She is not to be hurt.
There is a gasp of shock that ripples around the hall, moving from person to person, and Skylar feels a prickle run down the back of her neck as the heaviness of Mjolnir’s words settles in her mind—into the minds of every person here. She’d heard that dragons can speak to anyone they wish, but she couldn’t have imagined the way it would feel. The way the pressure she so often feels in her head rises to meet that presence, like two forces colliding.
The dragon shifts its head to look at his rider, and Zryan meets that gaze. There’s a beat of silence. Then Zryan nods. Either understanding implicitly—or a silent conversation. Because dragons usually only speak to those they are bonded to.
There’s a low rumble as Mjolnir draws in his long neck, more rubble falling away from the castle. Skylar stays there, dust settling around her, the fragment of sword tucked inside the rope binding her hands.
She doesn’t understand what’s just happened. All she knows is that they were going to kill her—and Mjolnir stopped them.
“Well.” It’s the witch queen, speaking from the corner of the room. The people nearest to her have gore splattered on their clothes, but she is pristine. Her voice is loud enough, but Skylar can hear the shake there. “I think that settles that, then.”
Everyone looks to the king, but he is silent. This is the man who ordered conscription. Who took Cam from her. Who sent his Dreki to kill her mother. She never thought she’d be within throwing distanceof him, let alone close enough to strike a killing blow. She feels anger surging: that she has been brought here as some kind of pawn, that the royals are enjoying feasts and parties while their minions round up people on the street. She hates them. She fucking hates every single person here.
She takes half a step forward, and the blond man’s gaze flicks to her. His green eyes are cold, calculating. It’s enough to make her stop. To think. She may be currently unguarded—but there’s no way she can take on all three royals and a whole load of Dreki.
The prince catches the blond man’s gaze. “Axel?” He jerks his head. And with a grim nod, the blond man—Axel, apparently—steps up beside Skylar. He can’t be much older than her—late twenties, maybe—but he carries himself with the confidence of someone much older.
The king glances around the room—from the remnants of the Dreki on the floor, to the witches, still hovering in the corner, to the princess covered in blood, then, finally, to Skylar.
“Fine,” he spits. “Someone get the damned Custodian. Let the Covenant decide what we do with the girl.”
At this, the witch queen nods, then jerks her chin to her guards, who close in around the princess, protecting her as they leave the hall.
Skylar doesn’t know or particularly care what the Custodian is. Because one thing is becoming very clear: she may have avoided a death sentence for now, but that does not mean they are letting her go.
11Astrid
She can still feel the guard’s blood on her. Still taste it.
The way Mjolnir blasted him apart, reduced him to red mist, without even touching him—she retches again, vomiting into the latrine.
Jessa rubs between her shoulder blades, stroking back her hair until the last of it comes up. Astrid wipes her mouth, rising from the cream-tiled floor on shaky legs and exhaling heavily.
“You good?” Jessa is perched on the iron bathtub. She’s not looking so perky herself.
“I need water,” Astrid rasps, leaving the bathing chamber and heading back into her bedroom. Bastet slinks out from the shadows by the door looking sheepish, and she sighs. He must have followed her to the feast—witnessed the whole thing. He brushes up against her legs before sitting by her feet, his pupils slits as he regards her mother. The queen is standing by the writing desk, arms crossed, eyeing Astrid like one might eye a stray cat that’s been cornered. Jessa busies herself pouring three glasses of water, her hand trembling. Astrid’s head feels fuzzy—from the alcohol, from the dance with Zryan, from what just happened—and she takes the glass from Jessa, gulping the water down like a lifeline.
Zryan is not the heir. She doesn’t have to duel him, won’t have to face his dragon. Astrid isn’t going to die.
Instead, she has to fight this daughter of the king her mother has found on the streets of the Stone City: a wild, wiry woman who apparently performs party tricks in a traveling troupe. A woman with no dragon; no training; and, from what her mother told her on the way back to their rooms, no magic. Astrid was supposed to face a wolf inthat arena, but she’s been brought a lamb. Astrid is going to have to kill her.
Her mother opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, Astrid throws her glass across the room, the thing shattering along with Astrid’s patience.
“What. The fuck. Was that?”
Her mother takes a step back. Astrid has never spoken to her like this before. Never pushed her or challenged her. But this—what her mother kept from her? It’s the ultimate betrayal.
“What have you done!” She screams the last word. The anger feels good. Freeing. She looks furiously at Jessa.
“Did you know?”
“No, I had no idea,” Jessa says quickly.
“Astrid, I did this for you,” her mum says. “There was no other way—you could never have beaten the prince.”
Astrid chokes out a bitter laugh. No matter that Astrid knew the odds were against her, to hear her mother say it. To admit that she lacked any belief in Astrid. It burns.
She walks to her balcony, opening the double doors to let in air. Not that there’s any to be had in this Stars-forsaken kingdom. She misses the clean, cool breeze of the mountains. Misses the constellations of the north, her bright Goddess Sqaõi shining down on her. Instead, she’s in a strange city, a scorched continent of dragons and blood.
