at the core.
Flames drip from it like liquid light, flaring as he tosses his head.
His hooves are made of magma and hammered steel, each step punching small, glowing crescents into the stone.
His eyes are molten amber.
And right now, they are fixed on me.
“Okay,” I whisper, more to myself than him. “Okay, buddy. You and me. We’re doing this.”
I take a step forward, hands raised.
“But milady?—”
“It’s okay. He won’t hurt me,” I bluff, but I really hope it’s true.
“I need to get to your Lord,” I say, because insanity feels like the only reasonable option. “Thorne. You know him. Big, grumpy, too hot for his own good? Probably currently fighting half an army and scaring the shit out of everyone?”
The Mustang snorts, a puff of smoke curling from his nostrils.
He cocks his head.
Then—very clearly—nods.
I blink. “Well. That was easier than I thought.”
I probably shouldn’t have said that out loud.
Because the second I swing a leg over his back and settle myself—no saddle, no reins, just two fistfuls of burning mane that miraculously doesn’t scorch my hands—the Fire Mustang launches forward like a rocket.
“OH MY GOD!”
The world becomes speed.
We tear out of the stables, hooves striking sparks that explode into sprays of fire behind us. The courtyard blurs. Ashfell’s towers streak past in a whirl of black and ember-red. The air slams into me hard enough to steal my breath.
I cling to his mane, laughing and screaming all at once.
“YOU COULD WARN A GIRL!” I shriek.
He tosses his head, and I swear he’s laughing.
Then the castle falls away.
The Broken Plains stretch out beneath us in an endless sweep of rust-red earth and black glass ridges, all lit by the strange Gemini Moon hanging fat and low in the sky—bone-white on one side, blood-rust on the other.
We thunder over the savannah-like landscape, fire blooming under each hoof-strike. Heat lashes my face, my hair whipping back, tears burning in the corners of my eyes.
In the distance, lightning cracks down from a bruised cloud bank—Dagan’s temper, maybe.
And closer—too close—an angry red glow flickers and moves.
