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1
The Celebration
“You just won the dragon tournament. What are you going to do next?”
Kerrigan swatted at Clover. “Stop it. You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m not ridiculous. I’m beyond excited for my best friend.” Clover leaned back against the bar. Her dark bob hanging severely in front of her face, her smile the brightest Kerrigan had ever seen.
When Clover, Hadrian, and Darby had pulled her out of Draco Mountain, Kerrigan had tried to match their enthusiasm. A day earlier, she’d been fighting for her life in a tournament she hadn’t entered. She had ended victorious, becoming the first half-Fae full member of the Society and a dragon rider. In two week’s time, she was going to start a year of dragon training. It sounded miraculous. If only there wasn’t about a million reasons it was anything but.
“Come on, Ker,” Hadrian said. His blue hair was coifed elegantly against the golden brown of his skin. The cravat at his neck, half-undone, was the only indication of his inebriation. “Don’t look like that. We’re celebrating.”
“Agreed,” Darby said. “I’m out, aren’t I? If this isn’t a reason to overindulge, I don’t know what is.”
Darby’s midnight skin was coated in a gold shimmer, and her long black tresses gleamed in the dying firelight. She technically wasn’t even supposed to be out with them now that she was a member of a royal Bryonican family, but she’d flouted authority and gone out to celebrate.
It wasn’t every day that a Dragon Blessed from the House of Dragons became a full-fledged member of the Society—the governmental body of the city of Kinkadia and all of Alandria. Actually, it had never happened. It wasn’t even supposed to happen. The House of Dragons was a feeder program for underprivileged Fae to move up in the world. It had worked for Hadrian and Darby, but Kerrigan wasn’t like her friends. She was only half-Fae, and no one had wanted her.
“Seriously, you need to let the last forty-eight hours go and have another drink,” Clover said, pushing an ale toward her. “Everyone else is buying anyway.”
Which was true. The dragon tournament was the most lauded event in Alandrian history. The winners were treated like heroes, and everyone wanted to celebrate, which meant drink after drink after drink. She could feel that she had overindulged.
“My head is already spinning,” she said with a laugh.
Hadrian rolled his eyes. “When has that ever stopped you?”
She raised a pint to him. “Fair point.”
Kerrigan tipped back the ale and took a long drink. It was the good stuff. Not the swill she and Clover normally drank in the Wastes. No, tonight, they’d had to forgo the underground pit, where Clover worked as a card dealer, for a more reputable tavern. They’d ended up in The Dragon Scales on the Square in Central Kinkadia. It was fancier than anywhere but a royal home but still just a tavern. The same sort of customers and the same sort of drink.
Kerrigan set her half-finished drink on the bar and forced down a yawn. She was about to suggest that they all join the dancing outside when a man sent her drink sprawling.
“Scales,” Kerrigan gasped. She jumped away from the spilled ale, but it was too late. The drink coated her dress and down one side of her body.
“Hey, watch what you’re doing!” Clover snarled at the man.
The man stood to his considerable height, more than a head taller than Kerrigan. His ears were severely pointed, a clear indicator that he was full-blooded Fae. His skin was creamy white and eyes the darkest brown, and he was currently glaring at Kerrigan, having already discarded Clover’s comment.
“Your kind isn’t welcome in this establishment,” he said coldly.
Kerrigan straightened up. “My kind?”
“We’ve been here all night,” Hadrian said as if he hadn’t heard the insinuation about her being half-Fae. “If you have a problem with that, then you can go somewhere else.”
“They should never defile the Society halls with someone like you, leatha.”
A sharp intake of breath was heard all around Kerrigan. A buzzing filled her ears at the horrid word. It was ancient Fae language, originally meaning half-Fae, but modern connotation had made it a slur, more commonly meaning half-breed bitch. It wasn’t slung around in polite society.
Most people in this fancy tavern probably hadn’t heard it spoken aloud, except in jest. Not that Kerrigan ever found those jests funny. But Kerrigan had heard the word enough not to flinch from it.
“Creative,” she crooned. She was too tipsy for this. “I’m so glad that you don’t get a vote.”
He took a menacing step forward, but she just laughed. It was the wrong move. She had known it somewhere deep in her brain that laughing at this man would provoke him, but did he think he was frightening? She’d won the dragon tournament, and not that he knew this, but she was a prized fighter in the Wastes. He couldn’t touch her. His overconfidence was almost endearing, if not suicidal.
