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CHAPTER EIGHT

ROOK

My father wants to punish me.

I'm kneeling before his throne in Netherhaven Castle. I know deep in the pit of my stomach that I have failed him somehow. I have failed myself, at the very least, since I missed his anger before it was too late.

I should have seen the warnings: the way his eyes harden or how his nostrils suck in air to fuel what comes next. Somehow I didn't see them, and now I must endure his rage.

“Rook,” my father booms.

I don't know what I did wrong, since so many things anger him, but it doesn't matter—the consequences will be the same.

This isn't real.

The thought whispers in the back of my mind, but I can't be distracted. My father reddens with rage, his human skin too pale to hide his emotions for very long.

“What have you done this time, boy?” he asks, his knuckles whitening as he grips his throne.

You're dreaming.

But in this dream, I'm a child, and children have little power over nightmares. It doesn't matter who I might be in the waking world. Here, I'm just a scared little boy who wishes his father would love him.

“Answer me,” he demands.

“I'm sorry,” I say, though I don't know what I might be apologizing for. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

“Stop cowering like a dog.”

When my father gets off his throne, I'm frozen on the floor in fear. His royal guards avert their eyes. We all know what happens next.

I lower my head and stare at my clenched hands. My father's boots click on the stones, the sound echoing under the high ceiling, and my heart beats faster and faster until I wonder if it might burst from my chest.

He grabs me by a horn and wrenches me to my feet. I'm smaller than him, weaker than him, and there's no point in fighting.

“That was a command,” he says. “You want to keep cowering? I will give you a reason to cower.”

Wake up.

He slaps me across the mouth, a humiliating blow, and my head jerks to one side. The crack sounds obscenely loud in the echoing throne room. One of the guards glances over at me before avoiding my shame again.

“Why did you do it?” my father demands. “How could you be so stupid? God, to think you're supposed to be my bastard son. Sometimes I wonder if your mother whored herself out to the village idiot to make you.”

Wake. Up.

My father flings me to the floor as if I'm nothing more than a broken doll to be discarded. I sprawl across the stones. He's not done with me yet. I haven't been punished enough.

Wake up wake up wake ? —

I lurch into the waking world, my heartbeat still pounding as if I were sprinting. Worse, my head starts pounding when morning sunlight pierces my eyes. Fuck. I’m never drinking black wine again. Definitely not in such a generous amount.

Pyrah curls against me, her arm draped over me, snoring softly. I disentangle myself from her embrace without waking her.

Sleeping with my mate brought me some relief from the nightmares, but it didn’t last forever. Bad memories have ruined my mind like bloodstains that can never be washed away.

No. Not ruined.

I refuse to believe that I'm too far gone. The fear and shame I felt as a child still clings to me, but I can't believe I'm powerless any longer.

My father is dead.

Sometimes, I have nightmares of the last day I saw him. These dreams are soaked in the color red.

When I found him, bleeding out in his bed, he told me to get the fuck out of his castle. I obeyed him without hesitation. I was always trying to be obedient back then, and I was too afraid to question him.

Could I have saved my father?

I'm not sure I could have convinced myself to try.

These thoughts aren't helping my headache. I need coffee. I go into the kitchen. Lark kneels by the embers of the hearth fire. She stirs them with a poker, then tosses in some kindling to feed the flames.

One glance at me and she grimaces. “Nightmare?”

“How could you tell?”

“I saw you sleeping.”

My shoulders tense. “Oh?”

“You were gritting your teeth and clenching your fists. Like you were bracing yourself, even in your sleep.”

"Pyrah hasn’t noticed." I force myself to exhale. “Not yet.”

“You ran out of the potion, didn't you?”

“I did,” I admit.

My sister had been brewing me a potion to fight my plague of nightmares, but I drank the last of it while she was imprisoned in the Forgotten Tower for seven long weeks.

“Do you need more?” she asks.

I hesitate. “Dreams can't kill me, no matter how bad they get. And they haven't been that bad.”

“Rook.” She gives me a look, one that says she knows I’m full of shit. “You have told me about some fucked-up nightmares before. And we both remember Netherhaven.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Why don’t you have nightmares?”

“What happened there hurt me in different ways.”

I touch her on the shoulder, trying to comfort her in one of the few ways I know how. “True.”

She shakes her head. “I would brew you more of the potion, but I don’t have most of the ingredients.”

Time to change the subject. “Coffee?”

“Get the kettle.”

Soon the bitter scent of brewing coffee fills the cottage. Pyrah shuffles over to the table. Blinking owlishly, she hides a yawn behind her hand. I’m not sure she’s fully conscious yet.

Lark pours three cups of coffee for us. “I don’t have any milk or honey. Let’s say demons drink it black.”

Pyrah watches steam rise from her cup before she takes a sip. “Rook, I think I might love Lark more than you.”

“Why?” I ask.

“She brews coffee fit for a king.”

I grunt, still too hungover to be amused. Besides, I have always had a poor opinion of a king's standards.

Under Lark’s direction, I cook the three of us a simple breakfast of boiled eggs and bread toasted over the fire. Lark brings out the strawberry jam again, which started this whole quest to find mushrooms in the Thornwood. We have spent enough time here.

I drink my coffee until there’s nothing but dregs. “We should go back to Pyrah’s cave after breakfast.”

Lark takes a scroll from her bookshelf and unrolls it on the table. It’s a map of Chymeria. “Pyrah, where’s your lair?”

Pyrah strokes the well-worn parchment. Her fingers glide over the Thornwood, the cursed roses inked in intricate detail, before lingering on a range of mountains near the far western edge of Chymeria.

She must fly over this terrain often. I wonder if the map matches what she sees from the air. Dragons would make good cartographers.

“There.” She taps the location. “By the lake with no name.”

“Deep in the wilderness,” Lark muses.

“Too far for a portal?” I ask.

“No such thing.”

“Pyrah, have you been through a portal before?”

“Never. Why?”

“They can be...unpleasant. Especially the first time.”

She puts on a brave face. “It can’t be that bad.”

After clearing the table from breakfast, we follow Lark outside. She summons a portal by cutting open the air with her hand. Sparks fly from the ragged edges of the portal. Beyond, water glimmers like iron beneath the sun—the lake with no name.

“Come on,” Lark says. “I can’t hold it open forever.”

I take Pyrah’s hand. I’m so much bigger than her human form that my hand surrounds hers. She clings to my calloused fingers.

We go through the portal together.

My stomach lurches and acid rises in my throat. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to cough, or worse, vomit. When Pyrah’s knees buckle, I hold her against me. She’s trembling, and her face has become a sickly white.

“Steady,” I murmur.

“Unpleasant?” Pyrah spits the word out. “That was fucking awful.”

“I know.”

After Lark strides through the portal, it closes behind her with a crackle like burning wood. She twists her mouth, her throat working. Maybe she’s also fighting a sudden rush of nausea. Even this sorceress isn’t immune to portals, despite her fondness for them.

From the lake with no name, a path zigzags higher.

It leads to a cliff at the mouth of a dragon’s cave—Pyrah’s cave.

We begin the climb together. Halfway there, my boot scuffs something round and glimmering.

Bending, I pick it up and bring it to my eye.

My stomach plunges even farther than it did when I went through the portal.

“A coin,” I say. “A silver one.”

Pyrah yanks her hand free from mine and sprints the rest of the way. Her hair flies behind her in the wind. Gasping, her breath ragged, she runs to her home. I follow at her heels.

Empty.

Her cave is empty.

Every single piece of gold and gemstone has vanished. Gone.

Her treasure was stolen.

“We’re too late,” Pyrah murmurs, as if in a trance. “There’s nothing left. They took it all from me.”

I touch her elbow. “Thank God they didn’t take you.”

“What happened?” Lark enters the cave behind us.

“Thieves,” I reply. “Could have been the queen’s knights.”

Pyrah meets my gaze, her eyes bright with tears. “I never should have left my cave unguarded.”

“Pyrah.” Her sorrow pains my heart in a raw ache. “You’re worth more to me than any treasure.”

“It’s more than that. It's mine .”

“Besides,” I add, “you have no need for a dragon’s hoard any longer.”

“What?” She stares at me.

“You collected treasure and defended your territory, like all female dragons, to attract a mate. The size of your hoard means little to me. I need nothing from you but you .”

Her eyes shift from blue to yellow. “As my mate, you should understand. Let me make this crystal fucking clear.” She grinds out the words through gritted teeth. “Nobody fucking steals from me.”

Clearly, I should not have opened my mouth. Is it too late for me to salvage this situation? Lark glances between us both before exiting the cave, no doubt to give us space and avoid joining the fray.

I frown. “Pyrah, why does this mean so much to you?”

“You don't understand.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You aren't a dragon.” Her words shouldn't bite so much, and yet they do. “But not even Scaldric cared about the size of my hoard.”

“Scaldric?” I bristle at his name. “Why would you give a fuck what that fool thinks about you?”

“I don't. God, that's the point.”