Chapter 10 Skylar #2
The whole room stills. Tommen stops, his sword held in front of him. There’s a shimmer of something dark under her skin—fighting the last effects of whatever potion the witches gave her. She feels herself sharpen, like she can finally control all of herself.
And she will not let them kill her.
But before she can test that theory, there’s a blast of wind. She sees the prince’s gaze snap toward the opening in the ceiling.
The whole castle shudders as a dragon lands.
That’s what the gaping hole is for, Skylar realizes. The dragons.
A thunderous roar sounds and Tommen winces, though he doesn’t lower his sword. This is it, isn’t it? This is how she dies. Zryan has summoned his dragon to kill her, wanting to show the witches that a slight on his family honor won’t be tolerated.
She doesn’t know what to do as that head—that fucking enormous head, spikes protruding from the skull—comes in through the ceiling.
Neck stretching, pupils constricting in the flickering light.
She should run. But there’s nowhere to run.
It’s either death by dragon—or impaled by a sword.
And actually, she’d rather be eaten by a dragon than give a Dreki the satisfaction.
So she wills her body to stop trembling as Mjolnir—she should at least call him by his name, given he’s about to eat her—pushes farther into the room.
Some of the roof crumbles away, and she hears a sharp intake of breath, a mutter in a language she doesn’t understand.
A sob catches in the back of her throat despite herself. She won’t see Cam again, will never find out what happened to him.
I’m still here, Lar. A whisper in her mind—one she clings on to.
An enormous violet eye blinks at her, almost level with her head now. She can see her entire reflection in that eye.
No one in the hall dares move.
Lethal teeth flash as the dragon opens its jaw, and Skylar closes her eyes, even as every muscle in her body urges her to flee.
Then she feels the whoosh of wind past her, nearly uprooting her.
Her eyes snap open and she spins to see Tommen’s sword trembling in his hands as Mjolnir turns the weight of his focus on him, that scaly neck extending toward him.
There is the edge of a high, piercing screech just on the outside of her senses.
Zryan is staring at his dragon, Skylar notes.
Staring, and shaking his head, like he doesn’t understand something.
He stills at a combined shriek and growl, an angry hiss from somewhere in the hall.
The witches’ animals reacting to something.
There is no angry roar of thunder. No snap of teeth, closing on the guard. There is nothing—until the guard is blown apart. Obliterated by a sound wave too high for human ears.
The pieces of him splatter everywhere, blood and flesh spraying onto nearby faces.
Then silence. The sound of multiple heartbeats, frantic and uneven.
A fragment of what was once the guard’s sword skids toward Skylar on the marble.
She can see the glint of a reflection in the once-gleaming metal, the edge of one violet eye.
She looks up into that eye, which stares back at her.
She swears she can still hear the heartbeats, like drums skittering on wind, but hers is now steady.
She bends slowly, picking up the metal fragment with the tips of her fingers.
The dragon’s head inclines, ever so slightly.
And without thinking about it, without questioning what the fuck she’s doing, Skylar moves.
Not toward the circle of Dreki who have backed away, their faces smeared with the blood of their comrade.
But toward Mjolnir. His neck stretches over her and he bares his teeth at the hall. Skylar’s breath comes out on a shake.
Every single person stares at her. The prince’s face is tight, drained of color. The king’s upper lip is curled into a would-be snarl—but it’s like the expression has gotten stuck halfway. Next to the dais, the blond man is looking at her like she’s something that does not make sense.
Even though Skylar is trembling, she cocks her head very deliberately as if to say And what?
Then there is a voice in her mind, thunder embodied.
She is not to be hurt.
There is a gasp of shock that ripples around the hall, moving from person to person, and Skylar feels a prickle run down the back of her neck as the heaviness of Mjolnir’s words settles in her mind—into the minds of every person here.
She’d heard that dragons can speak to anyone they wish, but she couldn’t have imagined the way it would feel.
The way the pressure she so often feels in her head rises to meet that presence, like two forces colliding.
The dragon shifts its head to look at his rider, and Zryan meets that gaze. There’s a beat of silence. Then Zryan nods. Either understanding implicitly—or a silent conversation. Because dragons usually only speak to those they are bonded to.
There’s a low rumble as Mjolnir draws in his long neck, more rubble falling away from the castle. Skylar stays there, dust settling around her, the fragment of sword tucked inside the rope binding her hands.
She doesn’t understand what’s just happened. All she knows is that they were going to kill her—and Mjolnir stopped them.
“Well.” It’s the witch queen, speaking from the corner of the room. The people nearest to her have gore splattered on their clothes, but she is pristine. Her voice is loud enough, but Skylar can hear the shake there. “I think that settles that, then.”
Everyone looks to the king, but he is silent.
This is the man who ordered conscription.
Who took Cam from her. Who sent his Dreki to kill her mother.
She never thought she’d be within throwing distance of him, let alone close enough to strike a killing blow.
She feels anger surging: that she has been brought here as some kind of pawn, that the royals are enjoying feasts and parties while their minions round up people on the street.
She hates them. She fucking hates every single person here.
She takes half a step forward, and the blond man’s gaze flicks to her. His green eyes are cold, calculating. It’s enough to make her stop. To think. She may be currently unguarded—but there’s no way she can take on all three royals and a whole load of Dreki.
The prince catches the blond man’s gaze. “Axel?” He jerks his head. And with a grim nod, the blond man—Axel, apparently—steps up beside Skylar. He can’t be much older than her—late twenties, maybe—but he carries himself with the confidence of someone much older.
The king glances around the room—from the remnants of the Dreki on the floor, to the witches, still hovering in the corner, to the princess covered in blood, then, finally, to Skylar.
“Fine,” he spits. “Someone get the damned Custodian. Let the Covenant decide what we do with the girl.”
At this, the witch queen nods, then jerks her chin to her guards, who close in around the princess, protecting her as they leave the hall.
Skylar doesn’t know or particularly care what the Custodian is. Because one thing is becoming very clear: she may have avoided a death sentence for now, but that does not mean they are letting her go.