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In the end, she sang a sorrowful, haunting tune that her mother taught her when she was but a small child. It was for calming the most tempestuous of hearts, her mother had said. Wren had never understood, back then, why a song to tame a dragon sounded so sad, but it was only in losing almost everything that she finally understood it: there was, indeed, a calm that came with accepting grief and pain, then accepting that it did not rule a person’s life.

Wren’s loss was a part of her now, yes. That would never change.

But it did not have to define her.

All she had to do was accept it—to not hate herself for crying when it was all she wanted to do—and then her sadness was merely an emotion she felt. It would not be the end of her. It would not be all she felt until the end of time.

The dragon’s spines lowered, it ceased its rumbling, and stilled. She could have sworn she could see a similar sadness in its golden eyes reflected back at her. It was possible she was seeing things, but animals had souls. And the dragon in front of her? Well, it had suffered. Wren could sense it as she continued to sing.

For the dragon was still a dragon, and an unknown one at that. She had no rapport with it. It had no reason to trust her, nor her trust it. It wasn’t like it had been with Aurora—an immediate connection, almost love at first sight. Wren had been there when Aurora hatched when she was a child. They had grown and evolved together. There was not a single moment when they had not trusted each other with their lives.

This time was different. One wrong move, and Wren would be dead.

So, she kept on singing like her life depended on it, because it did. She kept on singing even when her throat grew raw, and her voice became raspy and hoarse. As long as the dragon remained, Wren would not let up an inch.

The beast stayed at the mouth of Wren’s cell, never moving and never making a noise until, finally, the water around Wren’s knees began to recede with the tide. The dragon made a motion to move backward, just an inch, then one more. As it moved backward, its luminescence grew duller, as if it was tied to the pull of the water.

Ten minutes later, the creature had disappeared with the tide.

Wren stood there, heart in her throat. What had just happened? Had she imagined the whole encounter?

“Beautiful voice you have,” the bard commented, breaking the spell.

She blinked, realizing she’d hardly been aware of her surroundings. Wren glanced toward his cell as he climbed down the bars to the wet cobbles of the floor. She stared at his silhouette. How long had the musician been awake? Or had he been faking it the entire time?

“You had me transfixed as much as the beast.”

Wren ignored him, her attention moving to the tide that pulled the water back along with the dragon. The creature’s appearance in and of itself had been a telltale giveaway that the water in the dungeon was connected to the sea at large. Which meant there was a way out of here.

Only if the dragon isn’t trapped in here with you.

Either way, the beast could be the key. For Wren also noticed that, while it had been present, no fish had dared to try and attack her. There hadn’t been a single one of the animals in sight. They were scared of the dragon. If Wren kept close to it, then she need not fear the fish.

This could be her way out.

She dropped to her knees the moment no more water remained in the cell, though she gasped in pain when she hit the bare stone floor. She had been exhausted before the tide came in, but that was nothing compared to the weariness that washed over her now.

Sleep. She needed just a little rest and then she’d figure out what to do with the dragon.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind the prison door, and then the door was swung open. Two Verlantian warriors stepped into Wren’s cell.

Alarm filled her. “What is going on?” she just barely managed to say, but the words were hardly audible due to her previous singing.

The soldiers did not answer. Instead, they roughly dragged Wren to her feet and pulled her from the cell. It was as if they knew what she has just been thinking. As if, somehow, High King Soren had gotten into Wren’s head and seen the bare sliver of hope of escape and planned to snuff it out before it could be realized.

She looked over her shoulder at her cell as the door clanged shut. Wren never thought she’d willingly want to return to the dungeon, with its carnivorous fish, deadly dragons, and mad boys who spoke in riddles.

But anything was preferable than dealing with the High King of Verlanti.

18

Arrik

Arrik was half-tempted to ignore his father’s summons when he received them. He was in no mood to deal with the man’s court, much less put up with the king himself. But ever since Arrik had returned from the Dragon Isles, his father had paraded him around like a prize bull, ensuring no man nor woman nor child was left unaware of what Arrik had achieved for Verlanti during the invasion.

He has a reason for doing so.

He grimaced at his reflection and set down his goblet of wine on the dresser as he threw off the plain gray shirt he’d been wearing in his own chambers for something more befitting his father’s taste. Well, as much as he could stomach to do: Soren was known for loving everything shiny and opulent.Like a dragon with a pile of treasure.