Page 98 of Burn of the Everflame

On the surface, the gryverns looked one twitch away from a throat-ripping brawl, but what I felt through our bonds told a different story.

Tybold wasn’t mad . . . he was jealous.

For reasons I couldn’t fathom, he’d believed me a threat to Sorae, so he’d stepped in to shield her from me—and she’d stepped in to shield me from him.

Not because the bond required it. Sorae knew the spell that bound him wouldn’t allow him to do me any real harm. She’d done it because she cared. Because I had become more to her than just a Crown, and she wouldn’t let anyone threaten me, not even her mate.

She’d chosen me over him.

At least that’s how Tybold saw it. And for his bitter, resentful heart, watching her turn on him for a human—worse, a Crown—was the deepest possible betrayal.

His wings unfurled, and with a single angry thrust, he took to the sky and left us both in a cloud of sand.

Sorae lowered her snout to me, sniffing rapidly for any sign of a wound. “I’m fine,” I assured her. “He didn’t want to hurt me.”

I wasn’t sure I believed that, and neither was Sorae.

“Let’s get you to the palace,” Nidara suggested. “I’ll find you a change of clothes.”

With one last frown up at Tybold’s silhouette and a sympathetic caress of Sorae’s muzzle, I nodded and followed Nidara across town to the towering palace.

“I thought you said Ophiucae came without soldiers?” I asked as we walked through its winding halls.

She gave me a strange look. “He did.”

“So he did all this damage himself?”

Though I could tell this had once been an extravagant place, little of its splendor remained intact. Frames that had once held sprawling artwork lay empty alongside piles of broken stone where golden tiles had been chiseled from the floor. Pedestals were missing their statues, tables were missing their chairs.

The place looked less ruined than robbed.

Nidara’s sinking exhale hinted at annoyance. “This, we did ourselves. Once our reserves ran low, our only option was to send caravans to Umbros to trade for food and water.”

“I’m surprised the King allowed that, considering how deeply he hated Umbros.”

“His Majesty never knew. After the last meeting on Coeurîle, he never came home. He went to Sophos, looking for a godstone cure. His brother, the Regent, went with him. They were the only ones whose blood could open the locks on the royal coffers, so I made the decision to sell what we could from the palace. If you wish to punish someone for that choice, I beg you, take it out on me alone. The people here were only following my command.”

“Nidara, you saved your people. The man who let his realm starve is the one who deserves to be punished.”

She stopped short of agreeing, but the judgment on her face spoke volumes. “That decision is with the Blessed Mother now.”

She led me to her chambers and offered up her wardrobe to replace my ruined clothes. I was secretly a little grateful to Tybold for forcing me out of the thick, sweat-inducing leathers I’d brought from Lumnos. I reached for a cropped linen top and flowy pants that I’d seen on so many of the Ignios women, then hesitated at the awareness of how much of me it would leave bare. My body was still thin from my time on the island—would the people here see it and think me too fragile to lead?

Then again, the people here had been starving, too. They’d spent these same weeks scrounging for every meager scrap, just as I had on Coeurîle. Did I think them weak?

I slipped into the clothes, then took a headscarf from her collection and fumbled with my hair in an effort to mimic her style.

She fought a smile at my clumsy attempt. “Let me,” she offered, taking it from my hands. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer some nicer robes before you meet the others?”

“You think this outfit will offend them?”

“I think it will confuse them. You look like a fighter, not a noble.”

I snorted. “Good. Let them see me for what I truly am.”

Her smile grew. As she deftly wrapped the scarf, my eyes dropped to the harness of interweaving leather cords that clung tight to her ribs. Each strap was fitted with an arsenal of sharp, oddly shaped pieces of Fortosian steel.

Nidara noted the shift in my gaze. “We call it our ‘fist.’ It’s meant to represent the hand of Blessed Mother Ignios holding us in battle and lending us her strength. Every person receives one when they join the Royal Guard. The blades are earned over time through skill and bravery.” She finished my hair and stepped away, grabbing a matching harness from the armoire. “You can have this one, if you’d like. I’ll get you some blades from the armory to fill it.”