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“What of the dragon?” Erida murmured, her eyes flitting to the window. As if she might glimpse the beast itself.

Born from another Spindle.Erida knew that better than most. She was at Castle Lotha with Taristan when he opened it. She remembered the burning thread of gold suspended in the air, the portal to Irridas, the Dazzling Realm.But the dragon came through later, after we were long gone from that place.

The red flashed in his eyes, so bright it ringed yellow and rotten.

“The dragon,” he growled, shaking his head.

She wrinkled her nose, brow furrowing. “I thought Spindle creatures answered to you. I thought they were under your control.”

“A dragon is not a walking corpse or even a kraken,” he shot back, viperous. “They are greater minds than that, more difficult to overthrow. Even for Ronin.”

Perhaps he’s useless now, and we can be rid of him, Erida thought joyfully.

“And where is the little rat?”

Taristan shattered her hopes with a quick gesture of his hand. “In his hole.”

The Archives.

Erida wanted to lock the doors to the archival vaults and leave thesniveling red wizard to starve. Instead, she forced a polite nod better suited for the high table of a boring feast.

“The Spindle in Gidastern remains, we have that still. It is dangerous enough not to need a guard. No one will be able to close it now, not even Corayne an-Amarat,” Taristan offered. The leering red in his eyes faded a little. But he kept pacing. Erida half expected the carpet beneath him to catch fire. “It burns even now, consuming everything within the walls.”

“Victory, but at such cost,” Erida mused.

She felt like tearing something in two. Instead, she counted her legions, and wondered how many riders she could send north before the moon rose.

“You lost the sword.” She bit her lip. “And you lost Corayne too. She still lives.”

He snarled low in his throat. “She does. Somehow.”

Erida felt his anger tenfold. “What of her friends? Are they alive?”

To her infinite surprise, Taristan cut a rare, wolfish smile. His eyes glimmered, black and red, jet and ruby.

Mortal and demon.

“See for yourself,” he said.

7

A Second Heart

Domacridhan

The world ached.

Or it certainly felt that way to Domacridhan of Iona, immortal prince, a warrior of many centuries, strong and swift, deadly with blade, bow, and bare hand. Fearsome as the breaking dawn.

And currently chained to the wall of a dungeon.

His ankles and wrists were bound with tight links, his neck collared. Something that was hopefully water dripped onto his face. He kept his head tilted just right, so as not to find out for certain. And to better see through his bars. A torch burned somewhere, its light weak and flickering. He could just make out the cells on the other side, thanks to his Vederan eyesight.

Sigil was blind in the dark.

Across the corridor, she slept sprawled across the ground. The chain attached to her ankle jingled in the silence, shifting whenever she moved. The wreckage of her dinner sat at the low gap in her cell bars, cup empty and bowl licked clean. Judging by smell, the food was foul, to say the least.

The Queen’s prisons left much to be desired.