Astrid grinned, shooting Ronan a flirtatious wink. “Knew I always liked you.”
“For the rest of us—” Astrid grumbled.
“Plebians—” Ronan cut in cheekily, only to be forced to duck as Benedict swiped at him.
“This,” Astrid began, walking around the new witch as if she were an interesting specimen to observe, “is a bloodwitch. Just like the other survivors.”
“My name is Nerissa,” she spit out, glaring at us all.
“Do you know this draken?” Benedict asked her directly.
“Never mind that, do you know where the bloodwitches are?” Astrid asked. “Your actual clan? We have survivors here that would love to?—”
“How did you know to come here?” Ronan inquired, unable to stop himself.
But Nerissa’s gaze went ashen as it landed on the body of the dead draken.
I shot a look at Astrid, who sighed, and released her invisible bonds on the bloodwitch. Nerissa cried out and raced to the body, draping herself over it and crying. “Nooooo! Who did it! WHO DID IT?”
“Who—”
I smacked Benedict on the arm to shut him up.
“She’s grieving.” I hissed at everyone. “Get back.”
The crowd gave me space as I approved the crying woman and the pyre, singed and half-burned. I approached slowly, even as Benedict growled in warning behind me.
“What’s his name?” I asked gently, slowly putting a hand on her shoulder.
Nerissa tensed and sniffed hard, lifting her head and turning to look at me through red eyes. “Anar.”
I nodded. “Your mate?” I whispered.
She bent in half as fresh sobs overtook her, her head shaking violently. Wiping her face, she faced the crowd in front of us. “My son.”
Chapter Three
BENEDICT
The echo of Nerissa’s claim clung to every breath of air, the crowd watching anxiously. The wind picked up, grains of sand kicking up around the body and almost giving the illusion it was still alive. The hard part was supposed to be over. The war was won, we’d reclaimed our homeland, and our only concerns were supposed to be bringing new drakens into the world and making pergainsa wine.
We were not supposed to be dealing with strange, dead drakens and even stranger witches with dark ships.
Emotions poured through me like a maelstrom. I wanted the dead draken buried and the threat to my unborn child and mate dealt with. I worried this disturbance would tip the delicate balance we’d built here. Even more worrisome—what if Wren was right, and there were more drakens out there? Would they want to take over the island? Would there be more fighting? More war?
We needed more draken blood. It would be selfish andfoolish to deny anyone, especially females. Our own island was host to several draken-witch hybrid children, all strong draklings growing up more in touch with their magick, but we didn’t know the long-term effects of breeding outside of our race. Our child with Wren would be the first pure-blooded draken born this generation.
Or so I’d thought.
And that was the problem. Just when I thought I had a handle on things, my reality was blown apart.
Bad, bad king. Not even knowing other drakens were alive. What would Father think?
The crowd shifted restlessly, the scent of unease hanging as high as the sun overhead.
“If you’re about to ask how a witch has a draken son, I swear I’ll box your ears,” Wren warned me, her small body practically vibrating with tension.
I closed my eyes, willing myself to be calm despite the inappropriate smirk that threatened to twitch my lips. If I was calm, Wren would be calm. We had to keep things under control for the sake of her and the baby.
