My teeth clenched as I stood. Radaan’s mantle or not, I was still Queen. But I was Draconis first. I would not shrink into the shadows.
The voices crept closer. Questions crowded my mind. Where had the Dragon Ship gone? Had its presence gone unnoticed? How could it have?
Two figures approached, one voice rough with age, the other carrying the higher pitch of youth. A chill ran along my skin as Greaves edged toward the cave mouth.
My gaze dropped to the sand.
Great gouges scored the beach. Deep furrows carved by Gyrak’s claws. A dragging line where his tail had passed.
Impossible to miss.
Why had no alarm been raised? Why had no one fled for the city shouting of dragons and invaders?
The boy appeared first.
Tall and narrow, youth still softening his features. Shaggy black hair fell into his eyes. He wore common clothes: a worn linen tunic, dark trousers tucked into boots with failing buckles.
But it was the rope tied around his waist that had my attention.
His foot caught in a deep trench of dry sand. He pitched forward with a startled cry.
“What is it, boy?” the older voice called.
Greaves tightened his grip on the sword. They stood well within our line of sight now. One turn of the head would reveal everything.
The boy crouched, fingers brushing the disturbed sand. “There’s something–”
The old man came into view, a pack strapped across his back, nets swinging with each step. He leaned on a walking stick and reached for the rope at his waist, tugging it taut.
They were tethered together. So neither would be lost.
The boy’s head snapped toward the cave.
Greaves lunged.
Chapter Five
Kallias
“Climbing.” Ronan grumbled behind me as we scaled the narrow path in the early morning darkness.
How humiliating it must have been for him, a Dragon Rider who belonged to the skies, to be subjected to scaling a cliff on foot.
The brutal ascent reminded me of the endless stairs in the Spire. The damp pathway cut upward through earthen walls, slick with moss that made each step more treacherous.
My boot snagged on a root, and a grunt tore from my throat as I caught myself, palms sinking into wet dirt. My body stayed nearly vertical; the trail pitched so steep it felt more wall than ground.
The only confidence I had that this was the correct route came from the signs of wear. Thin, sporadic grass pressed flat beneath our boots. The faint indentation of a wolf’s paw. This path would lead to the clifftop. From there, we would head northeast to Wellmoor.
Ronan hissed behind me, the sound paired with frantic scrambling.
We would arrive dirty and worn, lending credence to our story of men heading east for work.
The sun crested the horizon by the time we reached the top. My thighs screamed, and my back protested every step of the climb.
Light caught the dew clinging to thick green grass; the plain before us an emerald sea. Above it, a cloudless sky stretched blue and vast, stark against the riot of life below.
A small herd of five deer lifted their heads at our appearance, snorting and stamping their hooves.
