I raise my brows expectantly, wondering if he’ll take the bait Mom predicted he would. She’d been certain he would pivot to Lily once I made it clear I wasn’t available.
“Is she now?” He pulls a small, leather-bound notebook out of his pocket with obvious interest, flipping through the pages. “There are about six males that would be excellent matches for her, given your superior bloodline.” He rests the open notebook on the table, pages covered in neat handwriting listing names, ages, and bloodlines. “Where in the line of succession is she?”
And there it is. The real question—how valuable is she politically?
I copy his motion exactly and pull a small notepad out of the hidden pocket of my dress, looking at it with feigned casualness. I show Corvus what’s written on it—Mom’s predictions are clear as day, numbered and specific. Him asking about the line of succession was the second question in a row that Mom foresaw with frightening accuracy. She’d predicted his next three questions too, which are written below in her elegant script.
“She’s eighth in line currently. But if what happened to Allister happens to any of the newest births, those will be removed as well, moving Lily to seventh place,” I mention with cold detachment, observing his reaction.
His eyes sharpen with interest. An eighth-in-line princess is still valuable, but not as valuable as I am. Acceptable risk, potentially high reward.
“What happened to Alistair?” He leans forward with obvious curiosity, abandoning his food momentarily.
“Unfit to rule. Took the worst traits from the red and green dragon genetics. Soft scales, temperamental, poor judgment...” I scrunch my nose up in genuine distaste at the mention of my brother’s multiple deficiencies.
“That would be problematic indeed,” he says with a tone of calculated disinterest, though I can see him filing this information away. “So regarding your ascension—who is your biological father?”
The question sends warning bells ringing in my head. This feels like dangerous territory, like he’s probing for weaknesses or questioning my legitimacy.
It’s times like this I wish I could reach my father,I think desperately, wishing I could feel Thauglor’s reassuring presence.
I can reach his dragon, at least,my dragoness says helpfully in my head.
Share with him what’s happening here. Let him know something feels wrong. Tell him they’re asking about bloodlines and succession—it feels like they’re planning something,Iinstruct her, feeling slightly insane having full conversations with myself like this.
“My father is Thauglor Mrithun. I am Klauth Ragnar’s daughter by ascension,” I state clearly, rolling up my left sleeve to show him the crimson scale implanted on my forearm—Klauth’s scale, living and pulsing faintly with his life force. The proof of my ascension is undeniable. No one outside of my immediate bloodline needs to know that both the Ancients and Balor are my fathers biologically—that information would be far too valuable to potential enemies.
“Is Lily also Thauglor’s?” He tilts his head, and I get an uncomfortable chill racing down my spine at the intensity of his interest. Why does he care so much about parentage?
“She is his descendant through her father. Her father is Abraxis Havock, the highly decorated war drake.” As much as Abraxis annoys the hell out of me on a daily basis with his controlling behavior and political maneuvering, he has an objectively impressive military service record that commands respect across all five continents.
“A war drake, you say.” Amadeus leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers, watching us with the focus of a predator sizing up prey. “Interesting. Very interesting indeed.”
The way he says it makes my scales want to rise in warning. I reach for my wine glass as a servant appears silently to refill it, the dark red liquid catching the firelight. I lift it to my lips, preparing to take a polite sip. Then I pause before the glass touches my lips.
There’s a sedative in it—I can smell the faint chemical undertone beneath the wine’s bouquet, sharp and slightly acrid. It remindsme of the samples Mom made me memorize during my Shadowblade training. My training kicks in instantly, years of preparation crystallizing into cold clarity.
I reach out and touch Corvus’s thigh under the table with deliberate pressure, and he looks at me questioningly, his silver eyes searching mine. He watches as I deliberately set the wine down without drinking, making the motion look natural. I tap the stem twice with my finger in quick succession—the Shadowblade signal that something isn’t safe, that we’re in active danger.
His expression doesn’t change, but I feel his muscles tense through our bond. He understands.
“He’s quite the hero,” I continue smoothly, as if nothing has happened, smiling as I take another bite of my food. Then I realize with sickening clarity—the wine mixed with whatever they’ve likely put in the food would knock us out completely. The combination of sedatives would be devastating, probably enough to drop even a dragon my size. Then it hits me harder: the food. I’ve already eaten several bites.
Fuck.
I push my plate forward deliberately and tap the edge twice, drawing Corvus’s attention to it without being obvious to our hosts.Food is drugged too,I signal.We need to leave. Now.
I stretch theatrically and fake a yawn, covering my mouth with my hand. “Is there a place I can take a nap? I’m feeling a little tired after my long flight. I’d like to rest before my journey home.” When I stand, I deliberately act a little wobbly on my feet, as if the drugs are starting to take effect—which theymight actually be. I can feel a slight fuzziness creeping into my thoughts.
Let Dad know they tried to sedate us. This is an act of war. Tell him we’re escaping now,I instruct my dragoness urgently, feeling her reach out across the vast distance to Thauglor’s dragon.
A servant immediately appears—too quickly, as if they were waiting for this—to lead us down a long hallway decorated with more elaborate tapestries. We’re taken to a room with a balcony overlooking the valley far below. Perfect.
“Can you open the doors, please? I don’t like being closed in—it makes me nervous. The last thing you need is a frightened black dragoness melting the compound in a panic,” I say with deliberate emphasis, letting the threat hang in the air while making it sound like a concerned warning.
The servant nods quickly, clearly taking me seriously and probably remembering stories of what happens when black dragons panic, and flings both balcony doors wide open before practically fleeing the room. Smart man.
The moment we’re alone and I hear his footsteps fade, I drop the drowsy act entirely. “Block the door,” I order Corvus in a harsh whisper, and he nods immediately. The two of us move the heavy wooden dresser across the floor as quietly as possible—it scrapes slightly, making me wince—and barricade the door. It won’t hold long against determined dragons, but it’ll buy us precious minutes.
