Page 12
Chapter 12
LORN DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING AS I stare up at him. He also doesn’t move me out of his lap or unwrap his arms from around me. We just sit there, watching each other, waiting. For what?
I don’t know. Maybe he’s waiting to see if I’ll break again. To be fair, I’m wondering the same thing. I’ve never considered myself to be an overemotional person, but I guess forced captivity and torture can really change a girl. It’s clear my time with the Tainted—and now being here with The Horde—is kicking up things best left buried.
Up close like this, I can see the lines and shadows of Lorn’s dragon mark through the fabric of his stark white shirt. The black flames start low on his torso and crawl up his ribs and chest, but only on his left side. More lines of onyx fire run from his wrist up his arm before that blaze meets the one on his chest, and the two pyres climb up and over his shoulder, but that’s really none of my business, so I stop looking.
“Here, drink this,” someone next to me orders.
I look over to find Jori. The Render from Lairwood, the one boasting shades of brown—from his hair to his sun-kissed skin, and even the armor protecting his body. He tries to hand me a cup filled with some kind of liquid. A look of confusion washes over his face when I don’t instantly take it.
“It’s just water,” he reassures, his hazel eyes encouraging and his smile kind.
He tilts the cup so I can see the contents, before offering it to me again, as though I’m stupid enough to take his word for it.
I’m not.
An exasperated sigh slips out of Lorn, and he reaches over me to pluck the water from Jori’s hand. He brings it to his lips, his eyes locked pointedly on mine, and drinks. His Adam’s apple bobs in the center of his throat as he swallows a mouthful, and I suddenly find myself very thirsty.
“Just normal, everyday water,” Lorn chirps. “It’s not poisoned,” he adds loftily, as though the notion itself is ridiculous. He takes another sip, humming with pleasure and overexaggerating just how good the poison-free water is.
I shake my head, unimpressed with the bad acting. “It might not be poisoned, but now it’s got your backwash in it,” I grumble as I begrudgingly take the drink from him.
An easy grin spreads across the scion’s face, my words not ruffling his scales in the slightest. His hand flexes against my hip, and he relaxes under me like this interaction is completely normal for him. Maybe it is. He probably has females throwing themselves at him every hour on the hour, and this sort of intimate familiarity is commonplace. The same cannot be said for me.
I was raised by the last few surviving members of my mother’s guard. They looked out for me the best they could. They shaped and sharpened me into a soldier they could be proud of, but I never found much softness in those battle-hardened warriors. They didn’t hold and coddle me. They didn’t talk me through my nightmares. Flashes of weakness called for more training, more honing. I had Enslee and the other Syphons, but they were nursing their own wounds, triaging their own trauma. I never wanted to burden them with mine.
I don’t know why Lorn felt the need to comfort me. I don’t know why I let him. Aeson did the same back in Lairwood, and I allowed it then too. I need to stop doing that.
I ignore Lorn’s intense gaze as it roves over my face, and look around. We’re in someone’s rookery, but I can’t tell if it’s Lorn’s or Aeson’s.
The room itself could comfortably fit a few fully revealed dragons with plenty of space for them to stretch their wings without hitting the vaulted roof or the smooth walls. There’s a fireplace, a living room area that could easily seat twenty, and a balcony that displays a breathtaking view of the mountains.
Lorn and I are sitting on a long bench that rests against the foot of a bed that’s entirely too big for one drake or twelve. The bedding is ivory with fluffy pelts draped across the bottom. There are more pillows than any one person could ever need, and I notice images of dragons flying, fighting, and fucking carved into the tall headboard and all over the rest of the room.
With a jolt, I realize where I am. This is a mating suite. I don’t know which of the scions it belongs to, but it’s without a doubt a room meant for their Bonded Mate.
My stomach drops and I scan my surroundings again, pulling in deep breaths to determine if someone already stays here. I don’t smell anything other than my blood and Lorn, but that doesn’t mean anything. I look back at the heir, a multitude of implications fighting to get out.
Why would they bring me here of all places?
Is he bonded?
Is Aeson?
Why do I give a fuck?
Enslee warned me that The Horde was greedy, that they would want to use me. But they can’t possibly think I’ll fall right into one of their beds…can they? My heart kicks up in warning, but I dismiss the disturbed direction of my thoughts. I haven’t revealed, which means I can’t bond, forced or otherwise. I’m safe on that front at least.
That thought calms me, and then I recall the conversation in the hallway and realize I’ve read this all wrong. They needed somewhere secure, somewhere they could get answers and not worry about those answers being compromised or leaked, especially after that nice little bomb I dropped about King Tenebrae and who killed him. What better place than where they live, where they know they’re safe and protected.
The problem is my father thought that about his rookery too, and look where it got him.
Subtle movement catches my eye by one of the colossal archways that leads out to the balcony. I find Aeson there, watching me. The big drake from the elevator, the one with dark brown scale armor, is standing in front of him, facing me.
I can’t tell if the Thrasher is positioned to protect the scion or if he’s there to keep the commander back for some reason. Aeson’s stare is intense, but I don’t know him well enough to discern what it means. I can’t tell if he’s trying to incinerate me with a glance, study me, or if he’s simply ensuring I’m okay.
Why am I in Lorn’s lap and not his? Does this bother him?
I drop-kick the useless thoughts away. It doesn’t matter. I need to get my head on straight and stop being distracted by a pretty face and surly attitude. The other Syphons would lose their shit if they saw me like this.
“Please drink, dragoness,” Jori once again encourages, and like a taut rubber band, my attention snaps back to the Render. “You’ve been through a lot today. You have to be hungry and thirsty. I’ve called for food, but that will have to wait until we get you all cleaned up and the Oric’s come and gone.”
I tense at the mention of The Horde’s genealogist. I figured at some point they’d call one in to corroborate my claim. I’ve never seen one in action, but they sound like beings that strictly deal in the old ways of knives and ichor. I’ve had enough of that kind of shit to last me several lifetimes, but I don’t say anything. My objections wouldn’t matter anyway.
“Princess,” Lorn rumbles, a note of rebuke in it.
I turn to glare at him. All too aware that I’m still in his lap and his hands are still on me. Now that my head is clearer and my thoughts in order, my instincts want me to get up and move away from him, but that feels too close to retreating, and I don’t want to give him that either.
“Drink,” he orders like the arrogant fuck he is, but it saves me from having to make a decision or trying to move when I don’t know that I can.
You don’t survive The Scorch without building up a good tolerance to some pretty nasty toxins and a wide range of poisonous creatures, so I lift the cup to my lips, flipping my middle finger up for good measure, and take a sip. I only intend to take a small drink, for the sole sake of proving to this peacocking prince that I’m not unreasonable or scared of what they might have done to it, but of course Horde water has to be the cleanest, most delicious, crisp mouthful of rejuvenating goodness I’ve ever had.
I empty the cup in two swallows and then hold it out greedily for more. A satisfied hum sneaks out of Lorn as a floating pitcher fills and then refills the cup four more times before Jori waves it away, cutting me off.
“You haven’t revealed. Is that why you can’t heal?” Jori asks, going right for the jugular of all my problems despite his sheepish intonation as he voices what so many of them must be wondering.
My gaze finds its way to Aeson. He hasn’t moved from the spot by the window. His arms are crossed over his chest, and a muscle jumps angrily in his jaw. My cheeks heat when our scowls connect.
I turn back to Jori.
“No. I haven’t revealed. I can’t,” I answer, doing my best to bottle up the simmering fury I feel with the admission, but some of it leaks out. “Whatever the sorcai did to the Syphons to keep them from shifting was apparently permanent.”
Several drakes around the room fidget or shift their weight in a silent show of surprise and unease. I’m sure the idea that their dragon could be trapped and unable to escape is horrific. A few grumbled swears fill the air, and Aeson steps around the big Thrasher in front of him to move closer. The guard tenses a little as he does, but ultimately doesn’t do anything to stop him.
I watch the strange interaction attentively. Is the Thrasher wary of what the commander will do to me if he gets too close or of what I might do to the scion if given the opportunity?
Over Aeson’s shoulder, the sun is starting to set on this side of the continent, and the colors are slowly painting the room and its occupants in strokes of pale pink and gold.
“If you’ve never revealed, how do you know you’re a Syphon?” Aeson asks, the rough timbre of his voice tickling across my skin and leaving goose bumps in its wake. I tear my eyes from the splashes of color highlighting the distant sky and stare back at the commander.
Lorn’s hands tighten on my hips, and I’m suddenly reminded of exactly where I’m still sitting. I push out of his lap, needing immediate space from both brothers. The movement reawakens all my aches and pains, and despite the pitcher of water I just chugged, my head feels light and untethered.
I wobble, unsure if my feet are going to stay planted firmly on the ground where I need them, but thankfully, Jori steps in before either of the glowering Noctises can. He settles me gently on the velvety bench and thankfully not back into the waiting trap of Lorn’s lap. With the tap of a few buttons on Jori’s com bracelet, two med carts zip toward the Render from somewhere behind me and float to a stop on either side of him.
“If your abilities are damaged and you can’t shift or heal, does dragon magic work on you?” Jori asks contemplatively as he starts opening gauze while unscrewing the cap on a bottle of something I can’t identify.
“Maybe,” I shrug. “Maybe not. I don’t know any dragons to have them try, but the sorcai and shifter healers helped me after I escaped the Tainted. If their magic works, I assume yours might too.”
“And how’d you get away from the blood brokers?” Lorn asks, rising from the bench and moving to stand near two drakes in dark orange scale armor. The stance he adopts—arms folded over his chest, frame taut, and intense stare honed in on me—mirrors Aeson’s, and a twinkle of amusement moves through me.
“I jumped off a cliff.”
A pin could drop and be heard loud and clear in the silence that consumes the room. The drakes stare at me, aghast.
“That explains how the healers got a hold of you in Lairwood,” Ogdan observes, an impressed whistle trilling out of him as he raises his eyebrows and dips his chin.
I don’t know when the redhead Burner and Tove rejoined the party. It must have been sometime in the middle of my breakdown.
“Lucky you survived that fall. I tracked the area where they found you. Were there any other survivors?” a drake with night black skin and blood red armor asks. He’s leaning back against a wall next to Chastain and the drake in purple armor with long light brown hair.
I look around the room and give a derisive snort. “I don’t know about lucky ,” I dispute. “But, no. I was the only one there.”
I don’t mention Renatta, not wanting to cut that wound open when I’m already triaging so many others.
“Answer my question,” Aeson orders evenly, all eyes bouncing from me to him.
I try to remember what the hell he asked me, but can’t. He seems to realize that, and with only a small dash of irritation, he repeats it.
“If you’ve never revealed, how do you know you’re a Syphon?”
Jori reaches for my face and I automatically flinch away. He holds up some damp gauze in his other hand, silently communicating what he wants to do. I nod after a beat and force myself to stay still when he starts cleaning blood off my neck and jaw.
“I know I’m a Syphon the same way you knew you’d be a Burner before you belched your first flame,” I answer, gesturing to the dragon mark on Aeson’s throat. “Although, if we want to get technical, I’m nothing until I can reveal, which I can’t.”
Jori grabs my chin and tilts my head to get better access to my cheek and temple.
“So you’ve been keeping tabs on us? Watching us?” Aeson accuses. “You clearly know who we are.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Spare. I know you and The Horde well enough to keep my distance, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Oh, that’s right, you think we killed your father.”
“I don’t think , I know,” I snap.
“Wait. What?” Tove demands, striding closer, Ogdan right on her heels. Both drakes look as though someone just socked them in the stomach.
Jori presses something against the cut at my temple. It stings like a motherfucker, but I keep my face impassive and silently swallow the pain.
“So who was it, then?” Aeson demands coolly, doing his best to give Lorn a run for his money on the frosty fucker front.
“I don’t know who killed him. I only know what killed him.”
“Anyone else confused?” Chastain announces, brushing his fingers through his perfectly tousled blond hair. He looks around the room as though he’s searching for someone who will explain.
I huff out a sigh that morphs into a small hiss when Jori presses the same stinging shit to the cut on my lower lip. I fix my gaze on the dimming sky and toe a corner of my mind I don’t like to spend much time in.
“I was born near The Wells and brought up there until my father called me and my mother to Four Tiers when I was six. He thought it was time to announce my existence and claim me as a Tenebrae, as kindred, before I got much older. The few other Syphons who’d successfully sired children outside of their bonds were going to do the same. It was supposed to happen after the Blood Rite that year.”
“I’m done with that part,” Jori interrupts, tossing a blood-stained strip of gauze into a waste bin on one of the carts. “If my magic works, it’ll feel warm. If it starts to get too hot or uncomfortable in any other way, let me know.”
I nod and hold my breath as Jori presses his fingers against the cut on the side of my head. It starts to warm and then it tingles. For a moment, all I can do is marvel as the pain ebbs and my skin begins to knit back together.
“Holy shit,” I gasp when Jori pulls his hand away.
He smiles and gives me a satisfied nod.
“You would have come in handy the last four months,” I joke, dropping my gaze to my boot and the magic band it hides around my ankle.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask the Healer if he can fix scars, but I don’t know if they know about that, and I don’t want to draw any attention to them if I don’t have to.
Jori presses the pad of his finger to my lip and heals it too, before moving on to the bruises on my arms and wrists and then the scratch on my thigh. I shake off my awe and focus.
“They attacked the king’s quarters,” I continue, looking around the room as though it’s suddenly going to morph into my father’s. “It was late. I should have been in bed, but I’d been cooped up in the room all day, and I was having fun playing tag with my brothers. My father, his Wing, and a few of the other Syphons were sitting at a big table, going over the plan to announce me and the other children.
“The next thing I knew, insurgents were breaking down the doors. Everyone with a dragon immediately tried to shift, which is when they discovered the Syphons couldn’t. The dragons that could grabbed the king and tried to escape with him, but the tower was being attacked from the outside too. We were trapped. Two guards grabbed Brooks, Novak, and Ronin, trying to get them out a different way. I followed, but the guards carrying them were moving too fast, and I got separated. So I did the only thing I could and hid in an armoire.”
I don’t tell them that Enslee hid right alongside me. That we held each other and cried, shushing the other when the sobs and terrified gasps echoed too loudly in the small, enclosed space.
“I saw the rebels kill my mother and attack my father. At first, it seemed like they wanted to take him somewhere. They were talking about transports and how to hide him, but there was an argument. Then, out of nowhere, one group of insurgents killed the others. After that, they went hunting for the queen and the scions.”
I clench and unclench my fists, blinking away the emotion that tries to rise and blur my vision.
“They killed Brooks, Novak, and Ronin, one by one in front of my father and their mother.” I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the lump that’s forming there. “They saved my father for last.”
The room is silent, like everyone’s afraid to move or even breathe. I drop my head and force myself to get the rest out.
“Thrashers held him down. Channelers drowned him over and over again. Burners tortured him with acid and fire. Then they literally ripped him apart. A Shield warded the room to give them time and protection. Wyverns and sorcai helped attack the rookery, but it was dragons who barbarically and systematically snuffed out the lives of my kindred that night.”
Condemnation and ire pervade the look I level at all of the drakes as I look around. My eyes meet Aeson’s and then Lorn’s, and for a moment, I let my mask drop. Let them see the full extent of the anguish and anger coursing through me.
I could tell them about all the hours Enslee and I have spent going through vid feeds and pictures, trying to identify which members of The Horde were responsible. If they only knew the way we’ve agonized over every detail, recounting each one to the other survivors until none of it even feels real anymore. But they’ve peeked through enough of my cracks for one night. It’s time to retreat.
“In one night, almost everyone who knew I existed died. It saved my life. No one knew to look for me. No one knew I saw everything. No one knew I survived. I wish I could tell you who killed my father, but they were in full scale armor, their faces were covered. I didn’t grow up here and have no idea who they were. The Horde doesn’t have a database showing what each dragon looks like in full armor. That’s the only way I could try to find them.”
I scan the different colors of scale armor in the room as I negotiate with my exhaustion, promising just a little longer and then I’ll give in. I study one pair of bright blue princely eyes and then the other as I wrap a thick layer of indifference around me and make myself more comfortable on the plush bench.
“Any more questions on why I’ve stayed away from The Horde all this time, or does that about cover it?”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12 (Reading here)
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
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- Page 33
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- Page 36
- Page 37
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- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
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- Page 44
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- Page 47