“Over there, Your Majesty,” Fallione whispered, jerking his head toward shelter.
I followed his gaze, squinting into the dark.
Gyrak must have sensed the cave. The sweep of his tail guided us into the cliffside, accompanied by low grunts of displeasure that vibrated through the stone.
I followed the sound, offering nothing more than my shoulder beneath Greaves’ arm. He stumbled once, pitching toward Fallione. The older man absorbed his weight without complaint, shifting his stance to keep them both upright.
The cave opened from the cliffside as a narrow crevice, its walls close enough that Gyrak’s scales scraped stone as he pivoted to face the entrance.
Weak light caught the flash of yellow eyes. He sighed, the sound heavy, sparks spilling from his nostrils. The brief flare revealed a hollow carved into the rock, its floor slick with tidal damp. A cluster of small boulders sat to one side beside a stretch of dry sand, and we guided Greaves toward the makeshift seat.
When he sagged onto the stone, a low groan slipped free. His head tipped back, resting against lichen-slick rock. Fallione was already pressing a biscuit and water into his hands.
We needed Greaves more than I cared to admit. Gyrak could protect us, of that I had no doubt, yet Greaves offered something different. Something familiar and grounded. He felt like an extension of Kallias himself.
I would never forget my time in Reem, the night I was attacked. He had plunged into a pitch-dark crawlspace armed with nothing but a dagger and his underbreeches to drag me out alive.
His face looked drawn now, gaunt, hollows shadowing his eyes. We had not been at sea long, yet the journey had carved its mark into him. A grimace crossed his mouth as he tore a piece from the biscuit, lids sealed shut as he chewed.
A measured breath steadied me as I straightened and drew my cloak tighter around my shoulders. The absence of gold scales there left me feeling bare, exposed. It startled me how quickly such things became part of one’s body.
Fallione half rose, urgency in the motion, as though he expected my command or my need. I waved him off and turned toward the darkness where Gyrak shifted, a mountain of restless muscle.
I could hear him before I saw him. Only his glowing irises pierced the black haze. He lowered as I approached, sand and pebbles whispering beneath my boots. A soft snort warmed my palm as I brushed his nostril, fingers gliding over the smoother scales there. Each nostril nearly matched the size of my head. He would grow into something fearsome, as Argos once had.
My thoughts drifted back to Draconia, lingering on Argos’ wounded form. Would my father’s dragon ever taste the skies again? Or would the earth claim him forever? Could a creature shaped for flight endure a life bound to stone?
Gyrak shifted, sliding one massive paw to my side and nudging me with his muzzle until I leaned back against his claws.
“I’m tired of sitting,” I whispered, though I gave in and settled onto the heat of his scaled palm.
A low, answering grumble of agreement rumbled through his chest. It needed no translation.
The sun climbed, washing the sky in a clear blue that tugged my thoughts to Kallias’ eyes. Warmth crept into the cave’s mouth. Salt hung thick in the air, threaded with the crash of waves and the shrill cries of scavenging birds.
Greaves eventually forced himself upright, alternating between slow pacing and bracing himself against the stone walls.
Fallione watched the expansive water glitter, scratching notes onto a small scrap of parchment pulled from his satchel.
Morning bled into midday. Heat settled like a weight, stifling and unmoving. No breeze reached the back of the cave, and the sour stink of dead fish grew harder to ignore. Gyrak’s eyes narrowed as the hours passed, his irritation and annoyance mounting.
I watched him for any sign of true distress, expecting a sudden surge of motion, a violent leap skyward as he flew to Ronan’s aid. Instead, he remained sprawled in the sand, grumbling deep in his chest.
The tide crept higher, nudging strands of seaweed across the shore. The steady push and pull held my attention until my thoughts finally quieted. Nothing clawed for notice. Nothing demanded fear.
Then voices drifted in.
Greaves froze mid-step, brown eyes snapping to mine. His gaze cut to Gyrak, who lifted his head without a sound.
Two. Both males. Greaves’ hand went to his shortsword. Steel whispered free, nearly lost beneath the surf. Fallione set his satchel aside and drew his blade.
My heart stumbled. Discovery meant chaos. Gyrak would erupt, his roar carrying across the countryside.
Or Greaves, weakened as he was, would be forced to restrain them.
If he could.
I felt along my shoulder, instinctive, missing the familiar weight of the mantle. Kallias had warned it posed more danger than protection here. Without it, I was indistinguishable from any other woman.
