Shadowhart (Dragonhart #2)

Chapter 1

Beyond the Northern Border, nestled in a valley between the mountains, a dragon watches over the kingdom of Flambriar.

Arla Dragonhart had heard the whispers of it, and she’d have to be blind not to notice the dozens of eyes that trailed her as she walked through the city. She only wished she’d brought nicer clothes befitting of the dragon with which she had bonded.

Thara was resting today. She had taken Arla flying for the last three nights.

and for wings that hadn’t seen the light of day in …

well, Arla didn’t know how long actually, she was surprised the dragon hadn’t retreated into sleep sooner.

She’d have to find somewhere else to be in the middle of the night when the rest of the new kingdom was sleeping.

Hark’s bed perhaps, if she thought he might actually be in it.

Weeks had passed since the night she had almost bled to death and woken up in this frozen place, and once she had explored the entirety of Claret Hall, she had ventured out into the city.

Winding streets were lined by buildings that looked as though they had been carved from the mountains themselves, and smoke rose from their chimneys, clinging to Arla’s hair with what she thought might be the loveliest scent of all because this was Flambriar’s smoke.

It wasn’t Kastonia’s or Hadalyn’s, it belonged to this new kingdom, hidden away from them all.

The people were wary of her – not that she could blame them – and it was an effort to school her face into something that might be construed as neutral when she couldn’t manage a pleasant expression.

Her reputation as the King’s Assassin would follow her across continents, she thought, but that was exactly how it was supposed to be. She’d worked too hard for it not to.

A small head of red ringlets ran towards her, the girl’s cheeks pink against the cold. ‘Would you like some gloves?’

‘Mina—’

The father of the little girl tugged her back before she could get close enough to Arla for her to see the gloves that had been offered. He passed her into the arms of a woman whom Arla presumed was the girl’s mother, standing in the doorway of a shop.

She met the man’s gaze, careful not to bare her teeth or do something feral as they likely suspected she would. When he only stared at her, she took a slow step forward, careful not to jolt into view the blade sheathed at her waist.

The girl, Mina, watched her, eyes bright and twinkling like the frost that coated everything.

Arla smiled. ‘I’d like some gloves very much. What colours do you have?’

Mina’s lips parted slightly before widening into a grin that was enough to warm even Arla’s battered soul. ‘We have red, and black, and purple, and—’

‘Purple.’ Like a king. Or queen.

‘Wait here. I’ll get some,’ Mina said, ducking out of her mother’s arms and rushing back into the little shop.

Arla took half a step back – a surrendering, perhaps, in the face of the girl’s parents.

They eyed her with a wariness she knew all too well, a wariness she had worked for years to cultivate.

She wondered what Cyrus would think of her now, backing down for the sake of some gloves, showing that she did indeed have a heart and wasn’t a threat to these people.

The very thought of him filled her blood with fire.

Her king, Cyrus, had known for years that King Elrod of Kastonia was enslaving magic wielders – magics, Hark called them – and sacrificing them in an attempt to harvest their magic for himself.

Cyrus had known all the way back in Hadalyn that their sworn enemy was breaking a treaty against the possession of slaves and had done nothing.

Mina bounded through the doorway, slipping on the icy ground outside the shop before her father could catch her. The little girl clambered to her feet, hands out in front of her to present Arla with gloves the colour of royalty.

She took them gently, her cool fingers brushing over Mina’s own gloved ones. ‘They’re beautiful.’

‘I helped make them.’

Arla met the girl’s gaze and saw the bright fire of youth burning there, its innocence enough to tug at Arla’s heart.

‘Well, you’ve done a beautiful job,’ Arla said, slipping her fingers inside the soft wool. ‘How much are they?’

Not that she knew how she was going to pay for them because all of the clothes and books and jewellery she had purchased in the last few days had been billed directly to Claret Hall. She had no idea what currency was even in place in Flambriar and how Hark had managed to set it up.

When Mina didn’t reply, Arla lifted her eyes to find the girl had retreated back into her father’s hold, her tiny hand held tightly in his.

‘Consider them a gift,’ he said. ‘From her.’

Her heart stuttered only a second before Arla nodded once at the man and leaned down to thank his daughter. ‘Thank you very much, Mina, but take this as a thank-you.’

It was a lovely bracelet. Solid gold and tiny enough that it wouldn’t look out of place on the child’s wrist. It was one from a collection she had at Castle Grey back in Hadalyn – it had been a gift, actually, from Cyrus for her sixteenth birthday.

‘Thank you, Lady Reinhart,’ Mina’s mother said, stepping forwards, her hand outstretched as if she would grasp Arla’s before thinking better of it.

‘It’s Arla, please.’ She offered them half a smile before turning back towards the main road that wound through the city, and though she was used to having eyes on her at all times, this was different.

The people stopped and stared as she passed, eyes flickering between the purple gloves on her hands and the shop she had just visited.

She didn’t dare to hope that the people were beginning to trust her; but tolerating her was a start.

The streets on her route back to Claret Hall had already started to freeze again despite the sun still being high enough in the sky that Arla reckoned they had around three hours left of light.

She almost looked forward to it – how the sun would dip beyond the mountains and leave the valley that Flambriar rested in doused in dark night.

But the city in the daylight was still beautiful.

The magics – she really needed to speak to Hark and ask if they could be named something less …

obvious – had carved the city into a labyrinth of markets and shops and restaurants, the number of people here higher than Arla could have ever dreamed.

It was sickening, really, that Elrod had been enslaving these people in such numbers. And for so many years …

Frost glittered as she walked, but her hands were warm in her new gloves whilst she surveyed every corner of Flambriar.

It was the same routine she did every day.

It was her job to keep these people safe.

She had been an assassin for a king who betrayed her; she wouldn’t let these people down ever again.

Water gurgled in the river and streams that flowed through the city, the stone bridges arching over them so intricately that it was clear there was no way they had been created without magic.

It would snow tonight – the scent of it hung in the air, mingling with the sweet spices and woodsmoke that travelled through the sky.

Laughter still chased her on the winding path up to Claret Hall and it reminded her too keenly of the two children she had left behind in Hadalyn. Halos’s children.

Halos hadn’t replied to any of Arla’s letters.

The barracks perched halfway up the mountain, slumbering beneath Claret Hall and were its first line of defence should the enemy come knocking.

Not that the barracks housed an army yet, just a group of men that had stayed loyal to Hark when his father had ruined Kastonia and begun the enslavement of magics.

But it was better than nothing. All armies had to begin somewhere, she knew that.

And even if their accommodation and training ring were lacking the elegance and solidity with which the rest of Flambriar had been built, it would come with time.

She was no queen – and didn’t want to be – but she had been inside Castle Grey long enough, had spied on council meetings for too many years not to understand the work that went into running a kingdom.

Especially one that was on the brink of war.

She shrugged off the thought of armour and the sharp pain in her side that reared up like a phantom to remind her she had almost been killed, and climbed the winding steps up the side of the mountain.

The courtyard was bustling with Hark’s newly appointed army, some of them running through drills she had mastered at the age of thirteen, whilst others unbuckled the straps holding swords and blades like the ones she kept sheathed beneath her cloak.

It was easy to slip through the chaos of the courtyard.

Her feet were almost through the door to the castle before Vetta spotted her and whinnied.

Arla owed her life to that horse. For years, the mare had carried her into kingdoms and jobs that had put both their lives at risk, and Vetta had never faltered. It was more than Arla could say for herself.

‘I’ll be back later,’ she murmured under her breath, certain the mare had heard her as she tossed her head and retreated to the back of the stable.

Her boots were certainly too dirty to be walking the pale stone floors of the castle …

hall, whatever this place was, but it had never stopped her in Hadalyn, and she wasn’t about to change now.

The corridors at this low level of Claret Hall, though not glass-roofed and open to the sky like the rest of the building, were well lit and airy, punctuated by a series of solid wooden doors that she had explored on her second night here.

She stopped outside one of those doors, the voices inside reaching her before she had turned the doorknob.

Inside, the scent of ink and parchment hit her as the six people within stood, each of them raising their fists over their hearts in a show of respect she was still certain she didn’t deserve.

‘Welcome, Dragonhart,’ a short man with soft grey hair said.

Arla strode across the room, flicking through the pile of envelopes and sealed scrolls on a desk the colour of cherries.

‘I’ve told you to stop doing that, Noah. Same goes for the rest of you.’ She struggled to keep the bite out of her voice, though it wasn’t directed at them. It was because there wasn’t a single item on this desk with her name on it.

‘I’m sorry, milady, we still haven’t received word from Hadalyn.’

The same words. Every day.

The urge to palm the blade at her waist was probably not normal, but she couldn’t help brushing her fingers over the hilt anyway.

‘I can send another letter, if you like? Perhaps they aren’t reaching Hadalyn. The mountains are difficult to navigate, even for our birds.’

There wasn’t a doubt in Arla’s mind that Halos was receiving her letters. Arla had seen the falcons kept in Flambriar, and she was certain they could make it across these mountains and into Hadalyn blindfolded. Halos simply didn’t want to talk to her.

And could Arla blame her? After the story Elrod had spun to Cyrus and the rest of Hadalyn – that Arla had corrupted Hark and died at Larkire Palace during her attempted escape – it was no wonder the letters were going unanswered.

They likely believed someone was impersonating the King’s Assassin, and the letters were a ruse to launch the kingdoms into war.

None of it was Noah’s fault.

‘Send another letter and send this with it.’ It was an effort to dig the small wooden horse out of her training leathers, and even harder to hand it over to Noah. ‘If Halos doesn’t believe us after this, there’s no hope of bringing her to Flambriar.’

Noah was silent as he drafted the letter, sealing the wooden horse inside a bundle of parchments and tying it together with rough string that the falcons would be able to hook with their talons.

‘Thank you, Noah. Let me know—’

‘The moment we receive a reply I will find you personally, Dragonhart.’