“Who the hell cares?” Briar answers. “They're creating a distraction, so let'smove.”
I can't argue with this.
We break into a run, weaving our way toward where I'm fairly certain our horses are tied. The pain in my knee only gets worse with every step, but I don’t let myself focus on it.
More of the Mouren soldiers are beginning to wake up. They spill from their tents with weapons in hand, wave after wave of them, and quickly outnumber their attackers. Buteven then, there are still plenty of intruders to keep them distracted—and no one seems to have noticed our escape amidst the chaos.
We're actually going to get away.
The thought has only just crossed my mind when a dragon roars overhead.
I stumble, the familiar pain and paralysis triggered, trying to overtake me. Even after I push these things down, I can't seem to make myself move as fast as before.
But it isn't just me that's gone numb, this time; Briar is nearly at a standstill as well, staggering with one hand pressing against her temple while the other desperately clenches her stolen sword.
The battle has slowed, people stumbling about as if in a daze. Shouting is turning to confused mumblings, while the clang of steel and the twang of arrows is growing less frequent, just occasional wayward strikes rather than the violent cacophony of moments ago.
A wave of cold energy sweeps over the area, making the fires flicker and dwindle.
The air seems to grow thicker, absorbing more and more sound.
The captive dragon—my supposedbondedone—is suddenly frantic, flailing violently about, its cries so pitifully desperate that I almost consider going back and trying to free it. Almost. Warmth blooms in my chest as I look in its direction, but that heat isn't strong enough to overcome the cold, brutalpowerthat's sinking even deeper into camp.
It has to be magic causing that cold.
And magic only has one source in this world.
Casting a look skyward, I see dark silhouettes circling.Dragons. Between the tangle of tree limbs and my poor vision, it's hard to tell how many there are.
But even one is far too many.
Commander Gareth has caught up to us, along with several other soldiers—one of whom rips my hood down, confirming my identity. They start to try and apprehend Briar and me again.
Then a rider breaks out of the trees just ahead of us, the breath from his beastly horse steaming in the night air, and the world seems to slow once more.
Gareth tenses, holding tightly to my arm as we watch this rider approach.
He's dressed almost entirely in black, save for the inside of his fluttering cloak, which is a rich, deep crimson. A mask covers his face, but it's strikingly different from the masks hiding the ones that invaded this camp; it hides him, yet draws the eye because of its shining, intricate artistry. Like golden dragon scales that have been molded so precisely it seems forged to his very features.
He comes to a stop a short distance away, his gaze sweeping across the camp before fixing in my direction and staying there. At least ten other riders follow closely behind, all of them dressed in similar fashion, wearing similar masks—yet the first rider stands out, even as these others press in closer to him.
He dismounts.
The dragons overhead sing out a harrowing song, as if to announce his arrival. Another wave of cold magic sweeps outward from the man, further dimming the fires and making every hair on my body stand up.
That magic, the cries of the dragons, the power that seems to roll so effortlessly off of him…
I know who this man is well before the Mouren soldiers scramble to clear a path for him. Before they all fall silent, many of them dropping to one knee, while most of the remaining camp intruders start to back away and search for escape routes.
And I know that things have gone from bad to worse before he even reaches us, and the commander bows his head and says, “Hello, Your Majesty.”
Chapter Eight
The King of Mouren is here.
Righthere, close enough that I could reach out and touch him. Or stab him, as I’ve fantasized about doing so many times.
Gareth still has a tight grip on my arm, but I have a stolen knife in my opposite hand andgodsam I tempted to take a swing with it.
