I swallowed the uncertainty and dressed without delay. Freya worked through my hair with practiced hands, braiding it into a crown. The mantle of Radaan settled across my shoulders as she took her time adjusting the dragonscale yoke.
Its weight pressed down, heavy as a collar. A burden. Our duty. Kallias carried this each day, even welcomed it.
I would learn to carry it too.
Once I was as presentable as cramped quarters and limited space allowed, I left Freya to tidy the room and went in search of Greaves.
Gyrak sat upright on the middle deck, his snout tipped toward the sky. Nostrils flared as he drew in a long breath, yet his massive body stayed rigid. Thick membranes slid over his eyes, clearing the salt spray from narrowed pupils.
The intensity of his focus drew a frown from me. I squared my shoulders and headed below, toward the sailors’ quarters.
Men called out greetings as I passed, bowing within the confines of their shared space. Draconis filled the lower deck shoulder to shoulder. We’d brought as many as the ship could hold, with no time to send another vessel back for the Radaanians. Blond hair and sun-browned skin crowded the narrow passageways. It was hardly a fighting force.
But we had Gyrak.
We had nothing to fear.
Greaves sat upright on his mattress at the far end, both hands wrapped around a cup of steaming broth. Purple shadows carved the hollows beneath his eyes, and when he noticed me, he tried to stand, but managed only a perilous sway before dropping back down.
“Your Majesty.” His voice scraped, raw from the acid that had burned his throat.
“Dear Greaves, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so thoroughly defeated by the sea.” I stepped closer, peering into the cup. “Have you managed to keep any of it down?”
A grimace pulled at his mouth as he stirred the clear liquid. “A few swallows. I hear land’s been sighted.” His gaze snapped up, hope plain in his posture.
I nodded. “Gyrak scented solid ground.” Once we made landfall, Greaves would be the first ashore.
“Where is my king?” He tried again to rise. Boots braced wide, he fought the ship’s sway and lost, pitching toward me.
My hands shot out to steady him. A groan tore free as he collapsed back onto the mattress.
“He is well,” I said, keeping my palm firm on his shoulder, as though pressure alone might hold him there. “You will be among the first to shore, where you may rest and recover.”
He frowned up at me, his scraggly beard failing to hide the disgust twisting his features. He hated this helplessness, the inability to stand at Kallias’ side. In his mind, weakness made him a burden. Before he could protect anyone, he needed strength, which meant food and rest.
I was certain both he and my dear husband would greet those orders with equal enthusiasm.
“I’ll tell him you’re improving,” I said, patting his shoulder. “The storm breaking has done you some good.”
“If I ever step onto another ship in my lifetime,” he muttered, lifting the mug for a cautious sip, “it will be too soon.”
“May this be our last voyage.” I laughed and pulled away.
Color drained from his face as he set the mug aside with haste. I strode out as he reached for his bucket, the sound of retching trailing me down the narrow hall.
Kallias stood in the small room we’d commandeered as a study. Fallione sat beside him, while Ronan leaned back in his chair, scraping beneath his nails with a short dagger.
Fallione’s hair was tied at the nape of his neck, though loose strands escaped to frame his hawkish face. He rose when he saw me, folding into a low bow.
Kallias’ gaze traveled the length of my dress, a frown tightening the corners of his mouth before he dipped his head in a restrained nod of respect.
Red was the wrong choice.
“We’ll make landfall tomorrow morning.” His voice stayed low, even, gathering thought and emotion behind the familiar wall guarding his mind.
He stepped aside and pulled out a chair, positioning it between himself and my brother.
Ronan didn’t spare me a glance as I took the seat beside him.
