Chapter 32 Skylar
Skylar hesitates outside the archway to the dining hall.
She’s managed to avoid this for the past few days, saying the dragon was too little, that she needed feeding throughout the night.
But there’s no getting around it now—she’s been summoned by the king to join them for breakfast; and, much as she’d like to flat-out ignore that, if she’s got any hope of being allowed a bit more freedom for the final weeks before the duel, she’s got to at least pretend to play nice.
And she needs the freedom—because despite everything that’s happened, she hasn’t forgotten that Cam is still out there, depending on her.
Simone, on guard duty, walks half a pace behind her. At least it’s Simone. Skylar doesn’t like the way some of the other guards eye the little dragon, currently perched on Skylar’s shoulder, slender tail wrapped around her neck.
Chicken? It’s one of the first words she learned.
For breakfast? I don’t know.
I like the chicken.
I’m sure they’ll bring some for you if you want some. She’s sure they’d bring anything for her. The last fire dragon. Even the fact that she has hatched for Skylar hasn’t stopped the reverence.
Smell? The little dragon sniffs the air, lets out a hopeful growl.
Bacon, maybe?
She cocks her head at Skylar.
It’s from a pig, Skylar explains.
What’s a pig?
“Ahhh…” Skylar tries to send a mental image of a pig and gets a snort and a warm puff of smoky breath on her cheek—she’s not sure if it’s disbelieving or amused.
Skylar squares her shoulders. Okay, Alina—
There’s a hiss, and Skylar raises her eyebrows. I thought you liked that name. There is another hiss.
“Something wrong with her?” Simone asks.
“She doesn’t like ‘Alina,’ ” Skylar explains.
“Ah. ‘Ember’?”
Hiss.
Simone chuckles.
Okay, back to “baby dragon” it is. Hiss. You are a baby, no getting around that. Her tiny wings pull in tight and she shifts on Skylar’s shoulder, angling her head away.
Those on the benches closest to the entrance stop eating as Skylar enters. A ripple of stillness runs down the length of the hall, conversations muted before turning to whispers. Claws tighten on Skylar’s shoulder.
Skylar turns her stride into a saunter, leaving Simone by the doorway and not bothering to acknowledge the heads that turn her way.
These people are the ones who looked down on her, now daring to watch her with admiration.
She can feel fury building, and knows if she meets any of their gazes, her power is likely to erupt.
The dragon nuzzles her ear, like she can sense it. Is it just because she’s little that she’s like this? Skylar can’t exactly imagine Mjolnir nuzzling.
The king stands as she approaches the royal table, which is set on a dais. He opens his arms wide. “My daughter.”
And this is clearly why he wanted her here. An opportunity to claim her in front of everyone, now that she is the Chosen Heir. She wonders if she’s locked into that—if she actually has to unite the lands and bring glory to Vatra, or if it’s more of a negotiable kind of legend.
Do you know anything about this Chosen Heir thing?
The little dragon blinks at her, like she doesn’t understand the question. Helpful.
The king has made room for her on his right, the queen and Zryan to his left, the latter of whom is looking at the dragon with a carefully neutral expression.
Her footsteps falter. What is she doing? She doesn’t want to sit with the royal family. A hot, twisted panic curdles within her. These people took Cam, murdered her mother, tried to kill her. She doesn’t want to—
A familiar earthen scent wraps around her. Then Axel is there, one hand on the small of her back. “You can do this,” he murmurs, guiding her to the table and taking the chair next to her.
The moment she is seated, the king produces a large box. “A gift,” he says loudly. “For the Masked Ball.”
Skylar stares at the box, only taking it when Axel nudges her in the ribs. She opens it a crack, catches sight of something orange. And frilly.
“I took the liberty of having a dress made for you,” the king says, still in that loud, grand tone.
It’s so creepy. When Skylar doesn’t respond, his eyes flash, though he covers it with a smile.
Next to him, Ottilie’s expression is tight, and she seems to be trying hard not to look at Skylar—or at the dragon, who is currently crawling down Skylar’s leg and toward the edge of the dais.
Is the Little One safe? Thunder ripples through her mind.
She’s safe, Skylar assures him, as she does several times a day.
Mjolnir originally told her that the hatchling should be taken to the island, where the other dragons could look after her.
But said hatchling adamantly refused—and Skylar stood by this choice.
After all, if she hatched for Skylar, surely she’s supposed to stay with Skylar?
Given there is no precedent for eggs hatching for humans, Mjolnir hadn’t been able to disagree.
She reaches for the jug of juice, but a servant is there instantly, pouring it for her as if she’s incapable. She takes a sip once the servant steps back. Axel is in conversation with one of the Dreki behind them, while the king has his back to her, speaking to Zryan and the queen.
“What I want to know,” the king is muttering, “is how he escaped.”
Skylar keeps her head bent over her goblet. Who escaped? From what?
“He must have had help,” Ottilie says, her menagerie standing silently at her back.
Skylar wonders briefly why the menagerie bother to serve the queen, given they are so much more powerful than her—have their lives been threatened, too?
If so, why do they seem to enjoy serving so much?
“But you said that there was no sign of forced entry anywhere in the castle,” the queen continues.
“I’ll help Axel look into it,” Zryan says, just as Axel leans toward Skylar on her other side.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
She nods, then starts as the dragon jumps back into her lap.
Kaida! The voice in her mind is delighted.
Are you sure? Because—
Sure!
Okay, Skylar agrees. Kaida. I like it.
She put off training for five whole days after Kaida hatched.
In part, she didn’t want to train. She still doesn’t want to learn to use her power, given she knows what it can do.
But she was also being truthful when she said that she needed to be with Kaida.
Because now, the first time that she’s left her with Mjolnir as babysitter, she feels twitchy, keeps reaching out with her mind to check she’s okay.
“You’re not concentrating,” Axel says—which is totally true. They are in the designated training area of the castle—with walls of weapons and mats designed for people to slam into. He is holding out a plant to her, which she is supposed to be draining the life from.
She shoves the plant away from her. “I don’t want to kill it.” She is aware she sounds defensive, almost petulant, and pulls an impatient hand through her hair—impatience with herself, for not being able to do it, and with him, for making her.
“You need to practice,” Axel says firmly. “You have a dragon, but unless she has a big growth spurt imminently, this is your best shot of winning.”
She reluctantly eyes the spider plant. She can feel it, a subtle hum of life. But what has the plant ever done to her?
“How’s it going?” Zryan asks, appearing by the wall of daggers. Skylar turns to him, ready to make some scathing comment—but he is not alone.
Skylar can only stare at the man standing behind Zryan, the gauntlets removed but the marks of them still evident.
His skin is deathly pale, frame almost skeletal. His eyes are sunken into his face, and they squint against the sun, like he isn’t used to seeing it. Her stomach turns. The only other Exhauster alive.
“We thought it might be helpful to learn from someone experienced in using your power.” Experienced.
How many lives has he taken? she wonders.
Does ever he think of them, alone in his cell?
He meets her gaze. And his mouth turns up a fraction—a subtle, knowing smile. She feels sickened. By him, by herself.
She shakes her head—but she can’t argue. Because she needs to know, doesn’t she? If she’s going to try to survive, she needs to learn. And because a part of her wants to ask him if it feels the same for him. If he craves power, the way she does.
“Do you have a name?” she asks the Exhauster.
He blinks at her. Once. Twice. “Ezra.” His voice is hoarse—and he says his name like a question. She wonders how long he’s been trapped in the castle. Wonders how they found him, if he had a family on the outside.
Sick. This whole thing is fucking sick.
Zryan gestures to the space in front of Skylar.
To the plant, which Axel is now placing on the ground.
“Ezra?” Zryan’s voice is polite. But although he might not condone this, he allows it, doesn’t he?
It’s his family doing this. She glares at him, and he meets her gaze evenly.
He shakes his head. And she knows he’s telling her that now is not the time. But then when the fuck is?
Ezra looks down at the plant. She notices how both Axel and Zryan edge back from him. Out of reach, she realizes. Because without chains, he could turn, lay his hands on them.
He kneels, placing his palms on the base of the plant.
The spiky leaves seem to rustle, like they can sense the threat.
But it’s no use. It takes less than a second for Ezra to pull the life from it—turning it to dust. He looks up at Skylar, and she can see the blackened veins across his face.
She can see the look in his eyes. The spark there.
“Your turn,” Axel says, producing another plant. There’s a whole line of them, waiting to be sacrificed.
“You need to lay your hands on it,” Ezra says, as Skylar stares at the plant. Zryan is staring, too, his lips pressed tightly together. She wonders if he’s imagining Astrid, in place of that plant.