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“Healer!” I call.
My voice sounds like it’s been left out in the rain overnight. I cough, then try again.
“I need a healer!” I yell, with more force this time. “Rayne’s injured!”
“What?” Greimbyss snarls, stepping forward. “Rensivar’s daughter? The woman who was going to put him on the throne?”
Rage pulses behind my eyeballs, scarlet and hot. Very carefully, I set Rayne down on the grass. A cream-colored dragon clutching a leather satchel meets my eyes, and I nod. Yes. Rayne needs a healer. She deserves a healer.
Then I spin on my heels and smack my claws against Greimbyss’s snout. The sound of the slap echoes across the alpine cirque. Every dragon falls silent.
“Go to hell, Greimbyss,” I say, shaking my claws. My scales sting from the impact. “You were the one trying to put Rensivar on the throne, and no one’s going to forget it.”
I’m suddenly too tired to put any more effort into this particular argument. I spin to face the rocky amphitheater of dragons. The sky behind the ridge has turned the lovely soft pink of the hidden interior of a tiny, curving shell.
“Rensivar planned this whole thing from the start,” I say, raising my voice so that even the dragons in the air can hear me. “He’s been living in Valgros for decades. Hells, maybe even for generations. He controls the signet ring of King Donovan. Rensivar ordered those humans to attack us, and then he defeated them to win the Throne of Claws.”
Greimbyss snorts; a jet of flame rises from his nostrils.
“Do you have any proof for these wild accusations?” Greimbyss demands.
“It’s true.”
I turn toward the voice and see Rayne, her human form bloody and bruised, pulling herself up onto one arm as the healer dragon approaches.
“I was raised in Valgros,” Rayne says. “I was part of the army. I saw King Donovan’s signet ring in Rensivar’s chambers.”
Greimbyss makes another snorting noise, and his teeth flash in the thickening light. But whatever he’s about to say is drowned out by a shout from the pine trees.
“Hey!” calls a coral-colored dragon as she lifts her head above the crown of the ragged little pine trees. “There’s some elves in here!”
A round of murmuring meets this declaration. The coral dragon turns to me.
“What should I do with ‘em?” she asks.
Her tongue flicks out over her lips, and a few growls echo off the stones. Nyrgin’s words drift back to me. Elves murdered his mate and hunted his daughter. I shake my head.
“Tell them we’d like to ask them some questions,” I say. “Politely!”
The coral dragon dips her head back below the trees, but whatever she might be saying to the elves is lost in the general commotion of what’s probably going to be remembered as the most exciting Queensmoot in all of dragon history. I turn away from the trees; honestly, I couldn’t care less what happens with whatever elves might have hidden themselves in those trees.
The healer dragon perches on her back claws, her leather satchel open on the grass beside Rayne’s naked human form. The healer’s brow is furrowed, her delicate facial scales wrinkled into a look of intense concentration. But not, I hope, of desperation. I slide closer, moving as gently as I can, then clear my throat.
“Is she—” I begin, but I can’t bring myself to finish.
The healer bends low over Rayne, her nostrils flaring. Time stretches, thin and brittle, like a sword that’s rusted past the point of salvage. I don’t dare take a breath, afraid to tip the delicate balance of this world. The world that contains Rayne, alive and in one piece.
“We’ll need to get you back to the Iron Mountains,” the healer murmurs, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking directly to Rayne. “You’ll have to heal your wing as a dragon, but first, you’ll need to rest.”
Rayne stares up at the massive dragon looming above her with an odd, distant smile on her lips.
“I’ll carry her,” I say.
The healer dips her head, a curt motion of agreement, and I step forward.
“Wait,” calls a voice.
I turn to see Nyrgin stepping onto the grass. His silver scales gleam as dawn’s first blush fills the sky.
