Panic gripped me. Cold. Crushing.
“Where is he?” I asked, voice low but sharp. I wanted to stop, shove him against the wall, shake him until the truth fell out.
“Argos crashed off the eastern shore. We managed to get them to land, but the flight took a toll on them both. Argos can’t move his left wing. He’s landlocked.”
“And Father?”
“He flew through a storm on a dragon that shouldn’t have made the trip,” Ronan bit out. “He’s unconscious. But alive. No injuries.”
Air returned to my lungs. I straightened, spine iron.
He needed me more than ever now.
Kallias placed his hand at the small of my back, anchoring me with that simple touch.
I wasn’t alone. I had my mother’s mind, my brother’s fire, and Kallias’ unshakable presence.
Let the Innaku come.
They’d regret this show of force.
“What does he want?” I burst into the war room, breath catching when I saw my mother at the head of the table. Not Father.
Haldor looked up. Flight leathers hugged his frame, a line of pearl studs marching across his right shoulder to mark his rank. His goggles dangled from one hand, the other braced against the map.
“You,” Mother answered, glare fixed on the red fleet clustered around Draconia. Light skimmed the gems in her crown, but no shadows dimmed her fire.
“Bold choice,” Kallias growled, stepping closer. His gaze swept the map’s coastline, calculating.
“He knew nothing of you, King of Radaan,” she said, repositioning a black dragon on the eastern shore. “Until he saw your ship docked in our harbor.”
“And now his demands have changed?”
Mother met his stare without flinching. “No.”
His jaw flexed. Fingers drifted to the hilt at his hip. His attention shifted to the cluster of ships to the east, pausing on the largest one guarded on all sides.
“The Draconis Vessels will be there. And here.” He traced south, then west. “If he knows I’ve made her queen, they’ll also be stationed to the north. Cut off your reinforcements.”
Mother shook her head, the corners of her mouth tight. “We can’t be certain.”
“Queen Nyxaria.” Kallias’ tone brooked no argument, and she stiffened with a glare that could pierce armor. “I’ve fought wars my entire life. Draconia has never seen a battlefield. Trust my word.”
Her nostrils flared, but no protest escaped her lips. He wasn’t just some farm lord; he was the Golden Warrior. Chosen of the gods. Untested in sea warfare, perhaps—but war was his mother tongue.
“What do you advise?” she asked, brittle but listening.
“Greaves, fetch Fallione,” Kallias said. The guard vanished with purposeful strides.
“Does Galdoni have spies here?” he continued. “Any chance he knows Nienna has been named queen?”
“Every Innaki was sent back the day before your arrival,” Mother replied. “He shouldn’t know.”
“Then we move as though he thinks Kallias is still rotting in the dungeon,” I said, catching onto the rhythm of his plan.
“What’s his leverage? Wheat?” Kallias asked, face sharpening, voice tuned to war. The relaxed man who once smiled in mint fields was gone. What remained was a general, a strategist.
“And our people,” Ronan cut in, posture taut as he stared through the window. Hands folded behind his back, so much like Father.
