Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

Kyreagan told me Rahzien had offered to buy me. Apparently Rahzien is struggling to secure his control over Elekstan, and if he uses me to produce a rightful heir to the Elekstan throne, it will solidify his claim.

It chafes my soul to know that even in the most civilized kingdoms, war can reduce women to nothing more than empty holes and fertile wombs in the eyes of men. I hate that I’m not physically stronger. I wish I’d trained harder and learned more effective techniques for self-defense—although deep down I know that in this case, none of that would help. Even the most well-trained woman can be subdued by enough men with malicious intentions. And I’m not a warrior like the women in the Elekstan army. I’m not made of sinew and whipcord and steel. I’m too soft, too vulnerable. Easy prey.

My only resources are my mind and my words. Maybe I can strategize an escape, or talk my way out of bedding the King of Vohrain. But what if I can’t? What if he forces me?

I’ll have to endure whatever comes my way. Fight when I can, submit when I can’t, escape as soon as I have the chance. If the King takes my body by force, I’ll retreat behind mental defenses until it’s over. I have no doubt many an Elekstan woman has had to do the same thing since the Vohrainian occupation.

That thought upsets me more than my own impending violation. Knowing that such atrocities have likely occurred among the palace staff and the people of the capital, imagining all that pain—it makes me shudder so violently that Fortunix notices.

“Be still, human, unless you want me to drop you,” he snarls.

“You won’t drop me. You need me.”

He rumbles in grudging admission. “Listen, when we arrive, keep quiet about the enchantress’s spell.”

“You don’t want the King of Vohrain to know you can turn into a human? Why not?”

“Because I am ashamed,” he grits out. “Humanity is weakness. I’ve told the King that Kyreagan’s plan to turn women into dragons didn’t work. That’s all he knows.”

I vent a sardonic laugh. “What’s to stop me from telling him the truth? You think I’ll keep your secret out of the goodness of my heart?”

“Not my secret,” he says. “But you’ll keep Kyreagan’s secret.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you think the King of Vohrain will react if he finds out that a powerful race of dragons can now take human form? He’s a man with a mind for conquest, a man who sees threats everywhere. A suspicious man who wants to protect what’s his while claiming even more. He would find some way to use this knowledge against our clan.”

“And you have your clan’s best interest at heart,” I say dryly.

“The things I’ve done were necessary to avenge terrible wrongs, but now that my vengeance is complete, all I want is to live out my days quietly, in the midst of my own hoard. The other dragons may hate and revile me, but I wish them no harm.”

“You’re delusional,” I tell him. “You’ve been the cause of so many deaths—”

“You would rebuke me for causing death?” His voice rises, hot with fury. “Your people hunted, killed, and desecrated my loved ones.”

I want to protest that the dragon hunts happened forty years ago, before I was born, but I decide against it. When I had similar conversations with Kyreagan, he was willing to listen, to understand my perspective, and to perceive his own mistakes. And he accepted my sincere regret about my own apathy and inaction. Fortunix is not open to such a conversation. He is impervious to any suffering but his own. So I keep silent again, alternating my gaze between the granite underside of the dragon’s throat and the bushy tops of the trees below me. We’re gliding lower, and soon Fortunix dives into a clearing, landing on his back legs and clumsily folding his wings while still gripping me in his front claws.

He gives a long, droning bellow, like a signal. Then he waits, while I try to adjust my body within the cage of his bony claws. My belly is still swollen and sore from laying the two dragon eggs. I crave a soft bed and a cup of hot tea, preferably turmeric and ginger with honey.

“Put me down,” I demand, but the dragon ignores me.

After several long minutes, four soldiers march out of the forest. They wear the smoky blue uniforms of the Vohrainian military, complete with armored vests. Their skull-like helmets all bear the same metallic, skeletal grin beneath twin eye-slits. I’ve never seen a Vohrainian soldier in person—I’ve only heard descriptions and seen sketches. Facing those grinning silver helmets in real life is spine-chilling.

One of the soldiers is pushing a small cart with a large wooden chest on it. Judging by the angle of the man’s body, the chest is heavy. Probably full of gold—Fortunix’s payment for delivering me.

“The Princess of Elekstan, as promised.” Fortunix opens his claws and I tumble ungracefully into the grass. Wincing and holding my stomach, I climb to my feet.

The tallest soldier surveys me, his helmet tilting up and down. “She looks more like a waif of the wood. Tell me, girl, are you the Crown Princess?”

“No, sir,” I say in a breathy, squeaky voice. “No, I ain’t. I’m Maisie Wimple from River’s Twist, down yonder. This big beastie snatched me up and told me to pretend I’m a princess, but I don’t know how to pretend such things, begging your pardon, sir, seeing as I ain’t got much learning and no manners to speak of—”

“It’s her all right. The Crown Princess herself. Sly as ever.” A shadow emerges from the trees behind the four Vohrainian soldiers.

I know that voice. It belongs to Zevin Harlowe, one of the young lords I used to invite to palace dinners. He has a saucy, sharp sense of humor that sent me into fits of helpless laughter every time he dined with us. We kissed once, but I knew his reputation for gossiping about his trysts in detail afterward, so I refused to indulge him any further. He used to call me “cruel” for denying him—laughingly of course, but I always suspected he truly resented my refusal. Toward the end of the war, he was called up for service—a fate he’d previously been spared due to being one of my favorites. I haven’t seen him since then.

He saunters through the dappled sunlight of the clearing, his pale eyes fixed on me.

“Well met, Princess.” He gives me a tight, cold smile and sweeps off his hat. Half his skull is bald, wreathed with the dark, knotty scars of frost-fire burns. More burn scars cover his throat and the side of his face.