Zryan sets a cast-iron bowl on top of the fire, flames sparking against it. The witch queen approaches, takes out a vial, and unstoppers it, pouring some kind of potion into the bowl. Skylar hears the mutter of something that can only be a spell, and tenses automatically.
“The flesh of a familiar and the scale of a dragon willingly offered,” Zryan says, speaking once again in modern Vatran. At the words, Astrid’s head jerks in panic, and she looks around the clearing, searching for something. Skylar follows the direction of her gaze and is sure, for a second, that she sees something small and dark, moving through the shadows. Interesting.
“The blood of the heirs, freely given,” Zryan continues.
Another cloaked figure steps toward them. Sharp pain slices across Skylar’s palm and she lifts her other hand to grip it, as blood wells there. She sucks in a sharp breath. Freely given, her ass.
Astrid extends her hand over the bowl calmly, like Blood Wielders frequently take her blood, and after a second Skylar does the same. She doesn’t want the king to use his power on her again. Their blood fizzes as it hits the hot iron.
Then Skylar feels it. Somethingotherflooding into her, making it impossible to breathe. She collapses, as images tumble through her mind. An older man on the edge of a stream, laughing in the sunlight as a girl splashes him. Bright azure eyes, peering out of shadows. White and snow and cold so deep it cuts bone marrow, a cold Skylar has never experienced.
She takes another breath, feels it burn the back of her throat as she tries to fight this feeling, this connection that she does not want.
She blinks, and the scene comes back into focus. Astrid is there, still on her knees, sweat beading the top of her lip. Her mother and the navy-haired woman each step forward, helping Astrid up. Zryan holds out a hand for Skylar, but she ignores him, pushing herself to her feet. Her palm still stings—a matching scar to the other hand, where she’d caught the knife just two days ago.
She watches as Astrid straightens—though now Astrid won’t meet her gaze. “Can’t look at me, Little Witch? Not even when you’re the onewho got me into this?” Astrid does look at her then, slowly. “Although, thinking about it, you didn’t come and get me yourself, did you? Prefer others to do your dirty work, do you?”
Astrid’s hand moves to a belt as Skylar edges closer. Vials.
Before either of them can do anything, Zryan steps between them. “I can’t allow you to hurt each other.” The king, however, hasn’t intervened. He’s watching her, she notices. Waiting to see what she’ll do.
Skylar snorts. “Allow us? You’re literally going toforceus in a matter of weeks. Bet you’ll get your kicks from watching, won’t you?”
Zryan’s eyes harden. “Think what you like, but remember I didn’t choose this.” His voice is low. “I have been preparing to kill for my kingdom my whole life.”
“Yes.” It’s Astrid who speaks, her voice soft but not weak as she turns the force of her blue gaze on Zryan. “You were planning to kill for your country. And I was preparing to die for mine. That’s the difference between us, I suppose.”
Astrid holds her head high, not dropping the eye contact and, okay, fair play, Skylar can’t help admiring her just a little for having the balls.
The king and queen step forward as one—and Skylar notices that the crowd is still here, waiting for something.
“If you’ll excuse us,” the king says to the witches, voice barely passing for civil. “We have Vatran business to complete.” He puts his hand on Skylar’s shoulder and her whole body recoils. She moves away, but the feeling lingers.
At a nod from their queen, the witches turn to leave, the fox by Astrid’s side, guards surrounding her.
“I thought that was it?” Skylar asks, not really sure who to direct the question to, so settling on midair.
“There is a tradition,” Ottilie says, her voice holding that lyrical edge of all the posh nobles. “Each generation, the new heir must lay a hand on the dragon egg. To see if you are the Chosen Heir, the one who will finally reunite the lands with dragon fire.”
It sounds stupid and Skylar wants to scoff but can’t quite bring herself to. Because like the egg can sense Ottilie’s words, it seems to shimmer even more brightly, bronze scales fracturing the sunlight.
“You would have done this when you turned sixteen,” Ottilie continues, “had circumstances been… different.” Her voice falters, the only sign she gives that she’s unhappy about how things have played out.
“What if I don’t want to touch it?” Skylar asks. She does. More than anything. But she doesn’t want to do it here, in front of them.
The queen frowns, while Axel gives Skylar a knowing look, like he can taste her lie. The king’s eyes are cold and assessing, and she wonders if he’ll manipulate the bones in her hand, force it atop the egg.
She stalks to the sundial. All three dragons are watching her. An ice cloud huffs from Bruma’s nostrils, though it quickly evaporates in the heat.
She lifts her hand, then hesitates. “What do I do? Just… touch it?” The king inclines his head.
“If it is meant for you,” says the queen, “it will hatch.” The way she says it makes Skylar imagine a dragon springing from the egg, with ata-da!She gets an irrational urge to laugh, and bites it down.
She stretches her fingers out, swears she feels the air between her and the egg heat. She hears a low rumble behind her, one that can only be Mjolnir. The sound isn’t a warning, she knows. It’s encouragement.
She lays her hand on the egg—and even the breeze around them stills.
Skylar can see Simone—now back in human form—watching with such intensity, she’s surprised it doesn’t make her pass out. Skylar’s own heart is thumping, the blood in her fingertips pulsing, like it’s straining to reach through her skin.
