Page 17

KION

“Of all the dragon lords, the one designated as the Draakon was the most feared. We don’t know why. When the Age of Dragons ended, Thales erased all the written history. But draakons existed, and they were exceptionally dangerous.”

—Quote from the hidden journal of Amund Wraithion.

Over the centuries, the Black City prevailed despite the invasions, scarcities, and bouts of blue rain.

Compared to Thales, the Black City was little more than an unwanted relic.

A fortified desert settlement, established when the ancient trade routes connected far-flung towns on the continent of Austera—towns that were often dusty, nameless, and forgotten.

Every few months, the King’s Guard would swoop in on sweat-stained horses, clattering their swords and reminding the townsfolk that power in the Southern Lands lived with the king in Thales.

The Davinicus priests would follow, spewing fear and magic, their horses bloodied like the crimson of their cassocks .

In years past, the shops offered luxury goods.

Travelers found refuge in taverns like the Hart and Fowl or the Golden Coin .

Pleasure houses had also dominated. But now, farmers and tradesmen made up the population.

Money was scarce, and current levels of luxury included the mint-and-rose soap that had scented Senaria’s skin last night.

The many fat candles glowing in the bathing chamber, gilding her hair and reflecting in her eyes like ghosts from the past.

This morning, the Black City slumbered lazily, wrapped in a golden haze.

The rain had washed away layers of dust, turning the needle-thin trees into icons of lush greenery.

The streets were clean but still drying, and the air, for once, held no grit, although there was no getting used to the dry smell of the king’s realm.

Shifting my weight, I listened—from somewhere distant, a dog barked. A child shouted. Normal sounds. The calm before the coming storm.

But I’d weathered far worse storms than the one Senaria Wraithion was about to unleash.

Those of us who had chosen dragons lived unusually long lives, and I’d seen my share of catastrophes.

When I stood with Senaria on the Plains of Celandine, I hadn’t needed a stone to mark the spot where my father fell because I’d been there, driven to my knees and covered with his blood. Holding him as he died.

Each savage moment of the following massacre—the one that ended the war—was seared into my soul. Branded into the curse tablet I wore .

So, no. Senaria’s tantrum would not do more than irritate me.

She’d be awake by now, finding the mage shackles tight around her wrists. Forcing her compliance. Changing our dynamic. But her decision last night to release me and return to Thales alone had forced my hand.

I’d hoped to be closer to the Wall before she guessed the truth, that each step she took with her prisoner was a step toward her own fate.

We could have gone a long way while she deluded herself, wrapped in the illusion of the king’s justice speaker—as if people on the frontier cared about who she’d once been.

The king wasn’t here. And her justice was meaningless without Tarian Ardalez, who used her for his own reasons.

A muscle ticked in my jaw. It was written that, when the Age of Dragons ended, the earth moved and split apart.

Buildings crumbled, and the sky in the Faded Lands choked on the smoke and the stench of death.

It had, but not because of some glorious victory by the king and the mage masters of Thales.

Despite what the citizens in Thales believed, the war two hundred years ago had not gone well for the magic wielders or the king’s soldiers.

They were losing. Their people were close to rioting.

So while the King’s Guard sacrificed themselves on the Plains of Celandine, a covert group of mages attacked the dragon breeding grounds hidden in the mountains.

They massacred fledglings too young to defend themselves.

Destroyed the eggs and the men, women, and children guarding the young ones for no other reason than pure mindless hate.

Memories stirred with a flash of blood and fire, the hiss and scream of magic.

I shoved them down. Dragons were monstrous.

Wild and destructive when angered. But they also loved their young, and the carnage was incomprehensible.

They left the fighting field. Turned their backs on every dragon lord, every human except the Draakon—an act of abandonment that devastated the men and women, the children, who had bonded with them.

What few people understood was that dragons, while wild, were social creatures and often bonded with specific humans, becoming loyal companions for life.

It wasn’t unusual for a fledgling to bond with a child.

The elderly asked to die in their dragon’s embrace.

The bond went beyond emotional—a dragon could speak telepathically to the man or woman he’d bonded with, and that person could answer back.

To lose that intimate, mental connection had been torturing for those with the bonds.

The pain for some was unendurable, and they left the Faded Lands, scattered to the four winds rather than live with the loss.

Eventually, the dragons relented enough to reestablish the bonds. They spoke to their chosen humans—until twenty-one years ago, when a precious fledgling slipped through the Wall and disappeared into the Southern Lands. The dragons went silent again, but not before they issued their demands.

As Draakon, it was my responsibility to find the fledgling. I had other acts of penance to perform, and I accepted them willingly: repairing the weak spots in the Wall…strengthening the magic to protect against the mage priests.

But with every Malice Moon, the Wall weakened for months at a time, and I used the opportunity to enter the king’s realm and search for the missing fledgling.

I needed to bring him home, pay the debt etched into the curse tablet I wore.

I never found him. Then—seven years ago—a second dragon disappeared, and the dragons added another penance: find the source.

Find the person who called dragons through the Wall. Bring him back for judgment.

The dragons feared it was new mage magic. Priests on Deimos, luring dragons to destroy them.

I was sure it was someone from the Faded Lands, hiding in Thales.

No one thought it was a nameless girl strutting around in a veil.

The mystery was now solved. A debt was about to be paid. I didn’t want to think about it.

Inside the stable, the morning shadows were still cool and slow to fade, but yellow light spilled through the doorway.

The horse stomped, impatient in her stall.

I tightened the saddle’s girth, half listening to the voices outside, breathing in the dry tang of hay mingling with the animal musk.

No growing things. How the inhabitants of the Black City got used to the bleakness, I didn’t know.

Every time I came into this realm, I endured the oppression.

I had no idea how Senaria tolerated life in Thales—the stifled gardens and no trees or grass unless you ventured well beyond the city walls .

“Draakon?” The stable master shifted his weight.

The gray of his shirt revealed bits of straw he hadn’t brushed away, and golden dust motes floated around his spiky hair.

His name was Hakon. He was one of us, the believers in Orm, and he’d clasped his fingers together in the tight grip men usually displayed in my presence. He asked, “Is the mare acceptable?”

“Yes.” I slapped the horse’s rump to move her aside before leaving the stall. Her temperament was even, and she’d not bolt with an inexperienced rider flailing away on her back. “I’ll send extra coin for your trouble.”

“There’s no trouble. But there is news.” Hakon dragged my attention back to him.

“Reports of red priests twenty miles from here. The count is twelve, on horseback, scouring the smaller settlements. Heading toward the south-east. They’ve brought night flyers, mage-driven wyverns.

More of their vile magic. A few deaths with the herders in the desert. A loss of sheep.”

Sowing fear, what the priests did best, casting suspicions. Fueling the rumors of monsters and dragons to justify their actions. But also hunting, and fortunately, moving away from us, allowing me the time I needed to get Senaria through the Wall.

When Fennor had arrived during the night, he’d warned of the riders tracking us inland from the coast. They’d lost the trail near the Plains of Celandine, distracted by one of Fennor’s tricks.

I’d given orders; most of the men had already left the Black City for the Night River.

Fennor…we ll, Fennor wasn’t happy with his assignment.

He hated escort duty more than he hated waiting around for someone to fight.

“Last night.” Hakon cleared his throat. “In the tavern…She looks like one of us.”

I stared at him. His face had reddened, and he clenched the mare’s reins with the same intensity that he’d clenched his fingers.

“It’s the color of her hair,” he clarified.

“A lot of women have yellow hair.”

“Not white like sunlight. And the streets are not as safe as before. People whisper. The whispers get back to the wrong ears.”

He meant men who hated dragons and tried to destroy them. Fear and prejudice had caused too much damage for too long. I’d battled the animosity. Fought the obstinance, spilled blood, and still, they kept coming.

It had been this way for two hundred years.

Hakon turned toward the sound of a female screeching, disrupting the morning silence.

Senaria was on her way, and with the noise, residents on this street would flock outside, eager to see her “mating custom” play out.

I’d already planted speculation in the minds of Jaco and Cobb to have their support.