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His expression darkens. “Once dragons begin killing, they don’t stop, and they can’t tell friend from foe. In battle, they’re pure chaos. Perfect for a massacre like Auberon wants, but a nightmare if we’re trying to spare civilians. They scorched thekingdom after the revolution centuries ago. I’m not going to repeat that now.”

I swallow. “There are too many moving pieces in our plan, and if we don’t have enough leverage, we might end up getting crushed between them.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

“Better than repeating the mistakes of the past.” He returns to the new dragon commander. “Go, Palenor. Fly to Kerdraig.”

He bows low. “Yes, Your Highness.”

We watch as the riders mount their dragons and launch into the sky, soaring away from us.

Talan wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” I murmur.

“Nia, I will never let a single other person in the world know that I think this, but I almost never know what I’m doing. The only ones certain of themselves are people like Wrythe and Auberon. The fact that we’re wallowing in doubt means we’re on the right side of things, don’t you think?”

CHAPTER 58

Istride beside Talan toward the Council of Nobles. My stomach tightens at the sound of Auberon’s voice echoing through the corridor. It booms down the hall like thunder, shaking the windows in their frames. Most of the words are muffled, a deep bass behind the stone walls, but a few cut through.Victory. Annihilation. Enemy.

It’s the kind of speech that would bring down the house in a room full of power-hungry lords, the same lords who will cheer from the sidelines while others bleed for their glory.

When Talan slams through the door, Auberon’s sentence stutters to a halt. The eyes of the twenty or so nobles turn to us. Auberon stands at the head of the table, his polished golden crown shining on his blond hair.

He glares at Talan with irritation. “You’re late. Several days late. Drunk again, were you? Sit down. We were discussing the attack.”

Talan glances at the single empty chair. “There’s only one seat, and Nia will be joining us.”

“This isn’t a woman’s place,” Auberon hisses, never meeting my eyes. “None of my women ever stepped foot in the council, neither my mistresses nor my wives.”

“Well, their time with you was always cut short. You laid them all to rest under Brocéliande’s soil, so I imagine that would make attending rather difficult, but Nia still breathes. In any case, I’ll stand. She can take my seat.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Auberon’s voice echoes off the ceilings. “There are decisions to be made. Our clairvoyant tells us the Pendragons have fallen, that the humans are helpless against us. This is the moment to strike, destroying the opposition once and for all.”

“Really?” Talan leans back against a stone column. “Why are you relying on clairvoyants and not spies? Becausemyspies report that a new commander took the reins in Avalon Tower. Someone called Raphael Launcelot. If I remember correctly, you let him escape your dungeons.”

The corner of Auberon’s mouth twitches. “Mind your tone, son. It is of no consequence what beast is in charge there. Avalon Tower is in shambles. They’re weak.”

“But I’m afraid you’ve been neglecting our own kingdom,” Talan drawls. “The famine, the poverty. The resistance trying to kill us. The commoners taxed into the ground to support your endless war.”

“The famine,” Auberon snarls, “is why we are at war. We had enemies within our own kingdom spreading the blight. Now, France is our breadbasket.”

Talan sighs, folding his arms. “It might’ve helped if you hadn’t scorched half the farmland in France. What little wheat wedorecover gets lost in your endless push for more territory. It rots before it ever makes it through the portals. Most of our subjects can’t even afford the scraps we have left. Andthat, Father, is why our kingdom is falling apart.”

A door slams open, and a messenger scurries inside, his face as pale as his platinum hair. “Your Majesty.”

“What?” Auberon snaps impatiently, not taking his eyes off his son.

“There are multiple reports of commoners rising in rebellion. They torched the manor houses of a few nobles in Corbinelle. A legion of…ofpeasantsis making its way to this fortress as we speak.”

My heart skips a beat.

Nivene has done her job remarkably well. She might not have a great finesse for small talk, but she understood that Brocéliande is a tinderbox of anti-monarchy unrest, and all she needed to do was light the spark.

“A few dozen irate farmers don’t concern me,” Auberon says, his voice iron. “Deal with them. Hang them all, stick their heads on spikes, and parade their headless corpses to remind the rest of their place.”

My father would be delighted with that idea. Something else Talan and I have in common.

“It’s not exactly dozens, Your Majesty,” the messenger says apologetically. “The report said the legion approaching the fortress numbers about six thousand. Most well-armed. We think the resistance has been readying them for months, Your Majesty. They have battering rams and many archers, and a few mages and?—”