“No,” she said, breathless. “I’ll always have your back, you great bloody bear. Now, let’s go get that miscreant, shall we?” She patted his blood-splattered chest.
With a low rumble, Race let her go.
Only then did Ash realize the fight was over. The hallway had fallen silent, the floor piled with bodies. The walls were slick with blood, and the air hung heavy with its metallic tang. Their small team stood back, waiting.
“Let’s avoid any more bloodshed, unless there’s no way out.” Race strode through the wreckage.
Thank heavens!
With a rough exhale, Ash followed.
He led them through twisting, unadorned corridors. Each turn grew deliberate, as if he knew every one by heart, until the passage spilled into a grand hall. Marble floors were dulled by neglect, and chandeliers sagged under dust. Faded portraits stared down like watchful ghosts, their faces scarred with strange symbols that made her skin crawl.
Race shoved aside a floor-to-ceiling tapestry and unlocked a door that seemed part of the wall, revealing a dark passage behind it—a private one, maybe? Air hissed out, stale and cold, carrying the scent of age and secrets.
A flicker of an image flashed through her mind—laughing, silver-haired boys tearing down this very corridor, their shouts echoing off the stone—then it was gone, slammed shut.Race.
His memories bled into her.
And her heart ached for him.
He slowed near an enormous, fire-scorched painting and pressed his palm to the granite next to it. The wall groaned open, revealing a narrow stairway spiraling upward. They climbed, theair thinning and growing colder with each turn, until it opened into a massive, opulent gallery.
Race’s dragon could have easily glided through it.
Dull gray dawn leaked through the towering windows. Her storm cover still held, muting the light.
Traces of grandeur lingered—gold leaf on vaulted ceilings, crystal sconces that once held magical flame. But here the destruction was different. Where the lower levels showed battle and neglect, these halls bore recent, savage defacement.
Fresh gouges scarred the murals of dragons soaring across the skies. Statues lay toppled, their faces hacked away, marble crowns half buried in rubble.
“Malcarion’s been busy,” Koal muttered, stepping over fallen marble.
“Erasing history,” Attor bit out. “He doesn’t want anyone to remember the reign before his.”
Race said nothing, his silence louder than words as he kept to the shadowed edge of the long gallery, aiming toward the far doors of the east side.
Ash followed close behind him, scrunching her face at the dust, then her nose tickled?—
Oh, crap.She clamped a hand over it before a sneeze could betray them.
The passage spilled into a wider corridor, and she inhaled harshly, the sneeze dying. Portraits lined the walls, most slashed or burned. One remained untouched—three young boys with silver hair, their laughter frozen in paint.
Race ignored it.
“The throne room’s just ahead,” he said. “Through the grand hall, then the east gallery. Two turns?—”
He stopped. His eyes narrowed, head tilting. Ash sensed it too, the pressure in the air, like thunder before a storm.
Boots pounded down the corridor. Too many.
Far, far too many.
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
Ash calledlightning to her fingertips, ready to flank, but Race planted himself in front of her.
