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“You–”
Oliver snagged his sleeve, deft and quick. “Darling,” he said in a low voice. “We’re ready.”
The two of them shared a complicated exchange of expressions, one that left Náli entirely too jealous, considering he and Mattias were secret, and possibly not even future lovers, given their impending trip home, and Mattias’s anger.
“Wait, wait!” Rune shouted, and jogged into view.
“Rune!” Tessa turned to greet him, hand settling on his biceps as he drew up before her. “You shouldn’t be running.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “But I wanted to be here for you while you–”
“Can we bloody get on with it?” Náli barked.
King and prince both sent him stern looks, their resemblance uncanny.
“Where’s the prisoner?” Náli asked, not wanting to dwell on the emotional bits of this whole thing. “If I’m to leave in time–”
“They’re coming,” Erik said, pushing his broad shoulders into the circle, being kingly and interloping, as usual. He laid a big hand on Oliver’s shoulder, pulling him in close…
And, to Náli’s astonishment, Oliver broke sweetly away, squeezing Erik’s hand at the end. “Darling,” he said, “I don’t think you can be a part of the circle. It might tamper with the spell.”
Erik frowned. “Oh. Right.”
Náli bit back a laugh. “Yes,” he said, gravely, “only magic-wielding persons should be within a certain proximity when the spell begins.”
Erik sent him a look. A penetrating, pleading, furious look. Do this right, or else.
Náli inclined his head. “I assure you, your majesty,” he said, gravely, not at all mockingly, “that I will perform to the best of my ability. Your consort and niece will do so as well, yes?”
“Yes,” they said as one.
Erik looked worried…but then there came the clank of chains.
Náli’s stomach tightened something fierce. For one awful moment, he thought he might be sick – but that was only the sickness that came with being stretched so thin magically and physically.
Clink…clink…clink.
Ragnar walked into view with a slow, exaggerated step, bound at throat, wrists, and ankles. Even after having been in the dungeons for a month, even unwashed and unshaven, stinking of musk and grimy skin, his hair a wild snarl framing his handsome face, he emanated an aura of threat.
And Náli wasn’t the only one who felt that.
All three drakes lowered their heads to defensive angles and hissed, nasty and vicious. Percy bared his fangs and huffed steam from his nostrils.
Mattias shifted forward, hand on his sword hilt, all too ready to throw himself in front of Náli.
Náli lifted a hand. “Peace!” he called, to every man, woman, and dragon in attendance. “No one needs to die today. Gods know we’ve seen too much of that recently.”
The dragons fussed a bit, amongst each other. Valgrind – damn him – made a plaintive sound that Náli knew all too well. The bugger wanted Náli to come over and scratch behind his horns.
Behind Ragnar was Leif, holding the ends of the chains.
If Náli had thought it before, he knew it now: Leif was changed.
The Leif that he’d – stupidly – thrown himself at back at Long Reach had still been an overgrown boy with honorable intentions.
Nothing of that boy remained in this boy’s face.
Not even a boy: a man.
