Lucien stands at Kazia’s left as the guards rush in. A flame dances above his shoulder, ready to strike.
“Find the king!” shouts one authoritative voice. Then the captain sees Kazia on the throne, and skids to a halt. Swords waver as shock ripples through the troop.
Behind them, Marek passes far more calmly past the guardian dragon. He’s dressed in riding leathers, his helmet under his arm. Sei walks at his side, his hair blinding bright in the wreckage.
The drasgard are nothing. Marek and Sei are the only ones who could be a problem now. Rejecting the throne was one thing when nobody was offering it. It’s quite another to turn down an open contest. Without the dragon corps, Kazia doesn’t have enough support to beat Marek.
Kazia buries his nerves, and his voice rings across the rubble. “The king is dead. I, Kazia Draskora Dire, claim my family’s throne by right of blood and conquest.”
He doesn’t intend to deny his actions—he left his own dagger in his father’s throat. Successful regicide gets forgiven far more easily than attempted regicide.
Power thrums in Kazia’s heart. Not the magic he was born with. The power he took for himself.
With a little help.
Eyes shining with adoration, Lucien lowers to one knee. “Your Majesty.”
Marek pushes past the drasgard—who give way once they recognize him. His footsteps thunder until he stops beneath the dais. Ignoring the bodies, he declares, “The dragon corps is at your command, Your Majesty. As am I.”
He kneels too, and Sei joins him. One by one, everyone else in the room follows.
When Kazia can breathe again, he says, “Fantastic. My first order as king is for someone to fetch a fucking healer for ChiefHerald Bretka.” Several guards scramble to their feet and take off. “My second is for you. Lucien Vaire. Come here.”
“One second, Your Majesty.” Lucien detours to the edge of the dais and stoops for the crown. He has to step over Imrik’s corpse on the way back.
The scalestone crown is broken, shards missing from the tall spires, but the circlet is intact enough. Beneath the dust, it shimmers in Lucien’s hands.
Lucien sets it on Kazia’s head. The weight settles. It isn’t as heavy as Kazia expects.
“It suits you,” Lucien says quietly.
Kazia touches the leather and metal at Lucien’s throat. “This doesn’t suit you.”
Unbuckling the collar takes a moment, Kazia fumbling with his one good hand. When it clatters to the floor, Kazia cups Lucien’s face. Lucien’s pulse is alive and perfect, and Kazia doesn’t have to pull, because Lucien is already leaning in.
“That’s better,” Kazia whispers, before Lucien covers his mouth in a kiss. Right in front of everyone.
The breaks and bruises haven’t yet healed. But they will.
?
CHAPTER THIRTY
Lucien
“What do you think?” Lucien asks, tightening the last buckle. He lowers himself down Tezurit’s scaly side as she examines herself.
They’re out on the canyonside courtyard. The scalestone beneath Lucien’s feet hums fainter than it did last time—he’s already adjusting to life in Ostomar. The drasgard on duty still regard him with suspicion. Some of them seem bemused by him walking around unsupervised.
Lucien is still getting used to the freedom, too. Wandering Ostomar with nothing on his neck feels strange. Part of him expects to be tackled into chains without warning.
But any would-be tacklers will regret it, whether the consequences come from Lucien himself or the new king of Draskora.
Craning her neck, Tezurit inspects the harness.It’s bad. I hate it.
Lucien expected as much. “Is it uncomfortable?”
Worse. It’s ugly.Smoke rises from her nostrils.Can’t you people make these out of something shinier?
