Page 59 of A Court of Thralls and Thorns

Jax grinned. “Come on, Perin. Surely, you’ll accept a challenge from a girl.”

Perin’s sneer deepened, and I could see the vein in his temple tick.

“I will,” he said, voice dripping with malice. “But if I win, I get to face Ashe next.”

His eyes gleamed with something dark, something ugly.

“It’s time we culled the commoners.”

Laughter erupted from Iron Fang’s squad, but the other squads didn’t join in.

And then—the air shifted.

The laughter died instantly.

All eyes turned.

A nobleman strode toward us, his presence suffocating, authoritative, and unmistakably royal.

His broad frame was clad in full military gear, dark and gleaming, his high collar embroidered with silver accents.

He was tall, his dark hair neatly tied back, his eyes cold and calculating.

At his hip, a broadsword rested in an intricate scabbard, the hilt bearing an engraved sigil—one I had seen before.

A royal crest.

A prince.

Zander’s jaw tightened as the nobleman approached, his steps measured, controlled—dangerous.

I didn’t have to be told who he was.

Even without the regal military gear, without the commanding presence, the resemblance was enough.

Theron Rayne.

The king’s second son—and unlike Zander, someone who had never bonded a dragon.

Zander barely inclined his head. “Theron, what can I do for you?”

Theron’s dark eyes swept over us, cold and calculating. He barely spared Thrall Squad a glance before speaking.

“I came to make some adjustments to the rules.”

A sinking feeling twisted my gut.

Theron clasped his hands behind his back, his chin lifting slightly, like we were insects beneath his boot.

“Commoners must be held to a higher standard,” he continued, as if he were discussing stock for a market, not human lives. “There will be no more interference from the healers unless the prospect has noble blood.”

The words hung in the air like a curse.

I tensed, fury rising in my chest, but it was Zander’s reaction that stole my breath.

His lavender eyes darkened—then turned black.

A slow, unnatural shift, like a storm was stirring in his very blood.