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Veronica glances at me, surprised by my outburst. She crosses the room, about to speak when a young child comes running in; harried aklas chase after him, calling him back.

Veronica swoops the child into her embrace and a sharp ache lurches up my throat. Her son. Quin’s.

“Where’s F-father?” the boy cries into Veronica’s neck. “They s-said he’s fighting wyverns.”

Veronica delivers a tight look at the aklas and they cower, mumbling apologies.

A small sob. “Is father going to die?”

“Probably,” someone dares to mutter.

“Enough,” I say, voice cracking.

Big brown eyes look at me over Veronica’s shoulder. He has his father’s eyes.

“Your father is clever,” I tell him. “And I won’t let him get hurt.”

Veronica lifts her son, glancing back at me. “I’ll take him somewhere safe.” Her eyes beg mine. “Keep your promise.”

The aklas follow her out.

Florentius finishes flooding antidote into the last child and hurries to the redcloaks.

Urgency is making my throat sting. This poison works ten times as fast. It’s ten times as strong.

A normal wyvern would be exhausted. A normal wyvern couldn’t even poison a person if it didn’t change into its water form. It should take at least a dozen to have so many victims... but the adapted strength of the poison, not needing to plunge through a body to kill...

These wyverns are different.

Icy, bone-deep shivers slice through me.

The jar slips from my hands and smashes against the floor. I race through the shards to the windows. The remaining redcloaks, Nicostratus, Quin... Once they deplete their spiritual energy...

They have no chance.Their uncle has fed the wyverns his own blood.

They’ll only obey him.

Unless...

“Florentius, can you take care of the redcloaks alone?”

His gaze slices to me, to the fight outside the windows, back again. “Why?”

“Can you manage?”

“Of course.”

I nod, move to the jars of tea and open the one filled with chamomile. I grind a dried flower between my teeth and move to one of the men who helped move the poisoned.

“What are you planning?” Florentius demands. “You’re drained. Your hands are shaking.”

I ignore him and face the redcloak. “Everyone here will die, unless you can get me to the king.”

Outside, gale force winds have me staggering. I brace an arm at my face, curtaining the view of the writhing wyverns overhead. The redcloak obediently covers me as I force my way to the centre of the courtyard. Each breath is a mouthful of tinny metal and blood. A feisty wyvern is slammed away and I flinch.

Keep it together.

In a whirl of cloaks and grassy daggers, Nicostratus and Quin land before me, back to back.