ESSA
The night after visiting my mother’s chamber, I crept down a moonlit, half-ruined hallway of the Hatchery, drawn sword in hand.
Before the strike on Charcain had damaged it, the Hatchery had housed all the dragons of the Skrathan.
It consisted of a vast, domed open space above ground where the dragons flew, sparred, and interacted with one another.
And miles of catacombs lay beneath that, where the dragons slept—sometimes alone, sometimes two or three to a chamber.
It was an incredible place, a wonder of the world, but the attack a few months before had left it in a bad state.
The upper dome was cracked, and rain had come in, turning the main hall into a minefield of puddles and debris.
The smell of dragons, usually a pleasant scent, still hung in the air, but it had turned sour, and what had once been like a hive buzzing with energy and power now felt empty and haunted.
The place wasn’t completely abandoned, though.
I’d seen Romia, Cronin, and Kramat come in here after dinner.
I’d tried to wait long enough for them to be asleep, but now, as I crept down the stone hallways of the catacombs, I heard low voices.
Firelight flickered in one of the chambers, and I crept up and peered in.
Sure enough, there they were. The three dragons appeared fast asleep, their bulky forms spread out along the edges of the room like a great, slow-breathing mountain range.
Cronin was asleep as well, wrapped in his cloak and using his massive capran’s tail for a pillow.
Each dragon’s room in the hatchery was like the chamber of a honeycomb, open to the outside, and Romia and Cronin sat together near a fire at the end of the room, where it was open to the night air.
My gaze shifted to settle on Sordim, Romia’s dragon—a male scorper.
He was a fine specimen, long and lean, with black scales that glistened like water in the firelight.
My eyes traced down his body, down his folded wings, to his tail.
Like the insect from which it drew its name, a scorper’s tail widened at the end into a bulb, from which a deadly, two-foot-long spike protruded.
Scorper venom. That’s what I’d need for my plan to work. Unfortunately, the only scorper around belonged to Romia—my enemy.
I’d hoped to find them sleeping, sneak in, milk the venom from Sordim’s tail, then sneak out again. Now, I’d have to wait around until they were asleep.
With a huff of frustration, I ducked back into the hallway and slid down into a sitting position to wait. I sat for a long time, watching the firelight paint ever-shifting patterns on the stone wall in front of me.
Then, I heard a sound from the room. A faint, high-pitched sigh.
I rose up to my knees and peered into the chamber again.
Kramat was lying down now. The top of his riding leathers were off, revealing the brown skin of his chiseled chest and abs like polished stones.
Romia knelt over him, head bobbing at his waist. As I watched, she slowly pulled back, releasing a massive, dark manhood glistening with spit.
Despite myself, I felt a stirring of warmth between my legs.
Silently, Romia stood and slipped off her breaches, revealing an arse and thighs thick with muscle.
Working fast, she unlaced her top, freeing her breasts.
“Come here,” Kramat said, his voice low with desire.
I should turn away, I thought. Come back later.
And yet I remained riveted in place, watching as Romia mounted Kramat and sank down onto him slowly, hissing through her teeth as she did.
She began moving then, her hips shifting and gyrating methodically at first, then faster. Taking one of Kramat’s hands, she placed his forefinger between her lips and sucked it for a moment, then guided it down to her breast, where he stroked her nipple, glinting now with her own saliva.
Watching them made me burn with desire. And desire made me think of Charlie. What I wouldn’t give to be doing that with him right now. Forevermore. Or once more, at least. But like everything else good in my life, that had been stolen from me—by traitors like these...
Well, now that they were distracted, I’d steal something from them.
Keeping to the shadows, I crept into the room, sword in hand.
There was a low rumble of dragon snores. The crackle of the fire. Romia’s grunts as she and Kramat picked up their pace. On silent feet, I made my way to the end of Sordim’s tail, my gaze fixed on that deadly stinger.
Here’s where having two hands would have been convenient—but I was more than accustomed to having only one.
Without even thinking about it, I clamped the flat of my sword blade under my armpit.
With my hand now free, I reached into my pocket, taking out the glass bottle I’d brought for this purpose.
But its lip caught in my pocket for half a second.
When I tugged, it burst free—and slipped from my fingers.
Time seemed to stand still as I watched it spin through the air, then shatter on the floor.
Immediately, I grabbed the grip of my sword and readied it.
Romia was on her feet in an instant, tugging down her tunic and snatching up her own sword.
Kramat rolled, putting his manhood back in his pants, then stumbled to his feet, a dagger in his hand.
Cronin sat up, blinking. And next to me, Sordim stirred, his eyes opening into glowing orange slits.
The other two dragons—mercifully—remained asleep.
“Well, well,” Romia said, taking a step forward. “It appears a rather clumsy assassin has come to call.”
“Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” I said.
Kramat adjusted his pants, wincing, but Romia ignored the jab.
“What, spilling your own cousin’s blood wasn’t enough? You had to come and try to finish us off, as well?”
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t—” but I went silent, then. To say more would have betrayed my plan.
Romia tilted her head. “You weren’t what? Sneaking up on us with your blade drawn?”
“Pretty gutsy to think you could take out three riders and their dragons all on your own,” Cronin said. He’d retrieved his own sword and gotten to his feet. He circled behind me now, blocking my exit.
My heart had been beating fast before. Now, it thundered in my chest. Usually, Othura would have been in my mind to calm me, but I was on my own.
“Listen,” I said. “We are all Skrathan here…”
“Don’t pretend we’re the same,” Romia snarled. “Any affection that could have existed between us died with my best friend.”
“I had no choice but to fight Laynine,” I said.
Romia spit at my feet. “Wrong, Princess. We all have a choice. Coming here tonight was your worst one yet.”
Kramat started to step toward me, but Romia put a hand out, stopping him.
“No. She’s mine.”
I heaved a sigh. I hadn’t come for a fight, but it seemed I wouldn’t get out of here without one.
So, I assumed a fighting stance and brought up my blade.
In the next second, Romia was on me, steel whistling toward my throat.
I got my own blade up just in time to parry and spun out of the way, countering with a slash at Romia’s knees.
She stepped back just in time to dodge it, then brought her sword around in an overhead swing.
I brought my weapon up, blocked the strike, and countered.
Again and again, our blades clashed. We circled, feigned, slashed, thrusted, and blocked until my legs ached and my sword arm trembled.
But we were evenly matched. Neither could get the upper hand.
All three dragons were awake now, and I was hyperaware of their power all around me. Sordim’s stinger, full of venom. Ubrun’s fire, which could have roasted me in a single breath. Doomah’s carcer talons, which could have crushed me to jelly with one squeeze.
But they all obeyed Romia’s command, letting our fight play out toward its inevitable ending—one of us lying on the floor, dead.
I drew first blood, a slash to Romia’s bare thigh that sent blood trickling down her leg.
But she avenged herself a moment later with a thrust that caught my non-sword shoulder, piercing perhaps an inch into my flesh before I managed to step back and avoid worse damage.
We both redoubled our efforts then, the clatter of our blades ringing through the chamber, our shadows capering like bloodthirsty demons on the walls in the firelight.
But my arm was growing tired. Slow. And when I got lazy after a missed thrust, Romia countered, hitting the back of my hand with the flat of her blade. My sword clattered to the stone floor and I backed away, hissing with pain. I stumbled away from her until my back hit a wall.
A dark grin grew on Romia’s fire-lit face. “Farewell, Princess,” she said, striding toward me. Without even a moment’s hesitation, she lunged in for the kill.
At the last second, I side-stepped her thrust and caught her blade in the crook of my bad arm, then I stepped forward and grabbed the hilt of her sword.
I spun, and Romia spun with me, trying to hang on, but in the next instant, we were both tumbling to the ground, the sword clattering out of reach.
It was fists, then. We both lay on our sides, pummeling one another with wild blows.
My lip, my eye, my cheek, my ear, all throbbed with Romia’s blows, until everything became a blur of tears and pain.
But I was giving as good as I got. Somehow, I managed to get Romia on her back.
With my hand, I pinned back her wrist, and I brought the elbow of my bad arm down on her face one, two, three times, until I felt her nose crunch.
But in my eagerness to press the advantage, I forgot my body position, and she brought her knee up sharply, into my pelvis.
As I winced, she rolled, bringing her own elbow across my face.
I tumbled off her and scrambled away, stars splashing across my vision as I stumbled to my feet.
When I got my bearings, I saw Romia coming at me once more.
“Romia!” Kramat called, tossing her a dagger. She caught it deftly, continuing to stride toward me. I glanced over my shoulder. My back was to the chamber’s opening, now. The night wind whispered at my back, beckoning me. As if in response, I felt the dragon stone on my necklace warming.
Romia, seeing that I was about to escape, cocked back her arm to throw the dagger—but a voice cut through the room.
“Romia. Stop.”
We all looked to the entrance, where a shadowy figure stood. He stepped into the firelight, and I saw his face.
It was Braimar.
“There are few Skrathan left,” he said softly. “Let’s not quarrel among ourselves. Especially not with our Irska.”
We all sneered at Braimar, then—me most of all. I hadn’t asked for his help, and I would never have accepted it willingly. Who did he think he was to come in and try to intercede on my behalf, as if I were someone who needed saving?
I hoped Romia would throw the dagger at him. Instead, she did the most sensible thing and ignored him, turning back to me.
“Yes, our Irska,” she snarled. “The greatest of the Skrathan. Show us, then. Show us you didn’t beat Laynine by sheer luck. Show us you deserve to lead us. Or die.”
And with that, she hurled her dagger at me.
I saw its blade whirling toward me as if in slow motion, the blade flashing with firelight with each rotation.
It sped toward my heart, and I had no way to deflect it, no time to react, nowhere to run.
So, I did the only thing I could. I threw myself backwards, into the open air.
“Essa!” I heard Braimar shout.
I felt the rush of air and the whistle of the blade as I leaned backward—and Romia’s dagger flew by my breasts, then my face.
Then I was falling down the cliff.
But I didn’t panic. I was used to falling.
The dragon stone burned at my chest, and the wind responded, catching me with its breath, slowing my descent.
Above, I saw Romia glare down at me over the rim of the catacomb.
“No!” she snarled.
I only smiled and waved at her as the wind lowered me away, off into the night.