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“My grandfather. Yes, my father stole his own father’s lover after Mordred cursed her and died. And that’s where I come from. Quite messy, really, but technically free of incest. After ancient gossip, are you?”

I shrug. “I’ll take any gossip I can get. And what happened to Mordred? How did he die?”

“I only know rumors. For some reason, all references to him have been ripped out of our books, burned from records, but I assume he died in the war with Morgan.” As he opens the door, he glances back at me. “I really should find out what happened to my grandfather.”

My stomach swoops as I step into the palace, and the scent of old, mossy stone envelopes me. I can feel an ancient power here,charging my body. Vines climb the walls, and I glance up at a towering ceiling cloaked with mist. I step over a cracked mosaic floor. Light filters through blue and white windows, each one marked with those swirling patterns, some of them triple spirals.

“What is that design?” I point at the windows. “The one from Nimuë’s statue?”

“Life, death, rebirth. An eternal cycle that loops into itself, destruction and recreation.” His deep voice echoes off the stones.

“Like your symbol, the ouroboros.”

“Exactly.”

He leads me across the empty hall—what might have once been Morgan’s banquet hall, where towering columns stretch dozens of feet high. He strides to a door on the far side of the hall and pushes through it into a dark room that smells of sulfur and smoke.

“Tarasque,” Talan says, his deep voice echoing in the dark. “Let’s get a look at you.”

Something moves in the shadows, then shifts into the light, and my breath leaves my lungs. A dragon looms over us, eyes gleaming in the dark. Talan steps between me and the beast. Light filters in from the banquet hall, catching on the dragon’s red scales.

The fiery eyes land on me, and it hisses, the scent of sulfur coiling through the air.

“I can hear your heart beating fast,” Talan murmurs. “You must not run. Tarasque is well-trained, but she won’t be able to resist the allure of fleeing prey.”

“Why are we here?” I whisper.

He steps closer to Tarasque, and she lowers her head. My heart slams as he strokes her scaly face. To my surprise, she tilts her head, narrowing her eyes in enjoyment at his touch. Shealmost reminds me of a cat, and some of my fears start to melt away.

“She likes you,” I say.

“She knows me well. I trained her. I trained most of our dragons.”

“I had no idea.”

“It’s one of my official roles as prince—Master of the Dragons. My mother taught me to ride them when I was a little boy, before my father set her on fire.” He paused. “Do you know what? I sometimes think my family might be a bit dysfunctional.”

I’d seen him riding a dragon once before, but I’d managed to stop him before he slaughtered all my human allies.

He glances back at me. “I don’t know if you remember, but during the council meeting, we decided to send three dragons to attack one of the human bases.”

I shrug. “I remember talk of dragons, but I didn’t really catch the details.”

“Are you not hanging on my every word? Disappointing. In any case,someonewarned the humans in advance, so they were able to ready their dragon-killing weapons. They killed Symacho and wounded Tarasque. Didn’t they?” he asks the dragon, like he was talking to a pet.

I keep my face impassive, desperately trying to hide my role in all of that. “Did you train Symacho as well?”

“Symacho was practically a part of me.” His voice dips, edged with pain. “He was my wings, my partner, my brother in arms on the battlefield. The last gift my mother gave me before she died. And now he’s gone—shot out of the sky by the humans.”

The tiniest of hairline fractures opens in my chest. “Did your mother ride him when she was alive?”

“Yes. He was hers once, all the way from Shalott, and it made me feel like I was with her again. I used to ride him every day. Hewas deadly in battle…but also playful. Sometimes, when it was just me and him, we would ride through the storms.”

“I’m sorry.”

As he rubs her neck, her eyes close, and she makes a sound almost like a purr.

“Dragons live even longer than Fey, but they’re not immortal.” He walks around to check her sides. “I shouldn’t keep her awake too long. Dragons heal through hibernation, and she needs sleep. But I just wanted to make sure she’s healing properly. She looks better than I’d hoped.”