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The warrior’s grip on my hand slackens. When I look over at him, he has relaxed against the pillows. His mouth goes loose and his eyes turn glassy, unseeing. Blood trails from the corner of his lips.
Dead.
At the sound of running footsteps, I whirl around, hoping for some miracle that could save him—but the runner is a girl dressed in the garb of a royal messenger. I recognize her; she’s one of my mother’s favorites, several years younger than me, maybe sixteen or so.
“Princess!” she gasps. “I was sent to tell you this quietly, before everyone finds out—the war is over.”
My stomach drops, even though I knew this was coming. “We lost.”
“Yes. The dragons and the Vohrainians took Guilhorn last night and they’re on their way here. The Royal Guard will make a last stand in the capital, but—”
“There’s no hope of victory.” I inhale slowly, trying to cope with the warrior’s death, my kingdom’s fall, and the uncertainty of my future all in one breath. I can feel every nerve in my body tightening.
“Your mother wants you to leave the city and make for the southern border,” says the messenger.
“It’s too late. She must know that.” I frown, confused. “The time to flee would have been last month, or last week. If we go now, the dragons will catch us long before we get to the border. Besides, the Vohrainian king promised that if Mother surrenders, he won’t kill us. We’ll be exiled to some distant outpost under guard, but we don’t have to run.”
The messenger bites her lip anxiously and lowers her voice. “I don’t think that deal is on the table anymore, Princess. You see, the Supreme Sorcerer is dead. He died performing one last great spell.”
“Oh shit,” I breathe. “What did he do?”
“I’m not sure. The Queen didn’t say, exactly. But I overheard a report of dragons falling from the sky by the dozens. About half the dragon army, slaughtered within moments.”
“Fuck,” I whisper. “They’ll be furious.”
The messenger nods. “By your leave, my lady—I’m going home to my parents. Whatever happens, I’d like to be with them.”
“Of course.” I grasp her arm reassuringly, before I remember how bloody and grimy my fingers are. My hand drops, and we both stare at the marks I left on her white sleeve.
“I wish you would run, Your Highness.” Tears glimmer in the girl’s eyes. “The dragons are a vengeful race. They’ll kill you for what the Supreme Sorcerer did.”
“How long until they reach the capital?”
But as the question leaves my lips, I hear the distant, droning windup of the dragon alarm. It grows in volume until its hideous blare fills the room, the city, the entire sky. One of the airships floating over the capital has spotted dragons in the distance. Dragons coming to kill us with fire and void, with lightning and ice.
Parma screams, drops her basket, and runs toward me. “We have to go, Princess!”
“Go where?” I laugh helplessly. “They’re going to kill me either way, and I’ll be damned if I die hiding in a hole or fleeing in a panic. You go, Parma. Both of you, go!”
“But, Your Highness—” the messenger girl protests.
I don’t try to argue with her. I’ve been seized with an idea—inspired by the death of the Supreme Sorcerer, I suppose. He perished, yes, but he managed to take dozens of those winged motherfuckers with him. If I could take down at least one before I’m incinerated, I think I could die happy.
I bend and place a single, swift kiss on the forehead of the dead warrior. Ignoring the sobs and pleas of the messenger and the maid, I race through the recovery ward and burst out the rear doors, into the gloomy afternoon. It rained this morning, but the masses of dark, blue-gray clouds have shifted since then, and light glances through them in beams of misty peach and translucent gold.
The makeshift hospital wards stand along the northeast border of the city, so our soldiers can be brought within the shelter of the walls and treated quickly. I grasp my fluffy pink skirts in both hands and run across the stretch of cobblestones toward the outer wall. The blare of the dragon alarm fades, its duty fulfilled. Soldiers hurry this way and that, shouting instructions or repeating orders. One of them calls out to me, but I don’t respond.
The stone stairs leading up to the parapet are incredibly narrow, still slick from the morning’s rain. I struggle up them, teetering and nearly tumbling off the edge. By the time I reach the top, I’m breathing hard, and the back of my neck is sweating despite the cool afternoon breeze.
My brain designed music during the climb—a synchronous glory of trumpets and strings, an anthem to this city’s final stand. I wish I had an orchestra here to play it proudly for all to hear. But I’ve never found the courage to share my music with anyone.
The top of the wall bears a variegated pattern, older stones cemented against newer ones to repair deep breaches. Decades ago, parts of the city were struck by the lightning of the Mordvorren, a sentient, magical super-storm that moves across the ocean in unpredictable patterns. Sometimes it will squat over an island or a city for days, bombarding everything below with caustic lightning and earth-shaking thunder. Magic functions strangely under the Mordvorren’s shadow. When the storm is done flooding streets and demolishing homes, it moves on to its next target.
Lucky for us, the Mordvorren has not come this far inland in a very long time. A mercy of the Maker, perhaps. Or maybe the storm simply recognizes that we’re doing a fabulous job of destroying ourselves.
I bend over, gripping my thighs as I take a moment to catch my breath. No one notices me. Every warrior lining the top of the wall is focused outward and upward, scanning the horizon and the clouds for dragons. On gray days like this, I’ve heard that the dragons like to fly above the clouds and then drop in for a surprise attack.
So far, the capital has been spared from such incursions. The five cities surrounding the royal seat are all heavily armed with catapults, enormous crossbows, cannon-studded airships, and other countermeasures specifically designed to stave off dragons. But two of those strongholds have fallen in the last month, and with the conquest of Guilhorn last night, we are left vulnerable. If the servants’ whispers are accurate, my mother has been sending our remaining weapons and technology to fortify other cities. I’m not sure we have much left to defend ourselves.
