Page 44 of Wings of Destruction

My mother wouldn’t recognize me if she could see me now. She’d trained me to lead, to fight, to protect others. She never prepared me for this—kneeling in dragon dung, scrubbing stone until my hands bleed.

I had an organized chaos to life that only I understood.

I didn’t want this chaos. I wanted my books, my weapons, my letters from Father—all tied with red twine and kept safe in my room. The room that’s ash now.

Nostalgia blooms in my chest at the memory of a better time. The sun might be different here, but if I close my eyes, if I bathe in the golden light, then maybe I’ll be able to convince myself—this is a dream.

I’ll wake up from it one day.

One second at a time, I force myself back into my agonized body. Force my hands to loosen, scabs tearing open, and carry the empty bucket to the spigot with the boiling water. Force my aching knee joints to handle each step at a time back to the perch and pick up where I left off.

Small blessing? The dragons are out for the day.

They’d only left their stench and their mess behind for me.

“Wow, princess, this is a good look for you. How the mighty have fallen.”

I jolt and my heart races without warning. That voice.

The rich, deep baritone cuts through every mental defense I’ve put into place since Fallkirk and when I turn, staring over my shoulder, there’s the dark and stormy dragon riding jerk.

I smirk but there’s no heat in the gesture, only shame. A retort is right there and prepared to be launched and I hold it back. What good will it do?

Kieran pushes away from the wall and stomps forward, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the cavernous walls of the perch. “What’s the matter, princess? Where’s that sharp tongue now? Or did they scrub that away along with your dignity?”

How long has he been watching me?

“Less than a week ago, you had more than enough to say,” he adds.

“I don’t know why you’re giving her the time of day, Kieran. Look at her. She’s practically an animal. She doesn’t understand you.”

Kieran didn’t come alone, and the simple fact that I’d missed his companion sits poorly with me.

The blonde is pretty, I realize with a start. Pretty, direct, and vicious. Her laughter peals out of her and shrinks her turquoise-colored eyes.

I hate her immediately. She’s the type of beautiful who has never had to get her hands dirty in her life unless she wants to. Right now, she’s focusing on me, and my skin tightens in wretched anticipation.

“I mean, seriously. She’s trying to clean the perches with the same mixture as one would the marble floors.” Her sneer is a thing of beauty and no warmth reaches those eyes.

My stomach drops. No one told me there was a different mixture for different surfaces. But then, no one told me a lot of things. They just gave me a bucket and pointed the way. Like they are purposely setting me up to fail.

The blonde hinges at the waist to bring herself eye level with me. “Stupid little thing, isn’t she?”

My fingers curl into fists, hidden in the water, as Kieran clucks his tongue.

“Evie, enough.”

Categorizing her type out loud will only inspire more insipid taunts. The blonde is a spiteful witch. They act like their physical characteristics gave them some sort of inherent superiority.

I duck my head to keep her from seeing the rage, which always shows itself on my face.

Elspeth used to say I wear my anger like a shield on the battlefield. No matter what I do, there’s no hiding it.

“Stupid and plain,” the blonde adds. “That dress is perfect for you—shapeless, colorless, defeated. It matches your prospects beautifully.” She sniffs. “And you reek of dung.”

“I said enough.”

Kieran’s warning is clear.