Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
We ride straight through the night, arriving at the main gate of Lucindris as the sun rises.
The gate is massive, taller than any building that existed in Halvgate, even before Emberfall.
Black stone doors rise from the earth like a cliff face, their surface carved with scenes I'm too exhausted to decipher.
Intricate ironwork runs across the top, while two gilded statues—both of them life-size dragons—loom from the corner of the wall on either side.
One dragon rests its talons on a large shield; the other sprawls in languid repose, wings half-furled as if it might take flight at any moment.
The sunlight strikes their golden eyes, reflecting straight into my face, and the brightness finally drags me from my daze.
Even then, I still feel faint.
How long has it been since I ate? Since I slept?
The hours have all tangled together into one miserable blur.
There was water at some point, and a brief stop where we dismounted and I was allowed to relieve myself under guard, but that feels like days ago now; I'm starting to think I might have hallucinated it.
I've spent years learning to survive on scraps and willpower, yet I can't remember many times when I felt worse than I do now.
Come to my city as my guest, King Reave said.
If this is how he treats his guests, I shudder to think of how he treats his enemies.
Then again, I suppose we both know I'm not really a guest. We may have struck a tentative bargain, but hours of hard riding with barely a breadth of space between us has done nothing to ease the tension.
I haven't attempted to stab him again—not yet—but I've made no effort to soften the hatred radiating off me, either.
And the disdain is undeniably mutual.
The few words he's spoken to me have been clipped commands or cold observations.
His arm remains locked around my waist like an iron shackle.
Every shift of my weight, every attempt to adjust my position, draws an immediate response—a tighter grip, a growled warning, or his magic biting against my spine in cold pulses that leave my skin tingling and my breath short.
He's clearly trying to sink his hold in as deep as he can. To break me down as much as possible before we reach his palace, presumably so I'll agree more readily to whatever lies in store for me once we get there.
What he doesn't understand is that I've already been broken for years. All my jagged pieces are just armor now.
So if he wants to try and crush me, I hope he's prepared to get cut.
The gates open without a sound, swinging inward.
We pass through with no ceremony, no announcement.
The king still wears his mask, as do all the riders flanking us.
I'm the only anomaly, and someone—one of those accompanying riders—instructs me to keep my scarf raised and hood up before we enter the city proper.
They're hiding me, though I don't understand why it matters. Even if this dragon bond is real, it's not as if the citizens of Lucindris would recognize me or know what I've done. And the hatchling itself is miles behind us, traveling at a slower pace with the larger group of Mouren soldiers.
Maybe they just don't want people to see their glorious leader arriving with such a filthy woman—and one from the slums of an enemy kingdom, at that.
The thought makes my jaw clench.
It would probably be satisfying to rip off my hood and shout about the deals their beloved king has been making in the dark. But I don't. Instead, I force myself to focus on the city unfolding around us, committing every detail to memory.
Because if I'm going to infiltrate and tear any part of this world down from the inside, I need to understand it first.
Lucindris is, of course, nothing like the Burn.
The streets are paved with smooth grey stone instead of packed dirt and ash.
The houses sit on solid foundations, their walls mostly a mix of pristine white and soft cream, their windows fitted with clean, perfect glass.
Flower boxes hang from some of their balconies, bright splashes of color that seem almost obscene compared to the muted greys and browns of home.
The air smells fresh and crisp, with hints of tantalizing things—baking bread, drying herbs, roasting meat and spices from what must be early-morning food stalls.
I expected more of a smoke-tinged smell, because I expected more dragons to be cluttering the sky overhead.
But I spotted only four as we approached the city walls, and now, that color-streaked sky is clear of both clouds and winged beasts. I occasionally hear one in the distance, but they're far enough away that the sound isn't even as triggering as it normally is to me.
Interesting.
Maybe it's coincidence, or timing, or maybe the rumors I've heard about Mouren's dragon-filled skies have been exaggerated. I'm not sure. Whatever the reason, I don’t dwell on it now; there's too much else to see.
People are already moving through the streets despite the early hour—guards casually patrolling in pristine, shiny armor; merchants opening their shops; a woman whistling a soft tune while sweeping her doorstep; a group of children running past with a small dog at their heels, laughing and teasing each other.
No one looks hungry.
No one looks afraid, or angry, or downtrodden.
I'm terribly homesick, all of a sudden. Or maybe just sick. I knew the differences would be stark, but this city, it's…
It's like an entirely different world.
I force myself to keep observing. To notice the layout of the streets, the way they branch and connect, and all the different landmarks I can stand to commit to memory.
There's a temple with a copper-green dome that rises above the other buildings. A market square with a fountain in the center of it—one that’s in the shape of a dragon, of course.
Water pours from its open jaws, crystal clear, while people fill buckets from the basin below.
A child splashes his hands in it, delighted.
His mother watches him, a bemused little smile on her face.
Not scolding him, like a parent of the Burn would.
Why would she?
There's no shortage of clean water here.
My fingers curl into fists against my thighs.
“Something wrong, Ashwalker?” King Reave's voice is low and close, each word a hot dagger sinking into the back of my neck.
I don't give him the satisfaction of a reply. I don't even look at him.
He says nothing else, but I can sense his smugness.
If we actually make it to the palace without me punching him in the face, it will be a godsdamned miracle.
The streets grow even wider as we move deeper into the city.
The homes become grander and larger, their facades featuring broad verandas and decorative stonework.
We pass a park full of trees that are flourishing—not stunted and struggling like the few that still cling to life near my home, but tall and full-leafed, providing genuine shade.
There are benches dotted between them. Paths for taking lovely little strolls.
My stomach aches and aches and aches for the uneven world, for the injustice of it all.
Then the palace finally rises ahead of us, and even through my exhaustion and disgust, I can't help but stare.
It's built from pale, subtly shimmering stone. Under different circumstances, it might be beautiful—a bright jewel gleaming on the hillside. But as I watch the sunrise spilling across its white walls, painting it in shades of scarlet and crimson, all I can think about is blood.
Towers spiral upward at each corner, topped with dark slate roofs. The main structure sprawls across what must be acres of land, its windows countless, its doors large and imposing. A high wall surrounds the grounds, but the gates stand open, and we pass through without slowing.
Gardens stretch on either side of the private road that leads up to the palace.
Not practical gardens for growing food, but ornamental ones, full of roses and lilies and other, more exotic flowers I don't know the names of.
Hedges are trimmed into unnatural, elaborate shapes.
There are more fountains, more statues, than I can count. Everything seems to be about excess.
We finally stop at the base of a wide stone staircase that leads up to the main doors, which are deep red and covered in ornate gold filigree. Guards move forward immediately, taking the reins of our horse. King Reave dismounts first, then reaches up to help me down.
I ignore his offered hand and slide off the horse myself, my legs nearly buckling when my feet hit the ground.
I catch myself against the stallion’s flank, breathing hard, willing my injured knee to cooperate.
The king gives no response to my stubbornness; he simply turns his back to me and carries on.
Another palace guard steps forward and murmurs something too quiet for me to hear. King Reave nods once, then motions toward his riders. They remain in their saddles, crossing one arm over their chests and bowing their heads.
He starts up the steps, still ignoring me. There's no choice but to follow his lead; the masked riders form a solid wall at my back, while the palace guards are watching my every motion, unspoken expectation written in their cold eyes and reinforced by the tight grips they have on their spears.
I take a deep breath. Remove my hood. Pull the scarf away from my face.
Then I march up the steps with my head held high, ignoring the stares that inevitably trail toward my scarred eye and doing my best not to limp in spite of my bruised knee and aching hip.
More stone dragons guard the ornate doors. Like the ones at the city gate, their eyes are golden. Those eyes look disturbingly real, seeming to track me as I step into the palace, and I have to stop myself from looking back to make certain I’m not actually being followed.