She cared.
My fingers brushed the giant bug engraved on the post, wings fanned in delicate, impossible lines. Fragile, minute details.
She asked questions no one else bothered to.
I closed my eyes, mouth pressed into a line, then climbed higher.
Outside, sunlight flooded the balcony, gold and cruel, a mockery of my retreat from the dining hall. Sandstone shimmered beneath the fierce rays as if bathed in flames.
How long until she reached Draconia’s shores? She wasn’t dressed for dragonflight. With no land between her homeland and mine, there would be no place to rest. Just endless sky and sea.
I set my cup aside and braced my palms against the smooth stone, my head bowing low.
“How do I fix this?” The words rasped out, hoarse and thin. Strangled.
I had to find a way to appease Draconia. Ronan threatened war if we tried to stop them. Gods knew I’d already given them plenty of cause. Violence was well within their rights.
And Nereus, Dragon King of Draconia, Lord of the Wild Shores, never left a vow unfulfilled.
Purged in dragonfire.
That was it, the only thing capable of eradicating a Draconis Blood Oath. Vengeance would be his to claim.
I had to prepare my land, my people. Dragons would fly to Radaan.
And still—my thoughts chased Nienna.
She had her brother, his dragon. Surely she was safe.
She would arrive in her homeland broken, exhausted. Her father would rage. And all of it—every bruise, every tear—would be mine to answer for.
I pictured her descent: Gyrak’s wings folding; Ronan helping her down; the sunshine hue of her golden hair dulled; skin smeared with dirt; garments torn; eyes wet with unshed tears.
Elohios, spare me.
Nereus would raze Radaan to the ground.
I hurled my kahve, watching it crash far below, lost somewhere in the tangled ruins of the queen’s abandoned gardens. The act did nothing to calm my rage. This torment had nowhere to go but inward.
Radaan would burn.
And I would watch it.
Chapter One
Shivers tormented me. My teeth clattered, limbs curling against the last person I wanted near.
Ronan.
Fear of what Gyrak and my brother would do if ordered to remain in Reem—as if I could even force such a thing—had dulled to a bone-deep numbness. Helplessness rooted in my marrow.
Hours passed with my breath timed to Gyrak’s wingbeats, trying to stay warm. Ronan’s leather-clad arms cinched tighter around me. I stiffened, resisting the urge to shove him off. Rage burned low. He tore me from Radaan.
And I despised him for it.
But more than that, I hated myself.
This was my fault. Kallias was ruined. And me? No man would dare touch me now, not after I’d warmed the hands of a king. Worse still, Ronan radiated fury. His rage clung to the air, thick and brittle. He didn’t understand. Never tried. He built his truth and sealed it shut, too wrapped up in his own conclusions.
