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“What about you, Greimbyss?” someone shouts from the back.
Greimbyss pulls his lips back from his teeth, creating the kind of smile that makes me want to smash my claws into his mouth.
“Well, now—” Greimbyss begins.
“Wendolyn!” I call.
The entire assembly of dragons falls silent. Wendolyn turns to look at her claws, trying and failing to hide the smile spreading across her snout. Smoke rises from Greimbyss’s nostrils as he turns to me.
“What’s this?” Greimbyss asks, with an exaggerated sweep of his claws. “Could this be little Doshir, returning to a Queensmoot for a change? Trying to curry favor with the dragon whose bed you used to keep warm, are we?”
A few nasty snickers follow that remark, tumbling down the mountainside like stones. I pull myself up, my back stiff and my nostrils flaring.
“Wendolyn is highly qualified,” I announce. “She knows more about the politics of the Iron Mountains than anyone in this assembly.”
Voices raise in response, a few in agreement and a few shouted objections. Greimbyss raises a claw, then turns back to me with a condescending sneer.
“If you’re quite done, Doshir,” he says, making my name sound like a vulgarity. “I think we’ll let the dragons speak now.”
More laughter follows this, like nails scraping across stone. My skin burns beneath my scales, and I turn away. Mothers, I was right to leave all of this. I could be home right now.
But my home was destroyed. Rage burns between my ribs. I lift my gaze to Greimbyss. His lips are pulled back in a snarl, and his neck spines shiver in the starlight. He’s not even looking at me. He’s dismissed me, as always; the great and mighty Greimbyss has already moved on.
“The dragons?” I snarl, taking a step forward.
The voices fall silent. Greimbyss turns back to me, and something flashes across his snout that I’ve never seen before. It almost looks like surprise.
“Excuse me, Greimbyss,” I growl, “but what exactly do you mean?”
I shake my wings loose, then brace them against the wind. Flames lick the sides of my jaw as I open my mouth. The dragons sitting in front of me quickly peel off to the side as I step onto the grass.
“Am I not a dragon?” I say, twisting my neck to take in the rows of dragons sitting beneath the jagged ridge line.
“Doshir—” Greimbyss begins, pressing his neck spines flat.
“I think what you mean by dragon, Greimbyss,” I hiss, speaking over him, “is someone who agrees with you.”
A smattering of murmured agreement follows this. Greimbyss’s eyes go wide, showing a flash of white. He’s afraid. Something very dark and very deep inside me purrs with pleasure.
“Perhaps, Greimbyss,” I continue, “you would hold the Queensmoot in a room filled with mirrors?”
The laughter that follows this is louder than the laughter that followed Greimbyss’s announcement that I was trying to win back Wendolyn, but not by much.
“Doshir—” Greimbyss says again, his neck flexing like a serpent.
“Every dragon,” I thunder as smoke rises from my nostrils. “Every dragon has the right to put forth a name during the Queensmoot. Not just the dragons who live in the Iron Mountains, Greimbyss. Not just the dragons who agree with you. Every dragon!”
I’m prepared to say more, but the voices calling in agreement drown me out. I bow my head and step back, moving off the grass to signal that I have made my argument. Greimbyss’s neck flexes as he moves his spiny head from side to side, his eyes flicking nervously. For just a moment, I let myself imagine how he would look with my jaws wrapped around his throat.
Wendolyn steps forward, then clears her throat as the voices die down.
“Thank you, Doshir,” she says, her voice ringing like a silver bell, high and light. “You honor the legacy of your mother by reminding us all of the rules of this Queensmoot.”
She turns to face the dragons assembled on the ridge.
“Now,” Wendolyn announces. “If there are any further nominations?”
Greimbyss shakes his neck, rattling his spines.
