Page 7 of Raven’s Fight

He stands when we enter, which is either courtesy or assessment. Probably both.

“Thauglor Mrithun.” His voice is deep and unhurried, carrying the particular cadence of someone who chooses every word and means all of them. “It has been forty years.”

“Forty-three,” Thauglor says. “You were managing a territorial dispute with the eastern sea routes.”

“I was. You offered to melt the ships involved.” The faintest thing moves through Therun’s expression. “I declined.”

“They were being unreasonable.”

“They were. I handled it without the melting.” He shifts his gaze to me then and I hold it without looking away, because Thauglor told me this matters and because I know from experience that the males who look away first in a room like this spend the rest of the meeting on the wrong foot. His amber eyes are direct and unhurried and take in a great deal without appearing to. “You are the drake.”

“Corvus Mourningstar.” I don’t elaborate. He has our names from the correspondence and anything I add now is either explanation or padding, and he asked for neither.

A breath passes. “Sit,” Therun says. “Both of you. I’ll pour.”

He does it without calling a servant, which I note and file. The drink is warm and spiced, something I don’t recognize but that hits the back of the throat with a clean heat that chases the residual cold of the flight. I wrap both hands around the mug and let myself feel the warmth of it while Therun settles back into his chair and looks at us across the table with the patience of something that measures time differently than most.

“Magnus sent an envoy four months ago,” he says with no preamble. “You should know that before we discuss anything else.”

Thauglor’s expression doesn’t change. “What did he offer?”

“Alliance against the Marzana Empire, access to the southern shipping lanes, and a seat on whatever governing council he intends to establish after.” Therun takes a slow sip from his mug. “He seemed to believe these things were mine to give.”

“They aren’t?”

“The shipping lanes are jointly managed with three other island kingdoms.” He sets the mug down. “The council seat was particularly optimistic, given that I don’t recognize the authority of whatever structure he’s proposing to build.” A pause. “I declined. He didn’t receive it well.”

“He rarely does,” I say.

Therun looks at me — not a reprimand, something more like recalibration. “Your mate is the heir apparent.”

“She is.”

“And the dominant dragoness of Blackhaven.”

“Also yes.”

“Magnus specifically named her in his proposal. The elimination of her bloodline was presented as a shared strategic objective.” He says it the way you say something that is simply true and should be acknowledged as such, without softening. “I want you to understand that I refused his proposal with full knowledge of its specifics. I am not a neutral party who has not been approached. I am a party who was approached and chose a different answer.”

The room is very quiet for a moment. Something cold moves through my chest and settles — not sharp, not sudden, just present. Magnus named her specifically. I knew he wanted her gone, knew it the way you know something you’ve been told and haven’t yet fully inhabited. Hearing it stated plainly across a table in someone else’s hall, framed as a fact rather than a threat — that’s different. I keep my face still.

“I understand,” I say. “Thank you for telling us directly.”

Therun nods once. “Now, tell me about your mate. Not the titles. Not the political position.” His amber eyes are steady. “Tell me who she is.”

I look at him across the table — this ancient male who has just told me the king to our north wants my mate’s bloodline erased and is now asking me to describe her — and I understand suddenly and completely what this meeting actually is. Not a negotiation. An interview. He wants to know whether she’s worth what he’d be walking into if he pledged his forces to her cause.

I set my mug down.

“She was born into one of the most powerful dragon nests on the continent,” I say, “and the first thing she ever asked for as a hatchling gift was sea glass. Not a weapon, not treasure — sea glass, because she liked the color of it and the smoothness and the way it took time and patience to find.” I hold his gaze. “She runs the morning circuit of Blackhaven before dawn every day so she knows her territory the way she knows her own body. She has a daughter. She is terrified of failing the people who depend on her and she doesn’t let that terror slow her down. She killed a fourth-year green dragon during last year’s Purge to protect her sister, then immediately checked whether her sister’s arm needed binding.”

I stop.

Therun is quiet. Thauglor beside me says nothing — he is giving me this, I realize. He could speak and he knows her better than I can summarize in ten minutes in an unfamiliar room. He’s choosing not to, which means he wants Therun to hear it from me.

“She sounds,” Therun says eventually, “like someone worth the trouble.”

“She is.”