Chapter 3 #2
Whatever this was, only Araxos, Erastus, and their guards seemed to know what was planned. Even grumpy Aristander hadn’t been allowed to leave and looked as flummoxed as the rest of the court.
Phiobos stood shoulder to shoulder with Attalus, each of them with a gorgoros on their other side and another behind them, dirks trained between their wings. That was the quickest way to a dragon’s hearts, between the wings.
“Will they kill us?” Phiobos whispered, sounding braver than Attalus expected.
“Not until after speeches.” He got a warning shove from Tychon but didn’t heed it. Looking about the court, he spotted who he was looking for and nodded in their direction. “Your mother and kin are here. Take heart in that.”
Phiobos managed a wan grin.
No, it wasn’t consolation to die in front of family. But if given the choice, Attalus would’ve chosen to meet his death while holding his mother’s gaze. He’d also rather be standing shoulder to shoulder with his full-brother, but then, Theron had been smart enough to flee when he could.
Attalus had always pitied the gamblers in the drinking dens, miserable and sullen as they tried to win back their losses. The key was to know when luck had run out and cut your losses.
It looked to be far too late for him now.
Araxos hadn’t even said anything yet, but there was an anger simmering beneath his brother’s stern visage, one that would only be assuaged by blood. If any dragon was to last on the Droplets, they had to learn to read the face of the anax quickly and accurately. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.
Finally, after the echo of the silver chamber doors clanking shut faded, Araxos began to speak.
“The evidence has been laid out before you all. As anax and as victim of this conspiracy, I take my right to judge.”
Attalus snorted. Their brother hadn’t been victim of anything in his life, other than perhaps overconfidence.
“Will the accused admit to their crimes and earn themselves mercy?”
Peering up at the dais, Attalus couldn’t help seeing their father in Araxos.
Of all the siblings, he resembled Diometrios most. There was no madness in his eyes; instead, his rage was a cold, banked thing that sent a shiver down Attalus’s spine.
Whatever Araxos planned, whatever it was he thought this would accomplish, he truly seemed to believe it.
Beside him, Phiobos inhaled sharply.
Don’t, idiot. That’s exactly what they want.
“I seem to recall our celebrated new anax vowing to rule with justice and honor,” said Attalus instead. “Were those not your exact words?”
“And what is this if not justice?” His voice didn’t rise, his body barely moved at all, but the weight of Araxos’s attention and disdain fell heavily upon Attalus. “Conspiracy must be rooted out, treachery must be punished.”
“Indeed. It must be proven first. On what grounds are we accused?”
“The evidence against you has been found and proven valid. The two of you are guilty in conspiring to poison me.”
“Can you truly claim a just rule when the accused aren’t afforded a chance to defend themselves? Who defended me and my good name in my absence?”
“We searched for kin to defend you but found none,” sneered Erastus. “As for this good name, we didn’t find that, either.”
A few nervous chuffs took up the air of the chamber.
“I can defend myself, then. Certainly against the likes of you.” Attalus directed his spite at Erastus, knowing full well it was too dangerous to aim it at the dais.
Gold scales flashing as his body twitched in indignation, Erastus spat, “The evidence is overwhelming and conclusive. You’re guilty, krotos ader. Best to make this quick and clean.”
“What evidence? A handful of barrels that could’ve been procured from anywhere? Gossip and hearsay from idle tongues? Such evidence wouldn’t hold up before a tavern court with drunken jurors.”
Mutterings and chuffs buzzed through the chamber.
Sensing the shift, Erastus motioned for the guard beside him to hand over his metal spear. Palming the weapon, Erastus growled, “I’ve been waiting for this.”
Fuck.
“This is not justice!” Attalus cried. “This is murder! Dais-sanctioned murder! Who will be next, anax?” For a moment, he met Araxos’s icy gaze. There was nothing to find there, no understanding, no pity. Just a bleak determination that left Attalus’s guts cold.
“Araxos Anax has decided!” Erastus bellowed above the growing noise of the court. “Chain them.”
The cold pit of Attalus’s stomach dropped when he saw the dull gleam of manacles swinging near him.
There’d been rumors, in Bargarad and the other cities, of spelled manacles making their way across the continent.
Horrible things that not only suppressed magic but absorbed it.
Stopped mantii and Savrakae from shifting, sapped the very magic from even the fae.
His two hearts wrenched in his chest. Absolutely not. If they were going to kill him, it wouldn’t be on his knees. They’d have to earn it.
Attalus unfurled his wings and spun, the dirk at his back slicing across the scales there. Twisting away, he grabbed Phiobos’s shoulder, muttered, “Run,” and kicked him in the direction of his kin.
The court exploded with the commotion, bodies surging forward to see what happened, others shouting for justice or to kill the poisoners.
Gorgoroi clawed at Attalus, and the deadly point of Erastus’s spear charged for him, but he kept himself moving. Never get caught, never stumble or misstep.
He might’ve been the charming one, the lazy one, but for much of Attalus’s life, there’d been nothing to do but train with Theron. His mother had taught them to survive, to live, and most importantly, to fight.
Attalus didn’t fight clean or honorably. He went for eyes and tongues, slashed at wing membranes and smashed noses. His claws came away bloody and sang for more as his tail whipped behind him, forcefully enough to send guards stumbling to the side.
A roar of outrage unleashed from his throat, and although it was forbidden, taboo, he let loose the shift in the Pinnacle.
From the dais, the anax snarled, showing his fangs. It was an insult, a threat.
Attalus didn’t care.
He wasn’t the biggest dragon, but at that moment, he was the angriest.
Erastus rushed forward, spear raised, but Attalus caught him by the face. He felt the other dragon’s nose crunch in his paw before throwing him aside.
Bodies lurched chaotically in swirling iridescence as factions coalesced. He thought Phiobos might’ve made it to his kin as they rallied together. Golden scales hovered near the dais, sticking close to the anax.
Gold-green scales were what caught Attalus’s attention, and he was just able to throw himself backwards to avoid a direct hit from one of the male twins.
He couldn’t tell which was Damianos and which was Demetrios shifted, but it didn’t matter.
They came at him as a single unit, going for his delicate wing membranes with fangs and claws.
In service of the anax or merely taking an opportunity where they saw it?
Didn’t matter.
Attalus smacked his paw across one of their muzzles, scales and blood spattering the glass floor. Claws and talons screeched horridly as guards scrabbled to contain him and the rioting courtiers.
Even within his own circle of battle, Attalus noticed when the anax himself stepped off the dais. It seemed Araxos was willing to bloody his own claws to bring this to a conclusion.
Catching a gorgoros in his way by the neck, Attalus bit down hard enough to break scales and tossed the smaller dragon away.
Dragons preferred a drop-off or a running start to get airborne, but Attalus had neither. He had to take the risk and jump.
Spinning to clear his way, he got two bounding leaps before throwing himself into the air. His wings unfurled, leaving the expanse of thin membranes and delicate bones vulnerable as he fought to climb.
He pushed off from heads and shoulders, unwilling to go down. Others began to shift; ropes and nets were thrown to catch him.
Attalus screamed across the chamber. I won’t die like this—I won’t die where she was slaughtered!
Hearts pumping, he refused to be brought down. His wings batted those below, but just as he pulled free of gravity, sharp pain bit through his side.
He wouldn’t let it stop him, barely took the time to look. Gold-green scales shimmered beneath him, one of the twins’ fangs embedded in his side.
Fuck, that’d gone deep.
That wasn’t the problem, though. Bites could heal—if they weren’t—
Attalus hissed, feeling the venom infiltrate his veins. Thicker than blood, it bore its way inside him, spreading faster the harder his hearts beat.
Damn it all, this wouldn’t be how it ended.
Even with a bastard brother clinging on by the mouth, Attalus gained height. He made for one of the tall windows overlooking the sea, the smell of the salt beckoning him.
Scraping whatever sibling it was against the glass casement, he rid himself of the straggler—but snarled to feel at least one fang snap off to stay with him.
Didn’t matter. He’d deal with it later.
What he needed now was away.
His lead wouldn’t be much and wouldn’t last long.
North was his only way forward, and he had to get there.
Banking right, he set his snout and wings in that direction and urged the current to take him there.