A single occupant, judging by the rustle of papers.
Calming my breaths, I slip into the room, immediately identifying the woman leaning over the table on the far side of the room.
Her back is to me, but there’s no mistaking her long, deep-black hair, an unusually dark color for a Tol-Dakri.
She calls from the other side of the room without turning, clearly mistaking my approaching footfalls for those of one of her warriors. “Do you think we could?—?”
Her back stiffens.
I wonder what gave me away.
Possibly the faint scent of ash I carry with me at all times.
I imagine her suddenly narrowed eyes.
Her arms are both in front of her, where I can’t see them,but I’m certain she’ll now reach for one of the many daggers she carries about her person.
Impressively fast, she spins toward me, crouches, and launches a blade at my heart.
It would be a perfect strike if I weren’t so fast.
I side-step the blade instead of burning it to ash mid-air, moving with the confidence that comes with knowing I could render this entire city to rubble within seconds.
Quickly, I pull off my mask, revealing my face. “Is that any way to greet your king, Ortansia?”
Her dark-gray eyes glitter up at me. “I will never bow to you, Maxim, King of the Wasteland. You know this.”
Now that she’s crouched, it’s apparent that the table behind her is strewn with parchments. Some appear to be maps. No doubt what she was studying when I came upon her.
Rising from her crouch, she stands her ground, tossing back her dark hair, her gaze raking me up and down. It’s difficult to visually ascertain her age, but she doesn’t appear much older than me. Probably no more than thirty years.
The fact that she hasn’t launched herself at me and tried to kill me is more unsettling than comforting.
So is the absence of knives about her body. The last time I saw her, she was wearing a near-mountain of blades.
She folds her arms across her chest—not the kind of gesture she’d make if she were on the verge of fighting me. “What do you want?”
I’m not about to squander these heartbeats of peace between us. “Where is it?”
She’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.
I’m certain her people have prepared for the day an Ember King came asking for the only fire dragon’s hide in known existence.
With the briefest pinch of her brow, she unfolds her arms,scoops up a flask of water from the table, and offers it to me. As if that’s what I was asking for. “Water, my king? You must be thirsty.”
I don’t drink water. Or liquor. My body requires protein, and that is all. I’m certain she knows it.
She grimaces. “Oh, that’s right. Water simply evaporates in your mouth.”
I lower my voice. “Ortansia. Where is the dragon’s hide?”
My calmness seems to unsettle her. Her fingers twitch, and the flask shakes a little as she sets it back on the table. “What makes you so certain I have it?”
“Because the Tol-Dakri have long boasted about the Battle of Fire Dragons,” I reply. “The way they killed and skinned the last ferocious dragon. You have that hide. I want it.”
Casually, she props herself up on the edge of the table, sweeping one arm backward as if to support herself, but I’m certain she’s reaching for another dagger.
I cross the gap between us in a flash, wrapping my hand around her arm and halting her. “Do you wish for death?”
