Chapter Four
Nienna
Soft waves lapped against the hull, rocking the small vessel in the dark. A muffled groan came from beside me. Greaves was barely holding himself together. Kallias’ severe frown turned toward his friend before he scanned the shore again.
He wore a plain white tunic, and a cloak fastened down to his navel. The shape of his mantle showed beneath the thick black fabric, easily mistaken for armor. A longsword rode his hip, lending him an unmistakably intimidating air.
Fallione and Ronan rowed us in, oars cutting the water without a sound. Above, a whisper of leathery wings marked Gyrak’s descent as he flew ahead to land.
Resentment still scraped at me over being left behind with Fallione and Greaves. The choice made sense, yet the sting lingered. I wanted to hear the people speak of Tallon’s coup. Support would mean danger. Unease would mean opportunity.
But a good queen waited. She watched. She bided her time before striking.
Familiar anger coiled around my ribs, hard and hot as dragonscale. Tallon would pay for this. He would not survive this treachery.
The sky lightened to a murky gray, revealing the shoreline, and I finally understood how Wellmoor could hide a Dragon Ship.
Sheer cliffs rose straight from the sea, their dark faces plunging into the water. Even Gyrak looked small beside them as he stood on the narrow strip of shore, his bulk hidden within the bay.
The cove held only a thin stretch of sand, utterly dominated by the black dragon.
No one in Radaan could spot a ship here unless they crept to the very edge of the cliffs above.
To the east, a wide bay could cradle an entire fleet, but this place offered concealment instead of welcome. It was the wiser choice.
Questions pressed on my tongue. How would they scale such a height? How long would it take? Silence swallowed them before they reached my lips.
After what felt like an eternity, the skiff kissed sand and dragged us to a halt. The men moved at once. Ronan leapt out with Fallione, hauling the boat farther up the beach. Kallias slipped an arm beneath Greaves’ shoulders and lifted him without hesitation.
I gathered my skirts and raised the hem, stepping onto solid ground behind them.
“You should go now,” Fallione whispered, shifting Greaves’ weight from my husband’s grasp. “Before they spot you clearing the lip.”
The absence of a title did not escape me. The advisor had fought beside Kallias in the war. He knew these moments. He knew the cost of delay.
Far better than I did.
My heart pounded, pulse thrumming beneath my skin, coiled for action. Anything but waiting.
Kallias turned back, caught my gaze, and swallowed. His nostrils flared as resolve set into his features. He released Greaves and strode toward the cliffs without another word.
Ronan spared one last look for his dragon. Gyrak snapped his teeth in silent protest of their parting, talons digging into the sand, irritation rolling off him in waves—emotions my brother clearly shared.
A slow breath steadied me as I prepared to endure the long wait until nightfall. My hand closed around Greaves’ arm.
He had the audacity to try to pull away.
“I am your queen, Greaves. You will let me help you,” I growled, scanning the bank through the dim light.
“Over there, Your Majesty,” Fallione whispered, jerking his head toward shelter.
I followed his gaze, squinting into the dark.
Gyrak must have sensed the cave. The sweep of his tail guided us into the cliffside, accompanied by low grunts of displeasure that vibrated through the stone.
I followed the sound, offering nothing more than my shoulder beneath Greaves’ arm. He stumbled once, pitching toward Fallione. The older man absorbed his weight without complaint, shifting his stance to keep them both upright.
The cave opened from the cliffside as a narrow crevice, its walls close enough that Gyrak’s scales scraped stone as he pivoted to face the entrance.
Weak light caught the flash of yellow eyes.
He sighed, the sound heavy, sparks spilling from his nostrils.
The brief flare revealed a hollow carved into the rock, its floor slick with tidal damp.
A cluster of small boulders sat to one side beside a stretch of dry sand, and we guided Greaves toward the makeshift seat.
When he sagged onto the stone, a low groan slipped free. His head tipped back, resting against lichen-slick rock. Fallione was already pressing a biscuit and water into his hands.
We needed Greaves more than I cared to admit. Gyrak could protect us, of that I had no doubt, yet Greaves offered something different. Something familiar and grounded. He felt like an extension of Kallias himself.
I would never forget my time in Reem, the night I was attacked. He had plunged into a pitch-dark crawlspace armed with nothing but a dagger and his underbreeches to drag me out alive.
His face looked drawn now, gaunt, hollows shadowing his eyes. We had not been at sea long, yet the journey had carved its mark into him. A grimace crossed his mouth as he tore a piece from the biscuit, lids sealed shut as he chewed.
A measured breath steadied me as I straightened and drew my cloak tighter around my shoulders. The absence of gold scales there left me feeling bare, exposed. It startled me how quickly such things became part of one’s body.
Fallione half rose, urgency in the motion, as though he expected my command or my need. I waved him off and turned toward the darkness where Gyrak shifted, a mountain of restless muscle.
I could hear him before I saw him. Only his glowing irises pierced the black haze.
He lowered as I approached, sand and pebbles whispering beneath my boots.
A soft snort warmed my palm as I brushed his nostril, fingers gliding over the smoother scales there.
Each nostril nearly matched the size of my head.
He would grow into something fearsome, as Argos once had.
My thoughts drifted back to Draconia, lingering on Argos’ wounded form. Would my father’s dragon ever taste the skies again? Or would the earth claim him forever? Could a creature shaped for flight endure a life bound to stone?
Gyrak shifted, sliding one massive paw to my side and nudging me with his muzzle until I leaned back against his claws.
“I’m tired of sitting,” I whispered, though I gave in and settled onto the heat of his scaled palm.
A low, answering grumble of agreement rumbled through his chest. It needed no translation.
The sun climbed, washing the sky in a clear blue that tugged my thoughts to Kallias’ eyes. Warmth crept into the cave’s mouth. Salt hung thick in the air, threaded with the crash of waves and the shrill cries of scavenging birds.
Greaves eventually forced himself upright, alternating between slow pacing and bracing himself against the stone walls.
Fallione watched the expansive water glitter, scratching notes onto a small scrap of parchment pulled from his satchel.
Morning bled into midday. Heat settled like a weight, stifling and unmoving. No breeze reached the back of the cave, and the sour stink of dead fish grew harder to ignore. Gyrak’s eyes narrowed as the hours passed, his irritation and annoyance mounting.
I watched him for any sign of true distress, expecting a sudden surge of motion, a violent leap skyward as he flew to Ronan’s aid. Instead, he remained sprawled in the sand, grumbling deep in his chest.
The tide crept higher, nudging strands of seaweed across the shore. The steady push and pull held my attention until my thoughts finally quieted. Nothing clawed for notice. Nothing demanded fear.
Then voices drifted in.
Greaves froze mid-step, brown eyes snapping to mine. His gaze cut to Gyrak, who lifted his head without a sound.
Two. Both males. Greaves’ hand went to his shortsword. Steel whispered free, nearly lost beneath the surf. Fallione set his satchel aside and drew his blade.
My heart stumbled. Discovery meant chaos. Gyrak would erupt, his roar carrying across the countryside.
Or Greaves, weakened as he was, would be forced to restrain them.
If he could.
I felt along my shoulder, instinctive, missing the familiar weight of the mantle. Kallias had warned it posed more danger than protection here. Without it, I was indistinguishable from any other woman.
My teeth clenched as I stood. Radaan’s mantle or not, I was still Queen. But I was Draconis first. I would not shrink into the shadows.
The voices crept closer. Questions crowded my mind. Where had the Dragon Ship gone? Had its presence gone unnoticed? How could it have?
Two figures approached, one voice rough with age, the other carrying the higher pitch of youth. A chill ran along my skin as Greaves edged toward the cave mouth.
My gaze dropped to the sand.
Great gouges scored the beach. Deep furrows carved by Gyrak’s claws. A dragging line where his tail had passed.
Impossible to miss.
Why had no alarm been raised? Why had no one fled for the city shouting of dragons and invaders?
The boy appeared first.
Tall and narrow, youth still softening his features. Shaggy black hair fell into his eyes. He wore common clothes: a worn linen tunic, dark trousers tucked into boots with failing buckles.
But it was the rope tied around his waist that had my attention.
His foot caught in a deep trench of dry sand. He pitched forward with a startled cry.
“What is it, boy?” the older voice called.
Greaves tightened his grip on the sword. They stood well within our line of sight now. One turn of the head would reveal everything.
The boy crouched, fingers brushing the disturbed sand. “There’s something–”
The old man came into view, a pack strapped across his back, nets swinging with each step. He leaned on a walking stick and reached for the rope at his waist, tugging it taut.
They were tethered together. So neither would be lost.
The boy’s head snapped toward the cave.
Greaves lunged.