Lucien’s new knowledge of Ostomar will be useful if he ever gets this fucking collar off. The dark halls all look the same, but keeping track is easier after a couple nights’ sleep. If Lucien doesn’t get a chance to murder Imrik Dire himself, he’ll have to draw a map for Whisper.
While Lucien was admittedly not a fan of Prince Julien’s lover at first, he has to admit assassins are useful.
Assuming Lucien makes it back to Silaise. For now, he’s stuck trailing Kazia from room to room. A pair of drasgard follow them, with another sent ahead. Which means Kazia must have a specific destination, even if his path appears random.
Lucien would do a better job memorizing Ostomar’s halls if he wasn’t so focused on Kazia. The tiny prince has returned to his usual spiteful demeanor, but Lucien can’t stop thinking about that moment in the parlor.
Kazia’s fingertips, inches away. His cold, narrow wrist. Ashen face and distant eyes. Lucien hadn’t realized Kazia wore a mask until the porcelain fractured.
Which means Lucien was right. His captor is the key to his escape. Normally, Lucien would start prying for more altruistic reasons. He’s a fixer, as Audric charitably describes him. A meddler, somewhat less charitably—see that incident the night before Audric’s betrothal.
That ended up pretty fucking well for Audric, though.
But Kazia Dire isn’t someone Lucien is supposed to fix. He’s the enemy, and Lucien has to think strategically. Sympathy is something Lucien can exploit. So is vulnerability.
“Do you dye your hair?” Lucien asks as they round another corner. Ahead of them, a pair of heavy doors swings open. Gray light creeps in only to darken the shadows between pillars.
Kazia glances over his shoulder. The movement ripples through the sleek tail of his hair. “Do you think this is natural?”
Unlikely—Kazia’s thin eyebrows are the same black as his father’s. “Your roots are too good,” Lucien says. “Rakos’s grow out in half a day. So unless you have time to touch up every morning…”
“If your nation was sensible about blood magic, you could have enchanted hair dye too.” Kazia taps the side of his head. “Changes the follicles. I had it dyed when I was thirteen, and it’s been the same ever since.”
Lucien thought he was progressive, but the idea still gives him pause. Blood magic for healing is one thing, but cosmetics are an unnecessary risk. Lucien’s also never heard of it, and his knowledge of the Draskoran dragon corps is exhaustive. “Why don’t your dragonriders use that, then?”
“Because it’s very expensive. I suppose you have to be sensibleandrich.” Kazia tenses as they approach the end of the hall. His next words are sharper. “Enough nonsense. We’re almost there.”
The drasgard flanking the door stand as still as the black marble pillars. Lucien’s starting to recognize the differences in uniform; these are Imrik’s soldiers, not Kazia’s. Wordlessly, they allow Lucien and Kazia to pass into the open courtyard.
Lucien squints into the silver sky. He hasn’t been outside in days, and he feels off balance. Draskora’s very air fits strangely into his lungs.
And the young dragon’s voice hooks easily into his mind.
There you are.
Lucien jolts and looks around. There’s no sign of white or gold scale. Jutting out into misty, open air, the courtyard has enough space to host dragons—and likely does. Close to the mountainous palace, the floor is glossy and smooth. Farther away, generations of claws have gouged the stone.
Kazia’s gaze is sharp enough to break stone, too. “Follow me. Stay five feet away at all times.”
Lucien follows, paying far less attention to his captor than he should. Where is the dragon? Is she watching him right now?
“Stop,” Kazia says in the center of the courtyard.
Lucien stops, like a puppet on strings. Something else pushes and pulls at the edges of his senses. A familiar-strange imbalance. He’s dizzy with more than the return to daylight. More than the prod of mind-speech.
“Can you feel it?” Kazia asks.
He can’t be asking about the dragon, so Lucien answers with a question of his own. “How much fucking scalestone is beneath our feet?”
Kazia’s grin is subtle, a pleased narrowing of his eyes. Daylight brightens his long hair. He’s as limitless as the sky, as beautifully focused as a blade. “Doesn’t matter. I was just curious whether you could still sense it with that earring.”
Fuck.
Maybe Kazia’s trying to soften Lucien up too, standing around looking pretty in the fresh air. Lucien should know better than to answer questions honestly.
“I suppose it makes sense,” Kazia continues, still intent on Lucien. “The ring only impacts your use of magic, not anything that might influence you. Otherwise the collar wouldn’t…”
Bright movement breaks the faraway clouds. A brilliant streak of white and gold. Lucien wheels around, incapable of feeling the meager tug of scalestone. All that matters is the silent, soul-deep call. The same heart that pulled him across the border calls to him again.
