Rakos flexes the shadows between them to quell her power. “Hello, Wing-Captain. May I have this dance?”
Her green eyes narrow behind her silver half-mask—then widen. She recognizes Rakos, mask and brown hair and all, and to his relief, she stops struggling.
“Rakos?” she asks, stunned and quiet.
“Dance with me,” Rakos says. “I think we need to talk.”
Irenka’s eyes dart around the room. At Ludvik on his knees and the drasgard milling about the room. In the end, she follows Rakos to the dance floor, where they fall into a very basic step.
She’s a better dancer than Rakos and a far better dancer than Bell, but there’s no thrill to their dance. Rakos’s grip on her wrist is purely mercenary. He uses just enough Tem magic that Irenka can’t use her family’s ice magic. While he doesn’t need physical contact, it’s easier to stop magic before it starts this way.
“What are you doing here?” Irenka’s voice is level, her earlier shock controlled. “Where have you been? The entire corps is in an uproar. We’ve been patrolling for you all along the borders.”
“What do you think I did?” Rakos asks, curious in a painful sort of way.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “Deserting isn’t your style. I think you had your reasons, though knowing you, those reasons were probably stupid.”
Relief eases Rakos’s heart. He doesn’t like Irenka, but they’ve been colleagues for a decade. It feels good to be trusted, even if that trust is laced with insults. “You give me too much credit. I didn’t have any reason at all.”
“Stop suppressing my magic,” Irenka says. “I’m not going to attack you in the middle of the bloodmasque.”
Rakos doesn’t retract his power. “I’m not doing anything.”
Irenka glares at him again before the dance pulls them apart for a spin. Rakos keeps his grip on her hand, ruining the grace of the move. When they face each other again, Irenka says, “Tell me.”
“I didn’t desert,” Rakos says. “Someone else tried to kidnap me out of the country. I don’t know why.”
“Fuck.” Irenka glances around the room. “Let’s talk elsewhere.”
Rakos points to a corner, still in the same room. He’s not leaving Bell. “Over there’s fine.”
Irenka snags a glass of liquor along the way. Rakos finally releases her hand, and she acts as if she hasn’t noticed. Once seated, she asks, “Was it the first prince?”
Rakos sits next to her. “I don’t know if I should confirm or deny that.”
Irenka rolls her eyes. “Please. You’ve never been good at playing coy.” She leans back against the couch, her silver dress settling like dragon scales around her body. “If you want my help, I can’t fly blind.”
Rakos exhales. She’s right, though he hates it. “Fine. Yes. His Highness is behind all this, though I don’t know why, and I honestly don’t care.”
“Fuck. Are you asking me to go against His Highness?”
“No. I’m not going against him, and I have no interest in these petty noble squabbles. All I want is a way into the dragonroost.”
Irenka’s glass trembles. “Excuse me?”
“I’m going to Parsk, and I’m getting Sarka back,” Rakos says. “Once I have her, fine. If House Dire wants me out of the country, then I’ll take my dragon and go.”
“Excuse me?” Irenka repeats, voice rising before she remembers herself. “Go where? You can’t just take a dragon.”
Rakos grins behind his mask. “Who the fuck is going to stop me?”
“You’re fucking crazy.” Irenka’s lips twist in a suppressed smile. “I suppose that’s nothing new. Look. You know I hold no fondness for the first prince. I should have been chosen as House Dire’s ward from Kaiskara, not him. But we can’t talk here. You need to go. Take the southern exit and get out of here.”
“What’s the rush?” Rakos grins. “We can dance another song or two.” Even if he’ll have some explaining to do to Bell.
Irenka sips from her glass. “Didn’t you see? Vana ishere.”
Rakos jolts on the couch. “He’s what?”
