Page 9

“Of course, Mother.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and tell her the real reason why I’m disheveled. Mother has always believed that clothing is armor, and armor should always be worn properly in order to protect oneself.

She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, motioning for me to mimic her. “Stand tall, darling. Your wings are your pride, not your shame.”

I bite back a smile at how she proclaims this as if it’s something she’s always told me.

I’ve only had my wings for a matter of weeks, the magic required to mature them having been suppressed by the tablets she gave me to keep my fire magic under control.

She tucks a final loose tendril behind my ear, her touch lighter than a feather, before stepping back to scrutinize her handiwork.

I squeeze her hand. “Thank you. What would I do without you?”

Her brown eyes glisten with emotion. “The real question is, what would I have done without you, daughter of my heart?”

A ball lodges in my throat. Once the initial shock of discovering the truth about my heritage—how I wasn’t her biological daughter at all but a Tirenese girl stolen from my country on King Xenon’s orders, who Lynnea passed off as her daughter who’d perished weeks beforehand before sequestering me in Castle Axton in an effort to protect me—faded, my reaction involved a lot of anger and bitterness, much of which I directed at Lynnea. Thankfully, I was able to let go of my anger long enough to realize that the woman I called Mother played no part in my kidnapping and did everything she could to keep me safe from Xenon. I extended an olive branch because blood relative or not, this woman raised me from a toddler.

King Xenon is the person who deserves my ire. Not the woman who taught me to read and sew, who let me climb into bed with her if a nightmare woke me up and made sure I always had a cake and gifts on my birthday. Not the woman who firmly but kindly guided me into apologizing when warranted and standing up for myself when someone else wronged me.

She cups my cheek, but whatever she’s about to say gets cut off as a harried and breathless voice breaks through the hum of festivity.

“Your Highness!” Two messengers push through the throng to reach Sterling. They bow in haste, one nearly tripping over his words in the process.

“Prince Knox, Your Highness, drachen have attacked Kamor. Massive ones according to reports near their northern border.”

“Flighthaven stirs as well,” the other adds, cheeks flushed from more than just the run. “King Xenon has mobilized his troops. Airborne and ground soldiers. We don’t know if they brace against the drachen or for war.”

My heart skips a beat.

Who was attacked? Where? While I don’t have many close friends in Aclaris, I know several people at Flighthaven and in the villages around my mother’s estate. Dozens of faces race through my mind.

Royce, the merchant who runs a food pantry I helped start in Beckkerun. His family. The staff at our estate. Members of my flight unit at Flighthaven. All the students and instructors. Countless others.

I glance at Sterling, wondering how he’s going to handle this.

His stillness is a prelude to the storm he can unleash, yet there’s a flicker in his gaze. He’s no longer a captain in the military. Now he must also consider the responsibility of a crown he never sought.

“Have any of our spies sent word?”

Blair straightens, his height allowing him to see over the heads of most of the attendees. “I will check, Your Highness.”

With a hurried bow, he twists away and disappears into the crowd.

The messengers retreat, their news rippling through the gathering like a stone tossed upon the surface of a pond. I sense the ripple of fear mirrored in the faces around me.

No one has heard of a drachen attack since the massive one at our palace that resulted in twenty-eight casualties.

By Zeru’s grace, no one will ever hear of another attack ever again.

Various attendees start babbling excuses and scurrying away from the gathering, as if frightened the large group of people might attract predators.

For all we know, their fear could be justified. We have no clue what caused the drachen to attack humans after only preying on animals.

The murmurs swell into a crescendo of panic, a cacophony that ricochets off the marble walls and punches through the heavy air. Council members and nobles in their white mourning garb press in, each one desperate to be heard, to prove their worth in the looming shadow of chaos.

“Your Highness, strategy must be—” one begins.

“I demand protection for my lands—” another starts to insist.