The crowd went wild. Yelling and cheering reverberated across the square, filled with veneration. Voices cried his name, his titles, and words Ash didn’t even understand but ones she felt vibrate in her bones.
When the excitement finally died down, Race stepped forward.
“Lemuria is no longer bound by fear,” he said, his steady voice edged with steel. “The shadow that darkened these skies has been burned away. Malcarion is no more. Together, we will rebuild what was broken, not as slaves but as a people united. Your young, stolen from you, have been rescued. They will return to you in the coming days.”
Amidst the cheering came the sound of weeping—relief, joy, disbelief—all blending into one living current of emotion.
“There’s more,” Race said, a faint warmth in his tone. “Happy news this time.”
He extended a hand toward Ash. Startled, she met his warm smile as she grasped his fingers. He drew her to his side.
“This is Ashaya, a Storm Summoner,” Race said, his voice ringing clear across the square. “My mate, my heart, and your queen. She has stood with me against fire and darkness through this war to victory. She will stand for you all, and for Lemuria.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd, quickly replaced by cheers that rolled like thunder. As the noise faded, a young, tremulous voice asked, “Queen Ashaya…did the monster hurt you?”
Ash blinked at the little girl clutching her mother’s skirt, a ragged doll dangling from her hand. The child’s wide blue eyesbrimmed with wonder—and far too much fear for someone so young.
Ash smiled softly, adjusted her sling, and stepped down from the dais. She knelt before the child, meeting her gaze. “Well, love, I suppose fighting bad dragons does leave one a little bit battered, but I’m quite all right.”
A ripple of laughter rolled through the crowd—light, incredibly therapeutic.
“But don’t worry, the nasty dragon’s gone. See this?” She coaxed lightning over her fingertips.
The little girl gasped, trepidation melting into awe, and she giggled when the sparks danced over Ash’s hand. “I used it as my weapon,” she whispered with a wink.
Ash rose, straightened her wrinkled shirt. All around her, guards shifted, aligning with military precision.
Oo-kay, then.Race wasn’t taking any chances with her safety.
She stepped to the dais when a wall of muscle and heat flashed in front of her. Her stomach lurched. She touched his back. “Race?—?”
His answer was a low, guttural snarl. Black scales rippled over his arms, metallic light racing down his skin as he moved, shielding her completely.
A shout rang out—then another. Wings thundered overhead, the downdraft slapping her hair across her face. Dragons swept low, their roars splitting the air. Guards flooded the square, forming ranks around the dais.
“What’s happening?” she gasped, trying to see past his biceps.
Race turned, his expression icy, his eyes a perilous crimson—and in his fist gleamed a deadly, steel-tipped arrow.
Ash’s heart stuttered. “Oh, dear God!”
“You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice low with icy calm.
“It’s not me he was after,” she breathed, staring at the glint of the arrowhead slick with dark residue.
“Tartarus didn’t kill me,” he said, his voice flat. “Neither will he.”
Who?
A shrill bugle split the sky. A massive coppery-gold dragon slammed into the square, its talons cracking the stone. In its claws dangled a man in brown leathers, struggling and spitting curses.
The dragon released him, and he rolled away, yanking at his neck and the black metal collar catching the late afternoon sunlight.
The great beast shimmered, folding in on itself until Braxion stood there, naked and furious. But Ash barely registered him, her gaze locked on the man writhing at his feet.
Ohhh. This bloody windbag again?
Ash could never forget those covetous green-gold eyes. Even shackled, the shifter glared at her as if she caused his downfall—this same bastard who had followed them to the portal basin.
