Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

“Wait till dark, explode out of here, run for the woods. Once we get there, we’ll transform and fly to the Capital under cover of darkness and clouds. Also, while we are on this mission you may dispense with the honorifics. Call me Kyreagan. Or perhaps Ky is a more human name.”

“Ky.” He nods, pleased. “I like it. And you can call me Rax… or Hin? Or Arax?”

He keeps trying out various abbreviated forms of his name while I stare at the iron gate and wonder if Serylla’s current accommodations are any better than mine. I hope they are. I hope she is comfortable. If not, I’m sure she will make it known, loudly.

I can’t help smiling a little, remembering her demands and her whining when I first captured her. My fears for her safety are justified, but I must also remember who she is—a clever actress who can be dreadful, devious, or charming by turns.

My attempt to save her is not going well so far. Perhaps, by the time I make it to the Capital, she will have rescued herself.

4

I’ve been in the dark for hours.

The chain linking my manacles to the wall is too short for me to sit down, so I lean against the stone until I’m too exhausted to stand for another second. I try kneeling for a while, but that position tugs at the manacles, making them dig painfully into the backs of my hands. My full bladder is swollen, aching, and my stomach muscles continue cramping occasionally. Pain stabs through my injured foot every few seconds, and my shoulder hurts where I landed on it. Besides which, I’m starving.

The worst part is the need to relieve myself. My bowels are churning a bit from the process of birthing the eggs, and though I’ve been able to control it so far, I’m rapidly reaching my limit. If no one comes, I’m going to end up letting everything out right here, on the floor.

Things scurry through the pitch darkness occasionally. Now and then, a thin, jointed leg brushes against my bare foot, and I have to bite back a scream.

I can feel my sanity flaking away like shavings from a stick. Time is a merciless blade, carving me thinner and thinner.

Just as I think my bladder will burst, I hear footsteps in the hallway. They’re faint, almost inaudible through the thick wood of the cell door.

“Please,” I rasp. The act of trying to speak makes me realize how thirsty I am, how thick and dry my tongue is. “Please, I need the privy, or a chamber pot, or a bucket. Anything, please.”

Something clinks in the lock, and the cell door opens with a groaning creak.

A burly figure enters and sets down the lantern he’s carrying. By its glow I devour his appearance, eager for any clue about who he is and whether I can convince him to help me.

He’s not as tall as Kyreagan is in human form, but he’s taller than the average man. Black fur cloaks his broad shoulders. Gold jewelry glints in a bushy reddish beard, and thick brows bristle above deep-set eyes. There’s a gold ring through his septum, a mark of Vohrainian nobility, and it’s set with a single tiny ruby that identifies him as royalty.

This is Rahzien, King of Vohrain. I’m looking at the man who conquered my kingdom, the one who humiliated and executed my mother. The only being in the world whom I could kill without feeling a drop of regret.

“Serylla.” His voice is gruff and low. He purposely omits my title and uses no honorifics.

“Rahzien,” I reply.

“Master,” he says.

“What?”

“You’ll call me Master.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss.

He turns on his heel and heads for the door.

“Wait! I need the privy.”

“‘I need the privy, Master.’”

Is he being serious? I let out a derisive laugh, but he only stands unmoving, waiting. Demanding that I verbally demean myself and acknowledge him as my superior.

I’m a woman with pride and a decent amount of inner strength, but I’ve never been as proud or steely as my mother. Even when I worked hard alongside the palace servants, I enjoyed my rest and my comforts, too. And what I’m requesting isn’t even a comfort—it’s a basic need. One I’ve resisted for so many hours that I’m desperate.

The last thing I want to do is piss and shit all over myself in front of the man who killed my mother.

It’s just a word. One word, and then maybe he’ll let me visit a privy or at least give me a bucket. “I need the privy… Master.”