Ziara.
Her people had sent her to steal from a dragon, yet she would do anything for them. She had given up her location because I threatened the children and families she loved. The shame of that tactic lodged beneath my scales like a splinter I could not reach.
I had told Tyrin I was proud of my methods.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
The distinction between leverage and cruelty was thinner than I had imagined from behind my books and walls. The expression she wore had not been the look of defeat, but of desperation as she chose which part of herself to sacrifice.
I understood that look, for I had worn it the night she shattered my ward and forced me to choose duty over the instinct to pursue my treasure.
She is still the enemy.
The declaration rang hollow against the quiet of the night.
She stole from my hoard.
True. And her people intended to restart a war that would cost untold lives.
But she spared mine.
My hand drifted to my chest, where her daggers had pierced me. The wounds had healed without a trace, yet I could still feel the ghost of them. Not the pain. The hesitation. She had repositioned her blades at the last instant, missing my heart on purpose.
What enemy showed such mercy?
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the sea mixed with the sweet, bizarre blossoms that grew on this island at the edge of the world. I breathed it in and committed it to memory, already picturing the pink tourmaline I would store it in when I returned home.
I was still lost in my thoughts when dawn crept over the horizon, painting the water in shades of rose and gold. The artifact stirred, drawing closer.
The ship was coming, and with it, the reckoning I had chased halfway around the world.
I stood, rolling my shoulders and summoning the cold thatlived beneath my skin. Whatever awaited me, I would face it as my mother would have, with clarity and purpose.
And, gods willing, without mercy.
But when I imagined Ziara’s green eyes staring up at me, defiant, afraid, and impossibly brave, I found I could not guarantee the last.
SPARKS OF A PLAN
Ziara
Sleep was a cold-hearted bitch who evaded all of my advances.
Outside the portholes, waves slapped against the hull in a rhythm that should have been soothing. But how could I relax? Every time I closed my eyes, vertical, silver pupils stared back at me from the darkness. My throat ached with the memory of my father’s hand squeezing the breath from it, or the searing agony of my aunt shanking me with the stone I risked my life to steal. And no matter how I tried to distract my subconscious from reality, it wasn’t fooled. The dragon was here, stalking us.
Stalking me.
The ship swayed. The hammock swayed with it, and my stomach threatened mutiny.
The combination of bone-deep exhaustion and knee-buckling terror had me in a weird headspace. I was safe in the sick bay and should be out cold. The alpha had used Mackiel’s spear to wedge the door closed so nobody would have to keep watch and ordered us all to sleep with an air of authority I shouldn’t have been able to disobey.
But here I was once again, out here being a freak of nature.
Everyone else was blissfully asleep. On my left, Rust snored like a bear in hibernation, the sound so thunderous it vibrated the air. Beside the far porthole, Dad slept in the silence of a man who could wake at a pin drop to stab a blade through whatever poor fool dropped it. Mack’s hammock hung on my right. He’d turned his back to me hours ago, and the rigid set of his shoulders made it clear sleep hadn’t softened his anger.
I didn’t blame him. I was angry at me, too.
The bloodstone rested against my thigh, tucked into my dagger sheath where nobody would think to look. Its warmth seeped through the leather, pulsing faintly with a rhythm that had synced with my heartbeat. I pressed my palm against it, willing it to chill the fuck out and stop interrupting my mental breakdown, but the stone wasn’t considerate enough to comply.
