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“She’s telling the truth. And we’ve wasted enough time already.” Agnar runs an idle finger over the hilt of his sword. “So what do you say? Are you with us?”

Elijah peers upward and heaves a sigh. “Looks like that’s the only option I’ve got.”

“That’s the spirit.” Agnar claps him on the back hard enough to make Elijah stumble and flashes him a shit-eating grin. “I knew I liked you.”

Yeah, well, that makes one of us.

I roll my eyes. “Now that this little bonding session is over, can we do what we came here to do?”

“Yeah. I’m ready to fuck shit up.” A genuine smile flickers across Elijah’s face for a split second as he picks up his deadly weapon, sheathes it, and nods. “So what’s the plan?”

ChapterThirty-Eight

Twenty minutes later, after parting ways with Agnar and Elijah outside the library so they can locate Helene and enlist her aid in searching for Sterling, I’ve crept across campus to the dragon aerie undetected. The fire started by Sterling’s men destroyed over half the alicorn stable, and the flammable portions of the aerie are gone, too, while black char covers part of the stone. No one stands guard outside, and that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

The dragon enclosure has always been guarded.

Taking a deep breath, I unbolt the bars over the massive iron door and ease it open.

The pungent stench of urine and putrid meat hits me like a solid wall as I enter the dimly lit enclosure, and I pause to suck slow breaths through my mouth in order not to retch. The acrid, smoky reek from the interior fire damage, which has yet to be repaired, doesn’t help.

I’ve been inside for less than ten seconds, and already, I can tell the dragons’ living conditions are exponentially worse than the last time I visited.

White-hot fury freezes my blood to ice.

Xenon will pay for his abuse of these magnificent creatures.

When I round the curving ramp that leads down to their enclosures, I can barely make out their massive forms through the gloom. My connection tells me they’re there, though, forced to live in this tomb-like prison. Numerous stalls—cells really—have iron bars on the front. Each dragon is crammed into a cage that’s barely wide enough for them to stretch their wings. My heart aches for these noble creatures reduced to mere husks of themselves.

Eyes burning from indignant tears, I move closer. Sneaking up on dragons—startling them—is a terrible idea, yet I also need to be quiet in case any humans lurk nearby.

But there are no signs of people. Only carts, buckets, barrels, and tools I recall from my time in the Tirene paddock that are used for hauling in food.

The coast is clear as I approach the first pen, purposefully dragging my feet to announce my presence. Even this close, I can barely touch the dragon’s mind.

There’s a low hum, like that of a fly stuck in a glass jar.

“Hey, there. I’m Lark.” I place my hand on one of the iron bars. “It’s going to be okay.”

The sand-colored dragon with dull, glazed over golden eyes doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I inspect the food left for them. Maggots wriggle in the slimy meat portion, but stalks and leaves from some type of plant comprise the majority of the meal.

That’s no kind of diet for a carnivore.

“What have they done to you?”

I concentrate on my fire magic, summoning a small flame to provide better light. The cloying reek of decay hits me just as the flickering glow illuminates the feed, and I gasp. I was so distracted by the other foul odors that I didn’t register the underlying scent, but now I see that the plant mixed in with the putrid meat is eyril. Crushed stalks and leaves, chopped and mixed with entrails and lesser cuts.

My chest tightens as I realize how Aclaris has managed to control these majestic beasts.

Starvation.

They’re so hungry that they’ll eat anything.

Anger and despair wrestle within me. Just as I’m certain it would in the dragons if they had any strength to do so.

Emboldened by the lack of an aggressive response, I unbolt the door to the cell and ease inside. I lean under the male’s drooping head to get a better view, to try to gauge this poor dragon’s health. The smell isn’t coming from any cart. It’s coming from the pen. Muck is churned up, some dried and some fresh, clinging to the dragon’s feet and caked along his tail which is twisted and folded with nearly no place to go.