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CHAPTER ONE
Bellamy
Bellamy Sandry shivers beneath the impending storm. The rain hasn’t hit yet—just a chill wind ruffling his brown hair and pulling his coat taut around his narrow frame. But the mid-afternoon sky is as dark as the choppy sea below. Heavy clouds roll towards the remote harbor, and electricity flashes between the shadows.
The lightning isn’t what worries Bellamy.
Farther down the gravel beach, the crew and guards are still unloading the first rowboat. Gregoire, the grizzled captain of Bellamy’s oathguard, crunches across the gravel towards him. “Any change, Your Highness?”
“None,” Bellamy says. “The magic’s still there.”
Gregoire reddens, the way he always does when he’s holding back vulgar language in front of Bellamy. He trudges back to the rowboat without another word.
To everyone else, from the captain to the cook to Bellamy’s oathguards, the sky is dark. Only Bellamy sees the violet light twisting through every cloud—the magic driving this unnatural storm.
House Dire’s magic.
Most people can only see the effects of magic. Earth lifting into spears and shields, water flowing upstream to feed crops. Fireballs are hard to miss. Some mages can even see the iridescence of their own magic. Bellamy’s never met anyone else who seesallactive magic. The spark that ignites the fireball. The tremor before the earth shakes apart.
Bellamy hugs himself against the wind, wondering if he should offer to help the crew unload. He’s supposed to be returning to Silaise now, with a conflict in his heart echoing the storm on the horizon. While he misses his familiar trees, treasured libraries, and beloved family, he doesn’t miss being coddled by said beloved family. His older brothers treat him like he’s still a child. His mother Lady Claude threw a week-long tantrum when his mother Queen Margot insisted on sending him away last year. Bellamy can’t remember the last time Claude argued so fiercely with Mother.
He also doesn’t miss the forest palace of Sandrelle. Something about the ambient power there triggers his tension headaches worse than any other magic. That was the reason Mother gave for sending him to spend a year with Duchess Tavorai on the Isle of Tavoc in the first place.
She hasn’t given a reason for summoning him back to Sandrelle.
This was supposed to be an easy voyage. Still mid-Briars, far too early for autumn storms in the Jaws. Bellamy even persuaded Gregoire that it would be safer to travel lowkey, with only a few oathguards accompanying him. Only the ship’s captain knows Bellamy is a prince, so there’s been no fanfare, no gawking from the sailors. Just a simple voyage home, occasionally holding Gregoire’s hair back as he retches over the side.
Simple, safe, boring. Nothing like the daring pirate adventures Bellamy reads about—though some of the sailors are brawny enough to star in those novels. There’s this one man with incredible arms, and a woman with even better arms…
Not that Bellamy’s had a chance to talk to either of them. Gregoire would never let him.
But two days out from Tavoc, the winds and currents turned awry, and the ship veered off course—into Draskoran waters. Bellamy saw magic in the storm and raised a quiet alarm through Gregoire. Now, the plan is for the ship to ride out the storm in this remote harbor, while Bellamy and his oathguards stay on land.
The beach gives way to dark forest in the shelter of the jagged cliffs. The trees feel foreign and distant. They’ve never felt the touch of Sandry magic, and they don’t recognize Bellamy.
Of course they don’t. This remote spit of land is in western Draskora: the land of scalestone, dragons, and blood magic. Ruled by ruthless House Dire and defended by fierce dragonriders like Irenka Miraz and Rakos Tem, it’s the last place the third prince of Silaise is supposed to be.
Bellamy averts his gaze from the violet-tinged sky and moves towards the rowboat. “Let me help with that.”
Gregoire waves him back with a frown. “You should rest, Your—” He swallows down the rest of the honorific. “Your health isn’t good today.”
Bellamy swallows down his own protest and retreats again, trying not to sulk. He wouldn’t have offered if he couldn’t help. His health is never good, but he’s not an invalid. The faster they unload the rowboat, the faster everyone can take shelter. But Gregoire has been captain of Bellamy’s oathguard for five years now, and he’s almost as dedicated to coddling Bellamy as his mother Claude. Arguing or ordering Gregoire to let him help is a futile endeavor.
The air is too damp to even read a book while Bellamy stands around uselessly. He’d love to get back to the novel about the wandering minstrel kidnapped by an increasingly handsome succession of wicked pirates.
A crew member jumps back, dropping a heavy bag on his foot and swearing. “That fucking rat!”
Bellamy touches the fur-lined bag slung at his hip—empty, of course. “Bastard! Get back here!”
The bag sinks against his thigh with the addition of a two-pound weight. Some scrambling later, a tiny masked, pointed face peeks out. Bellamy offers her his fingers to sniff while calling out to the crew. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” The man clutches his chest. “Just damn near scared me to death. Again.”
“Sorry,” Bellamy repeats, and crunches further up the beach. Maybe if he’s farther away from the unloading process, Bastard won’t be as interested. If Bellamy isn’t allowed to help, he at least doesn’t want to hinder. He hates getting in people’s way.
Bastard gently nibbles his fingers, her little paws braced on the edge of the bag. She’s a blinkmink, a ferret-like animal native to Tavoc. They’re indistinguishable from ordinary ferrets except for their convenient—or horrible, depending on one’s perspective—talent for short-distance teleportation. Bellamy picked her out from a litter when he arrived on Tavoc last year, drawn to her sweet face and soft sable fur. He attempted to name her Bernadette.
