Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Iknow I'm not the world's most observant person…” Briar says “…but that wasn't there when we went inside, right?”
I shake my head just as footsteps and voices drift toward us.
Briar runs for the edge of the building, peering around it for only a moment before jerking back, cursing.
“Company,” she says, hurrying to my side. “Mouren soldiers making their way down the street.”
“Let's get the hell out of here.” I make a dash for the opposite edge of the building, to the small yard where we tied our horses.
But there are soldiers marching down the road on this side, too, heading straight toward us, and my breath catches as I realize this group is being led by one of the men I eavesdropped on last night—the one I thought I recognized.
In the daylight, he still looks like someone I once knew. He looks like…
No.
I'm not thinking about him today.
Not here, not now.
“Any brilliant plans for getting us out of this one?” Briar asks, appearing beside me.
“Just have a distraction ready to go. And be prepared to run like your life depends on it.”
She's already readying that distraction before I get the words out, pulling a small round object out of the hidden pocket Marta sewed into the sleeve of her coat. She clenches it in her fist, putting it out of sight just as the two marching groups converge in front of the steps.
Several of the soldiers narrow their eyes in our direction, then peel away from the larger group and make their way up, encircling us more tightly.
The vaguely familiar man comes the closest, stopping right in front of us.
Judging by the insignia on his coat, and the obviously high quality of his weapons and armor, I suspect he's a high-ranking officer of some sort.
Many of his soldiers wear protective gear similar to ours.
He doesn't. His cold expression is on full display—calculating, grey eyes flecked with gold; a sharp jaw set in rigid authority; thin lips pressed into a hard line.
His gaze lingers on my scarred, blind eye for a moment. That disfigurement would give me away every time, even with a scarf covering half my face. I silently curse it, but outwardly I lift my chin as if I don't care if he sees it and recognizes me as the one who attacked his camp last night.
“This city is condemned and forbidden to outsiders,” he informs us. “So kindly explain what business you have within its boundaries?”
“Just out for a stroll,” Briar sweetly replies.
“I see.” His mouth remains set in a hard line. Unfortunately for us, he doesn't seem like the type to be taken in by Briar's flirting.
He lifts a hand, beckoning. In the span of a breath, several soldiers swoop forward and seize Briar.
She fights—of course—and manages to land a few punches before two burly men catch her arms and pin them behind her back.
“I'm actually not fond of being touched without consent,” she snarls, twisting violently enough that the man grasping her left arm flinches; as his grip briefly sways, she wriggles free enough to slam her head into his, making him lose his hold entirely.
It's ultimately useless, though. Too many others surge forward, securing her with even rougher hands, twisting her in a way that makes her eyes scrunch up in pain.
I start toward her—I don’t care whether it's useless or not—but the officer cuts me off, stepping between us while deliberately reaching for the handle of his sheathed sword.
“A few more questions for you, first.” His voice is like a steel trap, polished and patient but clearly ready to snap if I make one wrong move. “Answer them,” he says, “and I'll be happy to let your friend go.”
I look to Briar, debating. She shakes her head, urging me not to cooperate no matter the cost.
But one of the women helping to hold her hostage has taken out a knife and is brandishing it with a cruel gleam in her eyes, as if she's just itching for the opportunity to use it.
Several of the soldiers hovering in the background have bows at the ready as well, just waiting for an excuse to shoot.
Turning back to the officer, I nod curtly. “What do you want to know?”
“Last night, our campsite was attacked. Some things were lost…and other things, stolen.”
“A campsite pilferage?” I study my nails. “Doesn't ring any bells, I'm afraid.”
He holds out his hand, and one of his soldiers steps forward, placing an arrow into his outstretched palm.
I recognize it as one of Briar's immediately.
The head made of deer bone. The fletching made of crow feathers, which are common in the Burn because they're cheap and easy to come by.
Even more damning, though, are the red painted bands around the shaft.
She just had to include an extra flourish in her weaponry, didn't she?
“It's odd that you don't seem to recall anything about the attack,” says the officer, “because I recovered this from the neck of one of my dead soldiers. And it looks almost identical to the ones your friend is carrying right now.”
My mouth goes dry as one of Briar's captors lifts a quiver up for me to see.
Briar's quiver.
They've disarmed her entirely, taking not only that quiver, but also the short sword at her hip and the knives that were strapped to her thighs. Her hand remains clenched against her body, though; I don't think they've taken—or even noticed—the tiny ball of chaos she’s hiding in her palm.
“Well?” prompts the officer. “Wouldn't you agree that it's strange?”
“A strange coincidence, maybe.”
The officer chuckles darkly at my impassive tone. “Not a big believer in coincidence myself.” He studies me with calculating eyes. “I know you're lying. And, unfortunately for your friend, there's usually only one punishment for those who choose to murder Mouren soldiers.”
I can barely breathe with the tightness in my chest, but I don't give him the satisfaction of showing fear.
He takes a step closer. “Perhaps we can work something out, though.”
I swallow down the urge to vomit, knowing what sort of deals these corrupt soldiers have been known to work out. How the bribes they expect don't always involve money.
My hand is reaching for my mother’s sword when the man says, “We've been tracking a young dragon into this area.”
I freeze.
“And this dragon seems to be tracking you. Your trails intersect with one another's. It's clearly close by now.” His gaze sweeps over the blood staining the steps. “So, I want you to tell me why it's following you.”
“I…I don't know,” I answer, honestly.
“You realize that any and all dragons are property of the Mouren crown, of course.”
My fists clench. “Yes.”
“So, if you're attempting to manipulate or hide this creature in some way, you—”
“Why would I hide it?”
“You tell me.”
I can't even think of a response that makes sense.
“Because otherwise, one has to assume conspiracy against your king. A flagrant disrespect for his laws. Add that to your murder charges, and the king himself would—”
“Reave Callahan is not my king.” The words fly out of me before I can stop them. “He is the rightful king of nothing and nobody, his entire family full of nothing but thieves and—”
The officer draws his sword and presses it to my throat in one smooth motion. “That's quite enough.”
I steady myself under the threatening weight of his gaze and the uncomfortable pressure of his blade. Swallowing hard, I say, “I don’t have anything else to say, then.”
“How regrettable for you.” He increases the pressure of his weapon, stopping just short of drawing blood. He looks like he’s weighing his options. His body is alarmingly still, impossibly steady, and again I’m reminded of a trap prepared to snap straight through my bones.
But as the seconds tick by, my fear gives way to something more like…grief.
Grief, because I’m not thinking about my own execution, about whatever torturous death I might suffer at the hands of the Mouren army or its king. I’m thinking about the Burn, about all the people I’ll be letting down if I die.
People I already let down once, during the days leading up to Emberfall.
I close my eyes, trying to focus, to think of some way out of this.
Then I hear a strange clicking sound. Something that sounds like claws scraping against stone—
Because that’s exactly what it is.
Blinking my eyes open, I see it: The dragon I failed to slay last night is slinking up the steps, baring its fangs at any soldier who makes even the slightest move toward it.
Time seems to still as it approaches.
In daylight, the dragon's scales reveal their true colors—not all of them are black.
Some are a deep, shimmering teal that shifts with each breath.
Its wings are tucked close now, folded against its slender body in a way it couldn't manage before.
I can see their structure more clearly: hard ridges paired with thin membrane, edged with soft feathers.
A similar mix of armor and delicacy runs the length of its spine, from the base of its neck to the tip of its long tail, where thick plating gradually softens into downy, feathered fronds.
More wounds than I can quickly count mark its body—some scarred over, others still weeping and breaking open with each movement—but even damaged, it's undeniably beautiful in this light.
Golden eyes survey the scene with unmistakable intelligence, and I'm not prepared for how expressive that gaze is when the creature swivels its narrow head toward me, a low thrum vibrating in its throat.
The sword against my skin relaxes somewhat as the beast comes closer; my interrogator seems thoroughly distracted by its sudden appearance. Or maybe it’s what I suspected last night: the dragon is doing something to control the emotions of the humans around it.
But it isn’t going to hypnotize me.
Not this time.
As more and more attention shifts to the dragon, Briar and I exchange a quick glance—the only coordination we need.
In the next breath, she’s dropped the object she took from her sleeve and stomped it with her foot. A violent explosion of smoke overtakes her and her captors. Sounds of a scuffle follow, punctuated by occasional yelps of pain.
The Mouren officer takes a step toward the smoky chaos, only to hesitate, his expression furious and torn.
I hold my breath until Briar rolls clear of the mess she made, one of her knives reclaimed and glinting in her hand.
I run toward her, hauling her to her feet.
We race for the horses. Arrows rain down all around us.
Orders are being shouted, the soldiers trying to organize and cut off our escape routes.
I struggle briefly with the ties holding Garnet, but finally manage to free her and clamber onto her back.
I’m not even entirely in the saddle, hardly balanced at all, before I kick her into a reckless gallop.
We don’t make it far.
As we reach the street, another volley of arrows showers us. One of them strikes Garnet’s left hindquarter. She rears, throwing me to the ground.
I land in a relatively soft mound of dirt, but my leg twists awkwardly as I hit. Pain rips through my right knee and hip.
That’s going to leave a nasty bruise.
As I struggle to get back to my feet, the sound of fluttering wings catches my attention.
Twisting around, I see the dragon careening toward me, clearly struggling to fly.
It crashes into the ground, tumbling to a stop at my feet.
Blood flings in all directions as it stands and shakes the dust from itself.
Our gazes meet. My heart pounds, each beat sending a ripple of heat through me, a building fire that floods and disorients my senses.
I fight to stay focused. Garnet is nowhere in sight.
Briar—who was some distance ahead of me—has turned around and is trying to settle her own horse, horror written all over her face as she watches the soldiers closing in on me.
My knee is throbbing; I’m not going to be fast enough to outrun anyone.
I frantically wave Briar onward, even though I know she won’t listen.
Reaching for my sword, I turn and level my gaze on the dragon. “You,” I hiss.
It arches its neck and hisses right back at me.
But then it does something unexpected: It drags its wounded body in front of mine, turning to face my pursuers.
Almost like it’s…protecting me.
The Mouren officer reaches us a moment later, panting slightly. After catching his breath, he straightens, his eyes darting between me and the dragon. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” The words come out in a strangled whisper. The sense of dread inside me is growing, clawing its way from the pit of my stomach up into my lungs.
The officer’s eyes remain locked on me, but his next words are spoken to the group of soldiers who’ve just caught up to us and are looking to him, awaiting orders.
“Seize her,” he growls. “She returns to the capital with us.”
The capital.
I’d rather he kill me here and now.
“You can’t do this!” I cry.
“Actually, I can,” the officer calmly replies. “Because you are officially under arrest for the forging of a dragon bond.”