Once we step into his office, the heavy door closing behind us with a solid thunk, I settle into the leather chair before his desk. The room smells of parchment and ink and the faint musk that clings to dragon-kind. Afternoon sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air.
“What do ye think happened with Icarus?” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I thought he was Lily’s mate.”
Thauglor runs his hand down his face and groans, the sound vibrating through the quiet room. “You know, and I know, that ice dragons are deceptive bastards.” His voice is bitter with oldknowledge. “I’m betting he used some of his magic to create a false bond. When he didn’t hear what he wanted—like that Lily is so far down the line of succession—he went dormant.”
I think back to what I remember of Icarus from way back in the day. The memories are fragmented, faded by centuries of imprisonment, but certain impressions remain. Cold eyes. Calculating smile. A hunger that had nothing to do with food. “He was quite power-hungry from what I remember.”
“That’s what I remember as well.” Thauglor stares at me, and I see the rage he’s trying to suppress—a fury that burns cold, more dangerous than fire. “I didn’t return his egg to the chamber.”
The words hang in the air between us. My brow rises slowly. “What did ye do with it?”
“I took it and flew out over the ocean and dropped it.” Thauglor leans back in his chair, looking rather pleased with himself. “Oh, I put it in a lead box first. Then dropped it.”
The image forms in my mind—Thauglor soaring over dark waters, a lead coffin clutched in his talons, releasing it to sink into the endless depths. A fitting end for a male who would manipulate Lily’s heart for political gain.
My mind wanders to my daughter Nova, to those mismatched eyes and those small wings, to the way she purrs when her mother holds her. The protective rage that rises in my chest is immediate and absolute. “I didnae know why ye didnae just melt it with yer acid, old friend.”
“I tried.” Thauglor’s expression shifts to frustration. “It didn’t even scratch it. I was going to ask Raven to do it, but it was three in the morning, and having a new hatchling is a sleepless job.” His smile softens as he looks over at all of Raven’s pictures inhis office—baby photographs and childhood drawings, images of her at various ages, a visual timeline of the daughter he raised with such fierce devotion. A separate shelf holds his newborn sons’ pictures, the frames new and polished.
“Aye, that’s the truth.” A yawn escapes my lips despite my best efforts, and I run my hand down my face. “I was up most of the night with Nova. Raven and the others needed sleep—they had work and school this morning.”
The exhaustion is bone-deep, but I would not trade it for anything. Those quiet hours holding my daughter, watching her breathe, marveling at the impossible miracle of her existence—they are worth every moment of lost sleep. “Do ye think we need tae back Abraxis up?”
“No,” Thauglor’s response is immediate, confident. “After what Raven did today, I think she’ll back him up personally.” He rises from his chair and walks to the window, looking out over the campus with an expression of quiet contemplation. “Their healing has been a long time coming.”
He’s silent for a moment, then continues.
“After Raven broke her wing and had to be treated, Abraxis really saw the extent of what his distance did to the family. He put himself into therapy.” Thauglor laughs softly, the sound carrying genuine warmth. “When Raven started going—to deal with the broken wing and the near loss of flight—Abraxis went for support.”
He turns to face me, his sapphire eyes bright with pride. “It shocked the entire family.”
Nodding slowly, I look down at my phone as a notification buzzes against my palm. The family chat is active again, messages scrolling past faster than I can read them.
“This blasted thing will be the death of me.” I wave the phone at Thauglor with a rueful smile.
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than a message comes across. A simple symbol. Flames. Sent by Abraxis.
The signal of danger. The call for backup.
Soon after, the roar of my mate’s dragoness can be heard overhead—a sound that shakes the windows, that vibrates through my bones, that sends every instinct I possess into high alert. Corvus’s answering roar follows, deeper but no less urgent.
It’s a summoning roar. Raven is calling for backup.
Not that she needs it.
Nova is with Orpheus. Protect her.Raven’s voice echoes in my mind, clear and sharp, cutting through the panic that threatens to rise. The connection between us pulses with her presence—fierce, focused, utterly in control. She’s not afraid. She’s hunting.
I stare at her father, seeing the same realization dawn in his sapphire eyes.
“I’m going.” Thauglor doesn’t wait for a response. He runs to the window, his wings spread wide mid-stride, and leaps out into the open air.
I watch him transform as he falls—bones cracking, scales erupting, his massive black form blotting out the sun for a brief, glorious moment before he banks hard and soars toward the sound of battle.
But I don’t follow.
My mate can handle herself. She has her father and Corvus at her back, and whatever fool threatened her is about to learn why black dragons are called death incarnate.
My daughter, however, needs me.
