Alarm gongs ring in the distance as Kazia and Lucien emerge from behind the pieces of ceiling. The throne room is a charred carcass of itself, ribs caved in. The remaining tapestries smolder on the walls, and only the pillars nearest the great southern door still stand. Beyond the shattered ceiling, dragons wheel far overhead.
Golden-white Tezurit crouches in the center of the destruction, her scales streaked with ash. Her head swivels at Kazia and Lucien’s footsteps.
You’re alive.Tezurit’s voice sounds younger than any dragon Kazia has met before.
“We’re alive,” Lucien says.
Tezurit’s wings tremble. Then she whirls in a spray of rubble. Her claws scrape against the marble floor, and she pounces onto a motionless figure.
How dare she!Tezurit seethes.How dare she infringe upon my perfect being?Blood spatters her white muzzle as she savages Aliza’s corpse.
Perhaps later, Kazia will feel something besides numbness at the sight.
Beyond his mother’s body, the scalestone throne is broken, the top half sundered in jagged lines. One figure slumps beneath the dais, and one upon it. Kazia’s eyes blur. He can’t tell if Bretka and Imrik are moving.
The great door screeches open across the room. Kazia turns too fast, hissing with the pain in his arm.
“Tezurit, could you delay our visitors?” Lucien asks. After a moment, he adds, “No, not by eating them.”
Blood dripping from her maw, Tezurit slinks across the rubble. Shouts of confusion greet her, and her wings spread to fill the broken hall.
Kazia staggers towards Bretka first.
Her herald’s uniform is black and charred, her pale hair singed. But her chest moves faintly. Lucien crouches at her side, then rises. “She’s unconscious, and she can wait for a healer.”
Kazia nods, overwhelmed with sympathy and kinship. Of course, Imrik could only trust a messenger he could fully control. How many years has Bretka served the king? How many of those years was she chained by her own blood, just like Kazia, imprisoned in plain sight?
Beside Bretka, the research notebook is a pile of smoldering ash.
Kazia’s purpose today isn’t just his own freedom or his own revenge. As he mounts the royal dais, thousands of ghosts follow in his wake. Discarded tools and trampled rivals. Failed experiments—and worse, the successes. Every soldier and civilian who died because Imrik wanted to test how badly he could break his own son.
Slumped at the foot of the throne, Imrik Dire is a jumble of charcoal and seared flesh. His crown sits beside him, half the scalestone cracked in the warped gold settings. The skin has melted on Imrik’s face, and his eyes are sealed shut.
And yet he breathes.
Holding his broken left arm close, Kazia manages to unsheathe his dagger. “Would you like the honors?”
“Up to you,” Lucien says quietly. “I’ve had my revenge. We could also just wait five minutes, if you prefer keeping your hands clean.”
Kazia crouches. “I’ve waited long enough,” he says, and sinks his dagger into his father’s blistered throat.
Blood sprays over his hand and arm, then bubbles weakly. With a final wheeze, Imrik Dire falls still.
Kazia stumbles to his feet, arm screaming with the movement. He winces as Lucien holds him steady. “It’s over.”
He can hardly believe it. The blood on his hand is reassuring.
Lucien brushes the hair from his face. His fingertips are gritty with dirt, and it’s the best thing that Kazia has ever felt. Beneath the ash, Lucien’s face glows with pure adoration. “It’s over, Your Majesty. The Draskoran throne is yours.”
That’s right. One reign is over, but the next has just begun.
Kazia picks his way across the rubble. Lucien follows, but he lets Kazia make this one short journey under his own power. The throne looms large, even broken. Kazia brushes shards of stone from the seat and hoists himself onto it. His feet don’t quite touch the ground.
Across the hall, Tezurit says,Loska’s person is here. Shall I let him through?
“You can let Marek in,” Kazia says, his voice steadier than he expects. He settles back on the throne, holding his broken arm carefully. “Let everyone through.”
If you say so,Tezurit says doubtfully, and steps aside. Even a small dragon is a tight fit in the hallway. The nervous drasgard have to pass very close to her.
