Okay, Lucien hadn’t expected that. But he’s grateful enough Tezurit wants to fly with him, so he wants to make that happen on her terms. “I guess we can make it shinier. Specially treated leather, maybe add some jewels?”
Tezurit’s wings rustle in excitement.Yes! Perfect! I want to glitter with gemstones.She shifts her weight, showing off her scales in the morning sunlight.Perhaps you could add bells.
“Bells?” Lucien asks, hoping he’s misheard.
Yes! Rows of bells along the harness straps. I will chime as I fly. The larger and louder, the better. Everyone will hear my approach, so they can better admire me.
Lucien tries not to cringe. He’s being helpful. Accommodating. Extremely grateful that Tezurit endured blood magic on his behalf. “We can test the bells out and see how it goes.”
Tezurit’s laughter echoes through his mind.What a gullible human! Of course, we won’t test the bells. That would be absurd.
Lucien sags with relief.
I’m serious about the gemstones, though. This harness is hideous.
“Understood,” Lucien says. “Can we talk about the fit, though? So we know how to make a more beautiful harness?”
Tezurit stares, dark eyes unblinking.Being hideous does not fit. Take this off me, or I will.
“All right, all right.” Lucien climbs back up to her shoulders. Unfastening the harness is easy—this is a fitting rig, without the rider’s straps. “Where are you going after this?”
Canyon hunting. I’ll see you tomorrow, if I feel like it.
Lucien pats her back, grinning. “Happy hunting.”
It’s not the normal path when bonding a dragon. They certainly aren’t joining the dragon corps—as if Marek would let him. But Lucien looks forward to forging his own path with Tezurit.
Extra sparkly harness and all.
***
The throne room is scrubbed clean, the rubble cleared out, but scars remain. Hasty repairs hold the roof together against Draskora’s stormy weather. Darker stretches of wall mark the place of ruined tapestries.
The room is already in use.
That’s the story of this past week: patching things up so they can be fixed the right way later. Urgent missives to the Draskoran army ordered a ceasefire, and Whisper’s messages ensured Silaise honored it. The formal peace treaty will take longer to negotiate, but a standstill is a drastic improvement.
More messengers have scattered with proclamations of Kazia’s sudden ascension. A formal celebration of that will have to wait, too.
Lucien doesn’t foresee any serious challengers. The Kaiskaran navy lurks offshore, and Marek’s dragonriders ensure support from the skies. Houses Gabra, Bernek, and Komar threw their banners behind Kazia, and the other High Houses appear too stunned to protest any time soon.
The scalestone throne is shorter now, but no less imposing beneath the scorched dragon carving. When Lucien arrives, Kazia is taking an audience with Whisper.
The dye has faded from Whisper’s hair, revealing more of his natural gold. Wearing a dark green coat, he now acts as avisible representative of Silaise. He turns at Lucien’s approach, watching thoughtfully.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Lucien says, waving at the heralds and guards flanking the dais. When he jumps up, the object in his coat pocket thumps against his thigh.
Kazia scowls but extends his hand. “You’re not sorry.”
“I’m never sorry to see you,” Lucien says, and kisses Kazia’s hand. Slowly.
Kazia’s eyes dart away. Adorable.
On reflex, Lucien checks him over for injuries. Shadows linger beneath Kazia’s eyes. It’s been a long week—then again, it’s been a long few months. A long lifetime. Kazia is brighter and more alive than Lucien has ever seen him before.
Lucien intends to protect that brightness with his entire being. Some nights, he wakes to the memory of Kazia’s wrist cracking beneath his hand. The guilt will take far longer to heal.
But he believes it will, someday.
