Page 1 of Court of Embers (Dragonesse #2)

Chapter

One

W ith the shout that split my head like thunder, rattling through my bones, I cracked in two, a storm of rage and terror.

SERA!

I was on my knees—and I was tearing the sword from Asura’s grasp.

I was awaiting the blade—and I was shearing through flesh and bone, the white-hot pain of an Ascendant’s claws tearing at my back.

I was regret and resignation—and I was wrath and bloodlust.

Instead of cold steel, warm blood dripped over my neck, soaking into my hair. With my eyes squeezed shut, I still saw everything happening around me, the cyclone of chaos that had taken over the Circle.

Tyria grabbed Mykah, pulling the wyvern-rider into the protective coils of her son’s draconic body. Gaelin was in dragon form, one massive arm held in front of Maristela, and Doric was at his side, already gleaming with icy-blue scales as he began the shift.

Chantrelle slumped on her side in her Ascendant’s blood, clutching her stomach. Elinor leaned over her, pressing a cloth to the wound, red with blood to the elbow.

And the Ascendant Illiae, hissing, her starry eyes incandescent with fury, throat wet and red, reared up to strike at the black dragon in the middle of the Circle.

The world spun, my body torn between the fragile thing kneeling here and the coiled tension in the dragon over there, unable to grasp which I was.

It was the slackening of the hands on my body that brought me back to myself, the sudden sense of freedom. I felt Cyran leave me, reaching for his injured mate.

I took a breath. Still alive. I was still alive and on my second chance, maybe the last chance I would ever have.

And now that I felt Rhylan in me, filling the hollow places I had never realized were empty, I would not let that chance slip through my hands.

I opened my eyes, taking in the dragon blood that spilled across the iridescent stones of the Circle, a sudden ravenous craving cramping my stomach…and saw the blade Asura had dropped.

The hilt was whole, the blade shattered into a few inches of jagged steel. Forcing myself to breathe steadily, keeping a grip on my own physical being, I stared at the tangible solidity of the iron that had almost killed me, the slivers of metal sinking into blood.

A massive blur of ivory and gold streaked over me, the wind buffeting me down to the stones. Cyran launched himself for Rhylan’s back, snarling mindlessly, his feathers and scales ablaze with vengeance.

My mate…he was trapped between two of them, a true dragon and an equal, and if I stayed on my knees, he would die.

My second chance was slipping away.

I snatched the shattered sword from the blood, pushing myself upright, and whirled on a pale-faced Asura. She clutched her bloodied arm to her chest, eyes wide in her pale face.

Without thinking twice, running on instinct alone, I caught a handful of her hair, hauled her upright with her back against my chest, and snugged her closely against me before angling that broken blade against the pulse in her throat.

“Illiae!” I roared. “Back down, or I cut her throat!”

Was it my rage that made me burn to cut her, to carve the Ascendant’s heart from her chest? Or was it Rhylan’s? I pressed down on the blade, just enough to gently part Asura’s skin…

She cried out, all her bravado lost. I released the pressure on the blade, trying to shake off the howling vortex that was Rhylan’s mind, a raging tempest to eclipse all others, squeezing my own thoughts out of my skull.

I was here, not there. Asura against me, her heart hammering so hard I felt it through my leathers. The blood still wet on my neck. I was in this body, not a titan of scales and flame, straining to kill.

My mind, cool and calculated, ice to Rhylan’s fire, returned to my head like a ray of light.

I could not mindlessly kill Asura in the heat of shared fury. I needed her alive.

“I will slay the blood of your blood, Illiae,” I shouted, and the Ascendant heard me, rearing back. She hissed, wings spreading wide so the dying sun shone through the violet membranes, illuminating a million veins, her incandescent gaze fixed on me and her thousand-times removed child.

But she released Rhylan, backing away from him.

As though he were watching through my own eyes, aware that Illiae was no longer the true threat, Rhylan turned his back on the Ascendant, whirling to rip into Cyran. The smaller dragon snarled, a storm of ivory feathers flying as Rhylan’s teeth caught his wing, shredding it down the middle.

Trembling against me, Asura let out a small whimper. Even if he backed down, Cyran would be earthbound, potentially forever.

I held her firmly. “Take a step back with me. Move as I move, or die.”

She obeyed, and I pulled her to the edge of the Circle, keeping one eye on Rhylan’s furious battle with Cyran in my mind.

I could see him—but I could also sense him, every move he made, every strike he anticipated and planned.

The phantom taste of blood filled my mouth as he ripped at Cyran’s other wing, the feathery sensation tickling my gums.

Rhylan gripped Cyran’s throat, launching upwards into the sky. A storm of feathers floated down, almost beautiful as they drifted across the Circle, but for the bloodstains marring their perfect ivory sheen.

Illiae and I locked gazes, and I kept my hand steady at Asura’s throat.

From the corner of my eye, there was a twitch of movement: Elinor, rising from Chantrelle’s side, lips drawn back in a feral sneer. “Doric, you must stop her!”

Her mate was on the other side of the Circle, his gaze flicking between her, and Asura and me. His muscles stood out like cords beneath his scaled skin, the tension evident in every line of his body—and then he slowly shook his head, standing his ground with Gaelin and Maristela.

Elinor stared at him in disbelief, her mouth silently forming his name. She sank down, putting her hands on Chantrelle.

“Are you betraying us?” she asked, her voice small and hurt. “For the traitors?”

A muscle flexed in Doric’s jaw; he glanced at Illiae, the frozen Ascendant still staring at Asura, not daring to move so long as the blade remained at the draga’s throat.

“What they did is against the Law, Doric.” Elinor raised her chin. “They’ve broken Larivor’s precepts. They deserve this.”

Doric’s lip curled, and he finally looked back at his mate, contemptuous. “I’ve known Rhylan my entire life,” he said roughly, “And I know where he stands. What I don’t know anymore is where you stand, Elinor. This was poorly done.”

“Poorly done to call out pretenders?” she asked, her voice heated. “Usurpers to the throne? This was the only way! I stand with my House, Doric, my people, not with—”

She was cut off by a blazing-white body plummeting into the middle of the Circle. Cyran hit the stones like a meteor, the bones of his wings shattering, a strangled scream emerging from the ruins of his torn-out throat.

The dragon stretched his head towards Asura, trying to drag himself to her, and I realized belatedly that she wasn’t trembling from the pain of her injuries, or fear of the blade at her throat—she breathed rapid, shallow breaths, muscles locked as stiff as boards, teeth gritted so hard I heard a sound like cracking stones.

Oh by the Nine fucking Hells , I thought, and heard Rhylan’s voice answer in my head, clear as a bell.

Got him, princess . His voice was smug, sounding almost like the usual Rhylan. If he’d spoken it aloud, I might’ve been fooled, but now…now I could sense the undertones, the enormous effort it took him to sound nonchalant while his interior raged and howled.

Cyran coughed, blood splattering—then he swayed, and crashed back onto the stones, exhaling a final gurgling breath.

Asura made a strangled growling sound, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she went limp in my arms.

I barely missed cutting her throat; I almost fumbled the broken blade to keep it away from her neck, letting her sink to the ground and laying her flat.

Her skin had gone milk-pale, fingers curled into rigid claws, but she still breathed.

She may never wake from it , Rhylan said. He landed lightly by Cyran’s corpse, not-so-subtly positioning himself between me and Illiae. My father was comatose for a week after Mother died. I think he only came back for us.

A memory, a pure mental image that wasn’t mine, flashed into my brain. A mountainous male, skin deeply tanned and inscribed with tattoos where there weren’t bronze scales, laying in a bed. His face was strained, even in sleep, and then the face appeared clearly, bright hazel eyes now dull.

I didn’t question how I knew what that face looked like when bright with life. They were Rhylan’s memories, attached to each other.

I’d seen a few dragonbloods after a mate bond shattered. Some went on like nothing had happened. Others broke completely, or their hearts stopped outright. There was no predicting the outcome.

I gazed down at Asura, whose body was slowly relaxing into a state not dissimilar to that of her dead mate. I thought she might be one of the broken ones, remaining trapped in her own mind until her body finally withered away…but it was impossible to be sure.

If she wakes, she’s a threat to us . I gripped the broken sword, unwilling to relinquish it.

She had tried to behead me. I had come within a sliver of a second of seeing Nakasha’s Gates with my own eyes, and I knew she would’ve enjoyed being the one to send me there.

I knew, deep down, that I wasn’t holding back out of mercy, or some sense of pity. If anything, death would be the greater mercy now.

She only lived because we could not afford to appear as cold-blooded killers while we still had the slightest chance to salvage our plans.

I felt Rhylan’s agreement with my assessment, the rumbling growl he let out no longer unreadable draconic noise, but an affirmative to my thoughts.