But he doesn’t speak, and she turns her attention away from the dragons and toward the raised stone platform. The two royal families stand there, the witch princess already in place, her mother at her back. Skylar feels her insides tighten at the sight of the witch queen, the person responsible for bringing her here.
On the other side of the platform are the Vatran royals—the king looking at her with open dislike, the prince with his hands clasped behind his back. Behind the queen stand the same cloaked figures from yesterday, supporting Skylar’s theory that they must be her personal guard, the Dreki not good enough, clearly. She wonders ifthey’re forced to wear those cloaks or if they do it by choice—not exactly comfortable attire in the heat.
All the royals are in their finery, which explains the dress they’ve given her—one she’s only put on because her clothes from yesterday were torn beyond repair. The Artureans are in various shades of blue, and the Vatrans wear the royal red—the color of blood. Her dress is a lighter shade, like they are acknowledging that she’s not really one of them.
“You’re late,” the king says coldly.
Fuck you, she thinks as she meets that gaze with a hard stare of her own.
“The princess needed a little convincing to join us,” Axel says smoothly. She just about holds in the growl at that word. “Princess.” It implies a life of luxury, of squandering resources while the people below you suffer.
Zryan glances at Axel, who inclines his head, some sort of silent conversation playing out between them. Skylar doesn’t pay much attention, though. Because she’s just noticed something, sitting on what looks like a sundial, right in the middle of the platform. She stares at it. She’s never seen one before, but she’s seen pictures—so she knows. That’s a dragon egg.
Its golden-bronze scales glow in the sunlight, the ruby-red tip seeming to shimmer. It’s probably at least half the size of her, and it seems alive, like it might erupt into flame at any moment. It is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. She wants to touch it. She wants to know if it burns.
All eyes are on her, she realizes. The watching crowd—nobles, no doubt invited to this as some kind of show—and all the royals. She feels the pressure of Axel’s hand on her back, trying to steer her into position. She steps onto the platform, in front of a small pile of wood—and faces the navy-haired witch for the first time.
Astrid. The woman she’s going to have to try to kill. Her pale, freckled face is somber, though her shoulders are squared. Her eyes are the color of her dress—a deep, endless blue. She is stunning—enemy or not, Skylar will give her that. And looks every part the princess that she is. For a second their gazes meet, and Skylar wonders what is goingon in her mind. She wonders what it would be like to be the one to shut those eyes for good. She wonders if she’ll get close, or if the witch will kill her before she can even try.
Between them, the dragon egg pulses, and Skylar can’t help looking back at it, breaking eye contact. She thinks she knows the story. It is one of Cuatra’s eggs—the last fire dragon—gifted to the royals or taken by them, depending on who you believe. There is some bullshit legend about it hatching for a “Chosen Heir.” If there’s even a grain of truth in the origin story, then this, right in front of her, is the last remaining fire dragon in existence. She notices that Astrid’s attention is drawn to the egg as well. Can she feel it, too, the power pulsing from it?
“Now that all parties are present,” the king says, “our nominated Joiner will guide us through the ceremony.”
Skylar is wondering what in Vaar a Joiner is when Zryan steps between them. It takes Skylar a second to realize thatheis the Joiner. Everyone in the crowd fixes their attention on him, like they can’t help but do so. At Astrid’s side, her mother, a navy-haired woman, the fox, the bear, and ten or so guards stiffen. If he notices, Zryan doesn’t react.
For a brief moment, Skylar wonders what he must be feeling, standing on the other side of this. Binding, rather than being bound. Then he speaks.
“We are gathered today to witness the Blood Binding between the heir of Vatra and the heir of Arturea in this year of 502 EC.” He speaks in Vatran, though she supposes the Artureans must be able to understand. “In six weeks’ time, the heirs will duel to the death for control of the Heart. For protection between now and then, the mortality of the two heirs will be linked, so that what happens to one, happens to both.” Skylar tries to keep her feelings from showing on her face. But it doesn’t sound great, does it?
“Once bound by blood,” Zryan continues, “any attempt on one heir’s life shall be an attempt on both. The killing of either heir by a member of a royal household or court shall be considered a violation of the terms of the Covenant, and the culpable party shall forfeit the Heart.”
He seems to take a moment to let that sink in. Then, “Who comes to stake their claim as the de Veras heir and champion of Vatra?”
There is a ripple of silence as the crowd waits. She knows what she’s supposed to do—Axel told her on the way down. This is the only thing she’s required to say throughout the whole ceremony.
Cam, she tells herself.This is for Cam.
She lifts her chin. “I do.”
“And who comes to stake their claim as the Nachstern heir and champion of Arturea?”
“I do.” The witch’s words ring out, clear and confident. And why wouldn’t she be confident? She’s gone from an outside chance to a sure thing.
“If you’ll kneel.” Zryan gestures to the stone. Astrid gets to her knees, gracefully, her head now in line with her fox familiar.
Zryan looks down at Astrid, and something unreadable flickers across his face, like he finds the sight of her kneeling there disturbing somehow. Then he looks at Skylar, waiting. But there’s no way she is going to kneel for them. They may be forcing her to fight, they may have dragged her into this, but she will. Not. Kneel.
There is a warning growl from Bruma, an icy wind tinging the air. Astrid doesn’t seem to notice it.
“Kneel,” Zryan repeats, his voice a command now.
She folds her arms. “No.”
There is a rustling through the crowd. Behind the queen, her guards shift. But just as Skylar is going to open her mouth, tell them they best get on with it, she hears a sickeningcrack, coming from within her. Pain floods her as her knees buckle, the bones in her legs no longer listening to her. Her hands fly out, palms scraping against stone. A hiss of pain and anger escapes her as she glares up at the king, who is not looking at her, but gesturing for Zryan to continue.
Zryan spares a brief glance for his father, then begins softly chanting in a language she only partly recognizes, the sounds strange and hypnotic. She wonders if it might be Old Vatran.
The three dragons roll their thick necks, like they recognize something in the chant, and around the clearing some of the crowd join in, like a prayer to Arach himself. One of the queen’s cloaked guards steps up to the stone platform and lifts his hand. The pile of wood in front of Astrid and Skylar sparks to life. A Flame Thrower. And if he cancreate fire like that, then he’s got to be a Prime. Skylar eyes the queen’s guards, wondering what powers the rest of them possess.
