Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

1

I perch on a sun-soaked peak, letting my scales drink the warm light while I survey the island of Ouroskelle, the domain I rule alongside my brother Varex.

I’ve been flying from cliffs to caves, from mountains to meadows, calculating the damage done by the Mordvorren, the sentient storm that battered Ouroskelle for days.

Mentally I tally up the losses.

Three deaths—one dragon and two humans, killed in the partial collapse of a cave.

Severe flooding in the low-lying parts of the island.

Heavy damage to the landscape from wind, lightning, and rockfalls. Beaches littered with debris churned up by the storm.

Most of the vegetation is wrecked, inedible. Prey is almost nonexistent.

And yet I have hope. Because during my visits to each member of the clan, I counted eleven eggs. With the two eggs Serylla and I produced, the total from this mating season is thirteen. I saw some women whose bellies are still round, who will soon lay the eggs they carry, and I’m hopeful that more have been bred, though they may not yet show it.

Varex sits on a lower ledge of the same mountain on which I rest, taking in the same view. I was relieved to see him alive, though he bears a ragged wound along his throat. When I saw it, I nearly killed his woman, Jessiva, but Varex took my neck in his jaws and shoved me out of his cave before I could attack.

“She tried to kill you,” I snarled at him, but he only said, “That’s between me and her.” He wouldn’t speak about it any further, nor does she seem to be carrying his eggs—though I only caught a brief glimpse of her, so it’s difficult to be sure.

Varex stretches his wings and shakes out his long neck and shoulders. He does not relish the sun the same way I do—his preference is star-glow and moonless nights. Still, I can tell he’s pleased that the storm has passed. He seems bone-weary, though, even more so than I am.

“Rothkuri and a few of the others who are skilled with fishing have gone to hunt eels, sharks, and whatever else they can find,” I tell him. “We all need to eat and regain our strength. Then we can fly to the Middenwold Isles and see how the animals there have fared. If they survived, we will have plenty to feed the hatchlings when the time comes.”

“The Mordvorren did not touch the Middenwold Isles,” Varex says.

“How do you know?”

A shudder traces through his entire body. “I just know.”

I extend my neck and touch his wingtip with my nose. “You’re not yourself. Is this about Jessiva, or the ones we lost?”

He shifts away from my touch. “Both.”

“And something else, too. You cannot fool me, brother.”

“I can’t talk about it yet,” he hisses. “I don’t understand it, and I’d rather not speak of it.”

“Very well. Know that I’m here, whenever you decide to share your thoughts.”

He chuffs softly in assent.

“Have you gained control of when you change?” I ask.

“More or less. I can only remain in human form for a total of eight hours before I’m forced to transform into a dragon. And if I’ve been a dragon for sixteen consecutive hours, I’m forced into human shape. But within those parameters I can manage it, parcel out the time, and plan when I want to be in each form.”

“I’ve learned the same thing.” A twinge of restlessness flickers through my heart. I’ve been surveying the island and checking on my people for a long while. It’s high time I found some food and returned to the nest where my Princess and my eggs await me.

My mental attention shifts to the wisp of awareness between me and Serylla—my instinctive sense of her location.

I should be able to find that thread easily… but no matter how hard I concentrate, it’s not there.

Ice runs through my veins, and I lift my head, extending my neck to its full height.

My connection with Serylla has vanished.

“What is it?” asks Varex.