“Says you who’s right here next to me,alsoeavesdropping.”
“Good point.” Jessa grabs Astrid’s cloak and tosses it to her. “Right, get your shit together. In every sense.” Astrid throws the cloak around her shoulders and fastens the clasp at her neck. There’s a pouch sewn into the lining of the cloak, and Bastet slips inside.
TRY NOT TO SWEAT. IT WILL BE UNPLEASANT ENOUGH AS IT IS.
“Yes, because that’s something I can control.” She rolls her eyes at Jessa, but Jessa’s face tightens.
“I get why you didn’t tell the queen, but why didn’t you say anything to me?”
She likes this about Jessa. There’s no silent treatment or sulking, no pretending there’s nothing bothering her—she tells it to you straight what’s on her mind.
“I was doing what I thought was best for him. If I was going to tell anyone, it would’ve been you, you know that. You’re like a sister to me. But he’s everything, Jess. And I’m not sorry for protecting him.”
Jessa studies her a moment, then shrugs. “Fair enough. Now let’s go.”
Astrid is about to hug her, but Jessa is already pulling her out the room, muttering about there being no time for “hugs and shit,” so Astrid smothers her grin and adjusts her belt, patting the vials to reassure herself, as she prepares to meet the dragon royals.
Thankfully, the mob has dispersed by the time they’re back outside, most of the city guards with them. Only the Dreki remain, lining both sides of the river. Gwen looks her over wordlessly before turning and walking onto the dock with Bjorn at her side, Astrid and Jessa following, the Ulvene closing in tight around her now they’re away from the magical protections of the boat. Despite that, she still feels exposed.
They emerge from a flight of stone steps into a large, rustic townsquare with cracked cobblestones, lined by terraced shops and restaurants in various shades of terra-cotta—all currently empty, from what she can see. Cables run along the buildings, then join overhead power lines, jumping from metal pole to metal pole, transmitting Vitalas throughout the city. There’s no wood in sight.
An Ulven clears their throat as the two great dragons—now riderless—land in the square. The ground judders beneath the witches and Jessa’s hand shoots out to steady Astrid, but she does not need steadying. She walks as if possessed, stoic and sure, while her entire body screams at her that this is wrong, that she should be running the other way. From this vantage the dragons are even more humbling, both at least twice the height of the tallest building on the square. Their keen eyes scan Astrid and her retinue, and Astrid thinks her courage is about to fail her until a little nuzzle at her belly reminds her Bastet is with her, and her jittery pulse levels out. She holds her chin up and stares the silver dragon dead in its violet eye. A rumble issues from its throat, but she does not balk. It won’t kill her yet. Or at least, she hopes not.
They halt in front of the Dreki, each with identical brands on their upper arms, who part in perfect synchronicity. And after a lifetime of waiting, Astrid comes face-to-face with the family that has dogged and murdered hers for decades. For centuries.
King Zachary and Prince Zryan stand side by side, the king’s stare as icy as his dragon as he surveys their group, while the prince is focused solely on Astrid. His eyes are a storm-cloud gray, as though he was destined to bond a thunder dragon, his olive-black hair is wind-tossed and his cheekbones are sharp enough to whet a knife on. He cocks his head, and while it seems to be a greeting, the action is predatory. A threat. She cocks her head right back and studies the man bred to kill her.
Up close, she can see just how big he is; how broad his shoulders are, how muscular his chest is, the tight-fitting leather jacket he’s wearing highlighting every line of him. His thighs strain against his pants, the muscle probably built from having to grip on to the back of his dragon. And he’s so tall, towering over even her mother’s six-foot frame. His hands are behind his back, his feet hip-width apart: a soldier’s stance.
Stars, even if this guy didn’t have a dragon, he’d absolutely annihilate her.
“Queen Guinevere,” the king says in Vatran, his voice flat, almost bored. He assesses the various familiars, before turning his attention to Astrid. “Princess Astrid. Welcome.” The light catches his forehead and she spots his mate mark. A shimmering white dragon silhouette, to represent his mate, Queen Ottilie. She’s never seen fated mates in real life before, only heard about them in the stories her father and Gram used to read to her, and she finds herself staring at the mark, fascinated despite her disdain for the man.
“King Zachary,” her mum replies in heavily accented Vatran, zero warmth in her tone. “Is there a reason we had to bear witness to you and your son terrorizing the people of your city?” Gwen glances to her left, where a frozen body has smashed apart, chunks of flesh captured within the ice and strewn across the square. Astrid’s stomach clenches at the sight.
A cruel smile curves the king’s lips.
“I’m afraid a group of misguided individuals has plagued our city these past months, and while you might call what we did ‘terrorizing,’?” he drawls almost mockingly, getting Astrid’s back up, “it is they who are the terrorists. I deemed it necessary to use the dragons to suppress any further… unrest”—he gestures to the person who’s now just a pile of bloody ice cubes—“and to protect our esteemed guests from potential attacks.”
Everyone in this square knows that what the king’s saying is utter bullshit—he couldn’t care less if these people attacked them, not when he has put his own best efforts into killing Astrid. She glances at the prince—a full-blooded warrior if ever she saw one—and once again she wonders why. Why the efforts to try and kill her when she is clearly no match for Prince Zryan?
“But we did manage to apprehend one of these criminals,” he continues, raising a hand, and a commotion breaks out behind him as a group of guards drag a ragged-looking man across the square. They steer clear of the dragons, and while the prince’s beast doesn’t spare them a glance, the ice dragon zones in on the prisoner, its forked tongue flicking out and tasting the air. As one, the Ulvene draw tighter together still.
The man is thrown at the feet of the king and the prince, but he stands, legs shaking, holding himself as straight as he can, and staresdown the Dragon royals. Brave. Astrid’s eyes find Zryan again, but his face is impassive, devoid of any emotion. He doesn’t look at the prisoner; he keeps his focus trained on Astrid. There’s a slight furrow in his brow as he takes in her cloak, and she shifts under that steady gaze despite herself.
“He’s not much to look at,” the king continues to Gwen, “but he’s a self-confessed ‘republican,’?” he says with a sneer, “staunchly anti-monarchy—he’d kill us all if he could, wouldn’t you?”
“Like you’re killing us? You son of a bitch, you took my daughter!” He launches himself at the king, and Zryan makes to intercept, hand going to a wicked-looking wavy blade at his hip, but the king jerks his fingers and the man stops dead, his jaw locking. Astrid inhales sharply. A powerful wielder—a Bone Wielder—that’s what the king is, and he controls this man as he would a marionette. The king waves a dismissive hand at Zryan, who eases, his face becoming unreadable once more.
“Bruma,” the king says, and the blue dragon extends its neck toward the rebel, now shaking violently. “Show this man what it means to defy his king.”
Bile rises in Astrid’s throat: she doesn’t want to see this, yet she can’t look away.
Faster than a being that big has a right to move, Bruma snaps forward and crushes the man between his powerful jaws, cutting off his bloodcurdling screeches, the crunch of breaking bones ringing through the square. The beast bares its teeth, red and dripping with torn pieces of flesh, then lifts its head and swallows, the body gone in two great gulps.
Astrid’s heart gallops in her chest. Desperately seeking anything to look at instead of the dragon, she finds her eyes on the prince again. He’s watching her still. Gauging her reaction. She schools her face, wiping any emotion from it. Any sign of terror.
“Now, shall we make our way to The Rok before it gets dark?” the king says, as if they haven’t just fed a man to a dragon. The prince angles his head slightly, listening to something behind him, and when his thunder dragon backs up to launch into a run and take flight, Astrid realizes they were communicating. Mind to mind. Despite everything she’s just witnessed, she finds herself wishing she and Bastetcould do the same. The king waves a hand, and with one last rattle the ice dragon follows the other into the sky.
