Page 115 of Wicked Prince of Frost

Not one heard the hollowness of my words. I doubt either of us will still be around to see it through. With any luck, we will have broken the curse. Otherwise, Violet will likely be too weak to get out of bed. If she is even still alive.

Without her, there is no hope of breaking the curse, and either it or the broken bargain will kill me.

Yeona surprises me by being the first to react. She stands, though it adds little to her height.

“We appreciate the burden she has accepted by sacrificing her time on our behalf. We thank you both for this gesture after the transgressions Lady Hawthorn has suffered.” She finishes with a deep bow at the waist.

The added barb at the end hits the intended mark. Molan’s mouth twists before she can correct it.

Yeona’s stature was a source of grief when she first took up her position after her father died nearly four years ago. She was one of the few who appeared distressed when the former Minister of Justice used Violet as his pawn.

The others stand, offering halfhearted murmurs of agreement and bows.

Outside, a powerful gust rattles against the windows as if objecting to the show made purely out of customary obligation.

I turn my back on them and grip the back of the chair until my knuckles turn white, as a force from deep within strains against my magic.

It only lasts a second. Then, without another word, I rise and take my leave.

This is far from over.

By the time I reach the hall, the wind outside has become a steady howl. Servants rush in from outside, seeking shelter from the sudden, brutal storm.

I shove my way through the clot of panicked bodies as the force within continues to push and strain against its bonds.

A patch of scales rolls over the back of my hand before disappearing. I burst through the doors and into the squall.

“Get Violet,” I say through clenched teeth. “Bring her to me, now.”

Imugi is off before I finish speaking.

There was always a warning in the pasty—always when my power got too low. It came on gradually. Days or weeks in advance. A little over a day at worst.

The dragon would stir, slowly stretching out as it awakened, gathering its strength once more.

This time, there was no sign of the impending uprising. I have an hour—two, if I am lucky—to quell this storm. There is no other choice. I must siphon before it is too late.

The whole of the Central Court is void of life. No one to question why I am out here or why I run as if a harmony of demons is on my tail.

Agony pierces my scarred eye. Sharp and hot, a needle heated to the point of glowing. Partially blinded by pain, I collide with the entrance to my apartments.,

“Get out!” I shout. “Now!”

They rush past me and into the storm, preferring to brave it over my wrath.

I stumble the rest of the way to my room, using the wall as a guide and support. The prickle of shimmering scales breaks out from my neck and up one side of my face before sinking below my skin.

Ringing fills my ears, muffling the sounds of the world around me until they are distant and undiscernible.

The dragon thrashes and fights to break free, stretching the limits of my power, fraying along the edges. It feels as though the dragon is dragging razor-sharp talons along my insides.

Staggering inside, I collapse onto my hands and knees. I barely feel the pain as my knees crack against the floor.

Sweat dampens my brow. I fumble for the smallest thread of magic to open the passage to the mirror that won’t aid the dragon’s escape and press my palm to the wooden slats.

With every shard found, the Winter Dragon has grown stronger.

Heavy footsteps rush to my side.