69. Dimitri
69
Dimitri stood and watched. His only hope had been if Aedon rescued the young woman and took the temptation to chase the Dragonheart, too. It was easier not to think of Harper by name. He had succeeded in planting the seed with the thief, it seemed. It was not beyond Aedon’s nature. Anything so daring would light the fire in him, if for no other reason than the sheer bravado and thrill of it. Harper would be gone—that felt like a bitter and hollow victory—and he had successfully goaded Aedon into doing his dirty work for him.
Dimitri could not care less if they left with one Dragonheart, a hundred, or none. As long as he also obtained one under cover of their theft. Then there would be nothing stopping him from raising Saradon and breaking the wheel once and for all. Unbeknownst to Aedon, he had also held back the wards, lending his strength to the elf. As much as he would have liked to see Aedon devoured by the protective magic, Dimitri’s success depended on theirs. It was nothing else. Just self-preservation. He refused to admit to himself that he did not want Harper to be collateral damage. That thought was too dangerous.
In the chaos, it was easy to slip between the folds of the world remaining hidden. He flitted between them, tripping a guard here, blinding one there, just for the fun of it. He paused by Aedon and the tall Aerian. Their cloak pockets and bags hanging from their waists were stuffed to the brim with Dragonhearts. He found the biggest and spirited it to the in-between place with him. It was risky. He ought to have left, but he stayed, lingering just a while to watch the fight.
The dragon magic roared through Aedon, bathing all in fire, burning up wards, as well as air. Interesting. The dragon’s bond of strength had not entirely forsaken the elf. Dimitri had no idea that could be the case when a rider’s dragon died. It was a new reason to be wary of Aedon.
His attention sheared from Aedon as he saw Harper falter—saw a scar-faced soldier wrench her against the bars of the portcullis. Before any conscious thought materialised, his magic had already surrounded the man, choking the breath from him just as scar-face tried to strangle her. Dimitrius wrought savage pleasure in the crushing hold his power had upon the man’s throat.
Around them, Dimitri felt the wards crumbling under the weight of magical assault and dragonfire. He was not yet free, and if he lingered, even for a moment too long—for her—all would be lost. She was no helpless maiden. The memory of her sweeping that blade to his own throat, a vicious fire in her gaze, was enough to make him grin. No. The huntress did not need his help. She could save herself. With that thought, Dimitri vanished.