Page 16

Aemyra’s breaths felt like shards of broken glass in her lungs, and the higher she climbed into the frigid peaks, the more she contemplated the enormity of the task ahead of her.

She might have grown up watching her father take to the skies with Gealach, but as thorough as her father’s education had been, Draevan had steadfastly refused to reveal how he had Bonded.

As a result, she was petrified.

Breaking her nail down to the quick while hauling herself over a ridge, Aemyra hissed in pain and begrudgingly thought that an egg ceremony would have been far easier.

Clan Daercathian had adapted the story of how the eggs had formed from within Beinn Deataiche into one of their most well-known traditions—holding egg ceremonies each year on the summer solstice. At the age of sixteen, every fire Dùileach had the opportunity to Bond to an egg, regardless of whether they were of noble or common birth.

Even though no ceremony had been held in generations, Aemyra had often daydreamed about walking through the circle of plinths that gleamed in the sunlight, wondering which egg might sense the power inside of her and hatch.

“Fucking Hela, ” Aemyra cursed as the rock under her foot slipped away and she broke another two nails clawing at the mountainside to avoid tumbling over the edge.

Muscles straining, Aemyra hauled herself to her feet. Brushing her scraped and dirty palms across her thighs, she kept walking.

“You aren’t the first Daercathian to Bond to an adult dragon,” Aemyra said to herself. “If they can figure it out, so can you.”

The sun was beginning its descent as the day passed into late afternoon and Aemyra’s stomach grew hollow. Regretting not eating one of the pies that morning, she stopped to take a sip from her waterskin.

Refusing to give up, Aemyra kept the names of her fierce female ancestors close to her heart.

Warrior queen Lissandrea and the enormous golden Kolgiath, who had flown to war. Her daughter Aesandra, who had Bonded to Rhyian after the war was won—naming her after the living flame. Princess Isobeìl had defied her parents and claimed the wild Sylthria before her first flowering.

Giving herself a shake, Aemyra fisted her hands by her sides. “If Isobeìl can do it at half my age, I have no reason to be afraid now,” she muttered, breath misting before her.

The men of their clan might have torn down their legacy, but Aemyra would build it back up. It mattered not that the beathaichean were tethered to their territories, she had no interest in traveling to Uisge, ùir, or Adhair. Tìr Teine was where she was needed most, and a dragon would help her save her people.

The path had become steeper now, snow clinging to the slopes around her. Having to use her hands as well as her feet in order to climb, she barely noticed the frigid temperature, she was sweating so profusely.

As the air grew thin in her lungs, Aemyra wondered if she would find the damn dragon at all.

The thought of failing again was almost too much to bear and she climbed until the clouds were skimming her cheeks like a damp kiss. She would not leave her father to face two dragons alone.

Spotting a small path that looped around the side of the mountain, Aemyra took a chance and followed it. Her feet were aching in her boots, but she dared not rest. This high up, the clouds were thick, and she squinted through the gloom.

When something crunched underfoot, she immediately drew her dagger. The quick shriek of steel was loud in the silence. Glancing down, she saw the remnants of a sheep carcass, bones bleached white from exposure.

She was close.

Overcome with the sheer enormity of her task, Aemyra sent up a prayer to Cailleach to protect her. Trying to stop her knees from trembling, she reminded herself that she wanted a better future for Lachlann. As queen, she would ensure Sorcha and the other women of Tìr Teine would be safe from oppression.

Palming her dagger, Aemyra knew she would make a better ruler than Evander. The healing slice on her arm stung as if reminding her that she had an unsettled debt with Fiorean.

To avoid the True Religion planting roots in Tìr Teine, and to help keep the people she loved safe, she would Bond herself to the most dangerous dragon in living memory and become a queen to rival Lissandrea herself.

“You can do this for them,” Aemyra muttered to herself.

Solas had chosen Orlagh, not the other way around. The eggs had hatched after the Dùileach touched them. So Aemyra would have to become just as terrifying as the dragon she hoped to claim.

She held her dagger ready as she walked through the swirling mist. Reaching a plateau, she squinted through the clouds, trying to find another path.

Until a low growl sounded and she froze.

The mist was so thick she could barely see three feet in front of her. But she could smell dragonfire, and the rotten meat on his breath.

He was close.

The small plateau she was standing on was empty save for bleached bones and some tufts of wool caught on sharp rocks.

Before Aemyra could think about getting her back to the wall, a dark shape lunged at her from above. She saw fire flickering through teeth a split second before she leaped to the side and landed among the skeletons as The Terror’s jaws closed on empty air.

He was huge. Bigger than Aervor.

Bowels cramping, Aemyra forced herself to get a grip on her courage and scrambled to her feet as the dragon hauled itself around the mountainside.

The long neck was supple as it snaked around, the fluted crests on his face making the dragon infinitely more beautiful than she would have imagined. His back legs were packed with muscle and huge chunks of rock were breaking off from the mountainside as he angled himself to attack Aemyra again.

The front legs ended in horrifically sharp claws and she held her dagger up uselessly. With no idea what else to do, she decided to announce herself.

“I am Aemyra Daercathian,” she yelled, even as his dark wings eclipsed what little light there was. “I am the first female heir born to my clan in a century, and the true queen of Tìr Teine.”

It quickly became apparent that The Terror had no interest in who or what she was and he lunged again.

As Aemyra scrambled across the rock face, she didn’t have time to wonder why he wasn’t incinerating her. Perhaps he enjoyed playing with his food first. Legs trembling as she scurried across the plateau, she almost tripped over the rib cage of a goat.

Before she could get behind a rock, the dragon’s tail whipped around and the mountain in front of her exploded. Covering her face at the last moment as she was flung backward, great chunks of rock rained down upon her. Blood trickled into her right eye, and she felt something crack as she landed on the ground.

With a growl that sounded like a thunderclap, The Terror advanced again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Aemyra cursed under her breath as she scrambled through the bones littering the ground. Those mighty wings flapped above her, and Aemyra had never felt so small.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself to her knees. Giving thanks that the steep mountainside made it difficult for the large dragon to maneuver, Aemyra ran for her life.

The Terror roared into the sky and suddenly white-hot flame was pouring over the top of the rock Aemyra had ducked behind, narrowly avoiding the singeing of her hair.

Furious, she got to her feet as the dragon reeled his face back to strike again.

“I am Aemyra Daercathian,” she repeated, wiping blood out of her eye. “I am the true queen.”

The dragon snaked his long neck forward, and Aemyra threw herself behind the rock to avoid being snapped in two by his teeth. The Terror loosed another jet of warning flame, the stream passing over her head, her skin prickling with the warmth.

A sick smile spread across Aemyra’s face. If this was how it was to end for her, then she would make it an end worth remembering. Summoning her own fire, she coated her left arm in flame and stepped out to face the mighty beathach across the plateau.

The dragon parted his lips as if getting ready to taste her, and Aemyra loosed a ferocious cry of her own before launching herself at him.

The Terror snaked down with his massive jaws spread open, but she managed to duck to the side, knees straining with the movement. Arms and legs pumping, she made it to his foreleg, where she gave a desperate running jump and tried to snag her fingers on the wing joint.

The Terror gave an enraged cry and launched himself into the sky, Aemyra’s fingers closed around thin air as she went tumbling to the ground, landing hard on her side.

Completely winded, she managed to roll away just as his barbed tail slammed down into the ground where her body had been moments before.

“Brigid protect me,” Aemyra gasped, desperately trying to avoid the tail attempting to sweep her off the side of the mountain. “Beira bless me.”

Her muttered prayers having no effect, she managed to scramble to her feet and face the dragon once more, split eyebrow bleeding and body aching.

This was it. She was never going to be queen. She was never going to be a dragon rider.

As The Terror advanced, she noticed that his scales weren’t black at all. Instead, they were the dark purple of a deep bruise. Where the sunlight caught them, close to his eyes and wings, they were almost amethyst in color.

For some reason this little thing that nobody else knew was a comfort. If only she could die knowing what those scales felt like…

The dragon gave a roar loud enough to shake the mountain, and Aemyra finally dropped her dagger. Not in fear but in acceptance.

When the weapon clattered to the ground, The Terror narrowed his eyes.

“You are my last hope to save Tìr Teine,” she said.

Pulling the white pennant out of her pocket, Aemyra let it flutter to the ground, where she stomped it underneath her boot.

The dragon took two mighty steps forward, those front claws gouging out chunks of rock like a knife through butter, and Aemyra hoped he would make it quick.

The dragon’s mouth opened to display rows of sharp teeth as long as her body.

With his face so close, something registered in Aemyra’s mind. Recognition from a drawing in one of Draevan’s old texts that she had pored over as a child. The illustrations had faded from where she had traced the ink with her fingers.

“Impossible,” Aemyra breathed, the dragon mere inches away from her face.

The Terror’s tail whipped onto the ground, cleaving four long gouges in the rock.

Four. Not six.

The double-fluted crests above those amethyst eyes were the only confirmation Aemyra needed.

“You’re female,” Aemyra said.

The dragon’s nostrils widened as if scenting the air where she had dropped the pennant.

It wasn’t possible. There were no female dragons left, everybody knew that.

But The Terror had hatched long before Queen Earie had died. Some speculated that he, she, was older than Kolreath himself.

Could it be possible?

Aemyra felt her heart give a lurch of hope as the dragon stared at her instead of advancing with teeth and claws.

Blinking away the blood trickling into her eye, Aemyra risked a step forward. The Terror let out one low growl but didn’t move as she stretched her hand toward the snout.

The scales overlapped in a shimmering kaleidoscope of jet blacks, deep mauves, and glittering violets. Pressing her lips together in concentration, she reached out her fingers, desperate to touch the hide of a dragon for the first time.

It was the moment she had desired more than becoming queen.

After a lifetime of dreaming, Aemyra finally made contact with the warm scales. Her skin registered the heat of the dragon, the unforgiving solid hide, and she suddenly felt complete.

Then Aemyra burst into flame.