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SENARIA

“Little is known of the Faded Lands, other than the barren, walled-off area on the continent of Austera is forbidden to all but those with the king’s permissions, who travel there at their own risk and seldom return.”

—From the authorized geography textbook used in the Southern Lands.

“You… ass! ” I sprawled, half on the ground, half suspended from the saddle, because the horse—upon sensing the opportunity—had sucked in her belly at the very moment I’d leaned forward from the pain in the mage shackles.

I’d been gasping when my weight shifted—and the mare’s belly suck was just enough.

The girth strap loosened. The saddle slid over the mare’s left side, first in slow motion, then faster…

and since my hands were still in the mage shackles, tied to the saddle horn, I’d followed the saddle like an anchor dropped from a ship, thudding hard in the dirt.

Now I hung from the lopsided saddle with my arms taut over my head. The mare snorted as if it wasn’t her fault, and my glare toward Kion Abaddon, the almost king, had absolutely no effect on him.

Instead, the pain in the mage shackles continued, although it was fading, and he pretended he wasn’t doing it…looking stunningly disastrous and about as empathetic as the rock wall covered with dragon drawings.

He growled, “Can you get up?”

I twisted to one side. “I’m too busy thanking Orm for this nice, dry ground.”

“You don’t believe in dragons. How can you believe in Orm?”

“It’s a saying , Abaddon.” The smile I offered was grotesque. “You’ve heard of sarcasm, haven’t you?”

He dismounted and yanked clothes from the saddlebag.

I pulled at my wrists, testing the strength of the shackles, the chain, the precariously hanging saddle. The mare shifted her weight and blew out a gusty breath as if she was tempted.

“Don’t run,” Kion growled at the mare. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Is the bridegroom in no condition to perform?” A reckless taunt, considering how prickly he was, but I’d take my chances.

“Once again, he disappoints. I understand why you’re still single—even with all that lethal black you wear.

Aren’t you tired of the females drooling over the leather and blades, acting like fools and—”

A pair of boots thumped at my feet, followed by socks. A pair of trousers. The almost king’s aim with each throw was imprecise but emphatic.

Bogo chirped and flitted.

Kion swung around to glare at him .

The little rat dropped to the ground and bent his head, the way I’d so often been forced to do in front of Tarian.

My eyes blurred. Not even walking through a shadowed cathedral, hiding behind my veil, had I felt anything like this helpless ache.

Not the ache in ordinary things. But the deep aching of a child crying in the garden, knowing there was nothing she could do… nothing I could do against this man.

Bogo plopped his little body onto my lap, his talons cutting through the thin material of my clothes. He rubbed his head against my chest, tangling himself in my hair as he scrambled higher…while my fingers curled in the mage shackles because I couldn’t hold him.

Kion bent and yanked me upright.

Bogo bounced on the ground and hissed.

“I’m not hurting her,” the almost king snarled as he released the chain from the saddle. The mare took a step away and Kion followed, making quick work of righting the saddle and re-tightening the girth strap.

Then he was back at my side, removing the shackles, rubbing his thumbs against the reddened skin of my wrists to get the circulation going. He pointed toward the clothes on the ground.

“Two minutes. Then the shackles go back on and you’re wearing whatever gets on your body in that time.”

He turned away. I glared at the sword sheathed at his back and calculated the chance in reaching it, pulling it from the leather before he reacted.

But I’d be safer if I cooperated. This one time, because I was freezing.

Moving slower than I liked. And since my hands were still numb, I doubted I could hold anything.

The clothes were fleece-lined and warm. The pants were tight at the ankles so they wouldn’t catch on random obstructions. The long-sleeved shirt and lined vest fit perfectly before I tugged on the thick socks and comfortable boots.

When I finished dressing, I touched my messy braid, but there wasn’t time to repair the damage.

The horses were snorting. Bogo had grown restless.

From the rocks, a faint scuffling kicked up the dust. Tiny nerves prickled at my nape when Kion swung around, drawing the sword with a smooth movement before stepping in front of me.

Five men crowded the narrow trail. Three more worked their way through the rocks, climbing down. These were not Fennor’s merry felons, even though their clothes were rough and dark. Animosity tainted the air, along with a sour body odor and an edgy violence that felt both cutting and inevitable.

A beefy man swaggered into the lead—the source of the body odor.

Stringy black hair framed a bruised, wind-creased face.

Men bunched behind him, shoulder to shoulder, close enough for the mumbled cursing to carry with more hate than words.

Some wore ill-fitting shirts and pants held up with tightened belts.

Others carried swords in hands that should hold the plow or a blacksmith’s hammer.

They weren’t warriors, but even untrained men could kill if they were angry enough.

I braced. Kept my back to the rocks while Kion Abaddon stood in front of me .

The man in the lead held a sword that wavered, not recklessly, but with purpose. His eyes had whitened around the edges, and he snarled, “We’ve heard of you— Draakon of the forsaken lands.”

Kion hadn’t moved, although he’d angled the sword downward while he waited. Listened.

“We don’t want your kind here,” a man in the rocks sneered. Spittle flew from his fleshy lips as he continued, “F-fucking mutant.”

“Fucking cursed is what he is,” another man said. “More monster than man.”

I tried to keep track of who spoke, who remained silent.

“Coming here,” a man hidden in the group snarled. “Bringing Orm’s fucking spawn.”

The spawn was Bogo—who screeched, his wings beating, his talons clicking as he scrabbled toward me, then changed his mind and tried to hide in a rock crevice instead of running.

“We find ’em,” the rock man boasted. “T-take our time with killing ’em.”

“He’s a small one,” someone else gloated. “Not big ’nuf for swords.”

“Ain’t no fun in it,” came the laughing agreement from the rocks.

Kion stood, still relaxed, but with a quiet vigilance that matched my own. Did the posturing men sense the threat? If not from Kion, then from me?

Coldly, I debated which one I would attack first…slip into which mind…turn which man against another .

“Bleed him, Lorn,” a man on the trail hissed. “Bleed him good. He’s the fucking Draakon. The head of them all. Cut off the head and do the king’s work.”

“He’s got cursed magic,” the leader, Lorn, warned.

“She ain’t got any. Go after her while we go after the spawn. Make him choose.”

Kion Abaddon tipped his head. Silver hair drifted.

The resolve in his expression cleaved away the reasonable part of me.

These men did not differ from the hateful priests in a ruined chapel.

They talked about killing to protect a land that was desiccated and empty, while never expecting a waif-like girl to have magic.

But I wasn’t helpless. I was a mutant, like Kion Abaddon. Silk’s psychic magic was despised throughout the realm, and I waited while one man crept through the rocks. When he came close enough, I delivered my own kind of mercy.

Latching onto his emotions was almost too easy.

I slipped into the man’s vile mind and found a narrow-minded hatred that turned my stomach.

The group had come from the Black City with one unshakable goal: to rid the countryside of dragon kind.

They’d been following our trail because they’d heard talk about a girl with sun-pale hair, and a silver-haired man in black.

A man with a distinctive sword strapped to his back.

I’d betrayed us with that spectacle, calling the wrong attention to Kion Abaddon. For a heartbeat, I waited for the guilt…the grief…my body taut. Waited for my magic to waver the way it had with Sevyn. The fear that I could not change the outcome .

But the fear didn’t come, and I pushed my magic into the man’s mind, deeper into the dark mire inside him. He was mulish and hateful. Overly confident. But this moment would not end the way these men expected.

While mulishness was hard to alter, perception was easily distorted. I focused, and the man’s foot slipped from a rock he thought was flat. A bone cracked. The man gripped his leg, but his scream, while satisfying, also shattered the indecision pouring from Lorn.

Kion’s muttered, “Fuck,” barely registered beneath Lorn’s shout as the man charged. He lumbered awkwardly, building momentum—it took courage to do the king’s work.

Then, Kion reacted with a fierce grace. He was the Draakon, no longer blunted by mage shackles but beautifully lethal, dodging with ease Lorn’s first swing.

When Lorn swung again, the almost king blocked the blade, moving with little effort.

He seemed bored with the necessity in fighting.

The irritation in having to kill a weaker, flailing opponent.

Lorn grunted with each looping swipe of his sword, exhausting himself while Kion seemed in control, and as Lorn’s anger grew, his focus scattered. He went down, and a man behind him rushed forward.

That man held a spear. Kion sliced through the shaft, spun and plunged the sword beneath the shoulder of a third man, ripping the blade upward.

The man went to his knees, his arm nearly severed and lost in the gushing blood.

My stomach turned.

More monster than man …