For a moment I try to figure out what he means. A blanket? My night shirt?
No. My metal arm. I clench my teeth.
“Your dragon burned my arm off. This is what’s left. It’s part of me now.”
He doesn’t answer. That annoys me somehow. He’s under my control, but he thinks he can taunt me about the injuryhecaused?
“Do you have a problem with that, witch?”
“Your people’s enchantments are perverse and cruel. Saving an arm is the least offensive use of such magic I have heard.”
“You don’t know anything aboutmy people.”
“I know enough.”
The room falls silent.
I turn over in the bed, grinding my teeth.
“How did they capture you?” I ask.
“None of your business.” His voice floats up from the floor.
I laugh.
“You’re my prisoner.”
“If you don’t want to answer my questions, why should I answer yours?”
“I could command you.”
“Then do it.”
“Is your dragon dead?”
“How did you survive?” he counters.
“I hate you.”
“I know, knight.”
I toss the other way, close my eyes and try to sleep. But I keep thinking back to that day, when his dragon descended through the smog to lay my world to ruin and steal everything good from my life. The fire burned so hot I’d smelled my own flesh burn. And then I’d plunged into the achingly cold sea, salt scouring my wounds, my whole body screaming. I’d known I was doomed.
My head pounds. If I focus, I can practically hear the beat of the dragon’s wings now as I remember the attack.
My eyes snap open, ears straining, heart thudding as my whole body is jerked wide awake. On the floor the witch lurches upright, throwing the blanket aside.
The air booms, the sound soft and distant but unmistakeable. It sounds like sails snapping open as a gale fills them, but it’s rhythmic. Wind against a leather wing. I’m not dreaming. I’m not remembering. Nevermind that we’re behind the enchantment barrier. This is real. Dragons.
They’re here. At the Bluff.
Forhim.
10
My sword is out of its sheath in a moment and leveled at his neck. He stands on the floor, and I stand on my bed in my oversized nightshirt, feet wobbling on the mattress, head scraping the ceiling. I tilt his chin up with the point of the sword to make him look at me. My eyes have adjusted to the moonlight enough to see his expression. It isn’t smug. The fury isn’t there either. He looks… scared?
Of me?
