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A dragon swooped above them, and she looked up to catch dark green scales before it disappeared into the storm. Part of her indulged in the idea that it was protecting the princesses of the Dragon Isles, though in truth it was more than likely unsettled by the commotion—or being ridden by warriors responding to the Verlantian soldiers.

Her chest moved up and down with her heavy breathing as she moved toward the forest, a little home nestled at its edge. A hill rose to the right of the home, giving it shelter from the weather. Once she got Britta settled, Wren would climb the hill and call for Aurora.

With whatever energy she had left, she had to defend the kingdom—to lead the navy in her father’s stead. It was all she could do.

Allanyonecould do.

A face appeared in one of the windows and the cottage door flew open.

“Is that—oh my! Wren! Britta!” Rowen’s grandmother, Aileen, cried from the open doorway. “You’ll both catch your death. Come inside!”

Wren finally staggered to their cottage and Aileen slammed the door closed, making sure to secure it. Hope and worry warred on her face as she spun to face them. She reached for a blanket and threw it over Britta’s back.

“What has happened?” Aileen demanded.

“Invasion.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Dead,” Wren bit out, unable to soften her words. “All dead. Verlanti—they attacked us. At the wedding. Oh, Granny, I am so glad the two of you were not there.” At this, Rowen’s grandfather Cal appeared beside his wife, his lined and weathered face pale with concern. It had been too much to expect the two of them to traverse the bad weather to reach the castle for the wedding. Wren and Rowen had always intended to fly upon Aurora’s back to visit them after the feast and celebrate privately, together. Their old age had saved their lives.

“My grandson. Where is he?” the old man said, though it was clear from the look on his face that he knew exactly what had become of Rowen.

“He fought to get us out,” was all Wren choked out.

Britta roused and began to cry again.

Aileen dropped the shawl she held and covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes filling with tears. But she did not say anything—did not cry out in grief and despair or yell at Wren for not doing more to save her precious grandson. Instead, she picked up the shawl and wrapped it around Wren’s shivering shoulders.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” Aileen rasped. “Cal, would you heat up some water? The wee one is far too cold.”

Cal and Aileen busied themselves with finding blankets and clean clothes for Britta and putting soup on the hob to heat up. The couple seemed to understand that it was imperative to keep the small girl in good spirits. Well, as good as her spirits could be, given the circumstances. They made tea but Wren couldn’t drink it. The thought of consuming anything made her want to vomit.

“You must both stay here,” Aileen said, as she tested the soup before pouring it out into four wooden bowls for everyone. Wren took hers with a wordless nod of thanks and set the bowl on the floor as Britta huddled into her right side, finally warming up. “We will all be safe here. If everyone is…if our family is gone as you said, then not a single Verlantian soldier will know that Cal and I exist. They will not know to look for you here.”

“Aye, and we’ll fight off anyone who thinks it’s wise to knock upon our door,” Cal chimed in, groaning as he sat in his chair, his gaze trained out the window, a bow resting across his lap. He ruffled Britta’s hair, though she did not react. “We’ll fight them off, won’t we, lass?” he said. “We are all fighters. Nobody will harm us here.”

At this, Britta finally seemed to brighten, and she began devouring her soup in earnest. The idea that all four of them would be together, in this little house she loved to visit so much with Wren and Rowen seemed to cheer her up. It was warm here, and there was food and laughter to be had.

Britta nodded; color high in her pale cheeks. “Fighters. We will not let them in.”

Wren’s heart melted at the interaction between Britta and Cal. Rowen’s grandparents would take good care of her. Her sister would be happy here…after she processed her grief.

She peered to her left at Aileen, the older woman’s gaze already upon her. She frowned and shook her head as she read whatever expression was on Wren’s face.

“No,” Aileen insisted, her sharp mind missing nothing. “No. Don’t you dare go back out there, Wren. You must stay here. You must—”

“I must protect this kingdom,” Wren said. “That is what I must do.”

Britta slowly put her bowl down and wrapped her arms around Wren’s waist. “Don’t go!” She shook as her little hands clutched Wren’s wedding dress as if she possessed the strength to keep Wren from leaving. “Don’t go like everyone else. Stay here. I don’t want you to go.”

She lifted her sister’s face and pulled Britta into her lap. “You know I must, little dragon. Father would never forgive me if I did not do everything in my power to defend his little girl, and his kingdom.”

“You’re also his little girl,” Cal said, gruffly. “Wren, King Oswin would not want this for you. Stay here.”

“Do you have any good stories?” Wren asked, changing the subject. Aileen nodded and pulled a book from the trunk that lay against the rear wall of the room. “Would you read us one?”

Aileen began reading and Wren rocked her sister, slowly carding her fingers through her black curling hair.