Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

Part of me seethes with impatience, aching to break out and fly toward the Capital. But another part of me wonders if I’m already too late. I’m terrified that we’ll make it all the way to the palace only to discover that Serylla has been tortured and killed, like her mother.

I don’t think Rahzien would kill her, not yet. But he could wound her deeply, injure her in ways I can’t bear to imagine. And I have to sit here and wait, because if we reveal what we are, and word gets to Rahzien, he will either kill the Princess or hide her where I’ll never find her. Or he’ll ambush Hinarax and me, and Serylla will be left to the King’s mercy—which, judging by my fleeting acquaintance with him, is practically nonexistent.

In moments like this I miss my family more painfully than ever. I miss the sparkle in Grimmaw’s eyes, her throaty voice, her words of brusque encouragement. I miss Vylar’s intensity, her wholehearted devotion to every task. I miss Mordessa’s steadiness, her loyalty, her gentle calm. My Promised was a formidable warrior, but there was never any hint of frenzy about her, not even during the heat of battle.

I miss my father, the Bone-King, though my memory of him is somewhat soured by the terrible oath with which he bound me. And I miss my mother, lost years ago to a voratrice. If only she and Varex hadn’t ventured out that night, perhaps she would be here to advise me. Perhaps her wisdom could have redirected my father’s purpose, prevented our involvement in the war, guided me to a different future.

And yet… I can’t bring myself to truly regret my choices, because each one was necessary to bring Serylla into my life. My soul has wrapped itself together with hers, and I can’t imagine an existence without knowing her.

I said the word “love” aloud to her once. It was nearly a confession, one she did not return. I suppose I deserved that. It’s justice for my failure to return Mordessa’s love when she confessed it to me. I now feel the same pain and uncertainty she must have felt.

Hinarax tosses the slim ropes of his coppery hair over his shoulder and plants himself in front of me. “It’s time,” he says in an undertone. “Do you want to break the wall or should I?”

“It should be me. If the change doesn’t do the trick, I’ll be able to focus my fire and explode the stones themselves.”

He looks a bit disappointed, but doesn’t protest. We both know that his yellow fire isn’t as hot as mine.

Wearily I climb to my feet, trying to shed the heaviness of my body and spirit. I’m about to switch to dragon form when Hinarax and I hear two voices. One is a woman’s, and the other is lighter, younger, and male.

“Where are they?” asks the male.

“Back there, in a cell. The head watchman locked their goodies in the safe behind the map of Revalor.”

“Child’s play. I’ll have it open in no time.”

“Don’t tell me about it, just do it,” responds the woman dryly.

“Of course, of course! I was never here.”

“And I’m heading home, so I can pretend I didn’t see you. Watch yourself, now. The prisoners don’t seem like fighters, but you never know.”

“Sweet Thora, always looking out for me. So may you rise.”

“So may we all,” she responds.

Footsteps, and then a door creaks and closes.

The last two phrases they exchanged sounded like a password of some kind. Varex, Vylar, and I used to make up such passwords as hatchlings—phrases with responses known only to the three of us.

Hinarax glances at me. “Escape now?” he whispers.

I shake my head. The human male, whoever he is, obviously intends to take our treasure and either kill us or release us. My guess is the former. Perhaps, if I’m patient for a few more minutes, we can discern his intentions and devise a way out of this that doesn’t include destroying a large chunk of this building and calling attention to our escape.

The man in the front room is humming, and I’m immediately reminded of Serylla. I wonder if she’s singing her annoying song for her new captor. At the thought, my body heats with possessive jealousy. That horrible, repetitive tune is our song, and she had better not be sharing it with the King of Vohrain.

When the sound of clinking metal reaches our ears, Hinarax wraps both hands around the barred door of the cell and mutters, “The human is taking our treasure. My jewelry, my coins. I planned to buy more clothes…”

“Our priority is rescuing the Princess,” I hiss at him.

“Yes, but… one can rescue people while being well-dressed.”

A moment later, footsteps scuff the floor, and the person who’s humming comes into view, his right leg dragging slightly as he leans on a gnarled staff. By the light of the lamp in his free hand, he inspects us, and we stare at him.

His voluminous wavy hair is a dark red, like dragon blood. He wears a patch over his right eye, and a crooked scar runs through both lips along the right side of his mouth, giving him a perpetual twisted smirk. Black tattoos of roses and antlers cloak his throat. He’s carrying the satchel that contains our treasure.

Without a word, he sets down the lamp, produces two slivers of metal, and pokes them into the keyhole of the lock on our cell. Seconds later, the lock pops open, and the cell door swings wide.

The man with the staff doesn’t wait. He simply walks away, moving with surprising speed despite his limp.