Asha stared at him.
What?
First, daring to look her in the eye, and now, demanding to dance with her?
Was hemad?
She was the Iskari. The Iskari didn’t dance. And even if she did, she would never dance with a skral. It was absurd. Unthinkable.
Forbidden.
“One dance,” he repeated, then looked up. Those eyes sliced into hers. Again, the shock of it flared through her. “In a place and time of my choosing.”
Asha’s hand went to her hip—but her axe was still on the floor on top of her armor. “Choose something else.”
He shook his head, watching her hand. “I don’t want something else.”
She stared him down. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
He stared right back. “A fool can be sure of anything; that doesn’t make her right.”
Anger blazed bright and hot within her.
Did he just call her a fool?
In three strides, Asha grabbed her axe, closed the distance between them, and pressed its sharp, glittering edge to his throat. She would slice the voice right out of him if she had to.
The pot in his hand crashed to the floor. The line of his jaw went tight and hard, but he didn’t look away. The air sizzled and sparked between them. He might have been half a head taller than she was, but Asha was used to taking down bigger prey.
“Don’t test me, skral,” she said, pressing harder.
He lowered his gaze.
Finally.She should have started with that.
Using the butt of the axe handle, Asha shoved his left shoulder, sending him stumbling. He hit the shelves full of jars, which rattled precariously.
“You’ll keep this a secret,” she said, “because not even Jarek can protect you if you don’t.”
He kept his eyes lowered as he steadied himself, saying nothing.
Turning on her heel, she left him there. Asha had better things to do than drag this slave before Jarek and list his offenses. She needed to find her silk gloves, hide her bandaged hand, and pretend everything was fine while she spoke with her father—who was still waiting for her.
She would deal with Jarek’s slave later.
Dawn of a Hunter
Once there was a girl who was drawn to wicked things.
Things like forbidden, ancient stories.
It didn’t matter that the old stories killed her mother. It didn’t matter that they’d killed many more before her. The girl let the old stories in. She let them eat away at her heart and turn her wicked.
Her wickedness drew dragons. The same dragons that burned her ancestors’ homes and slaughtered their families. Poisonous, fire-breathing dragons.
The girl didn’t care.
Under the cloak of night, she crept over rooftops and snaked through abandoned streets. She sneaked out of the city and into the Rift, where she told the dragons story after story aloud.
