Her king spotted her before her feet grazed the grass. There was no hiding from his magic. She stepped into the light. His gaze darted over her frame, scrutinizing her. Hers did the same, roving over his features, which she normally saw only in the soft glow of moonlight and the forgiving replication of his dreams.
He looked harsher in the stark light of day. A bronze glow from his time above the mist stained his normally pallid skin, but it only served to make the angles of his face more severe. Sun-kissed strands were streaked across his hair, heightening the contrast. What she noticed the most was that the starlight in his eyes had disappeared. They were dark and cold and as impossible to read as the surface of the ocean clouded by a charcoal fog, as though his soul were still back home even if his body had lived a few days in the sun.
“Kasiandra,” he murmured, voice exactly as she remembered, sending a quiver down her spine.
“My Liege.” Cassi bowed her head in greeting and lifted the package in her hands, the bent and broken wings, trying to find her voice within the revulsion. “The job is done.”
His features gave nothing away as he took the wings from her hands with no smile, no gratitude, no recognition. His lips were drawn in a thin line, hard and grim.
Her heart began to flutter, her throat to burn.
“There was an unfortunate hiccup in the plan today,” he said, tone even.
Cassi swallowed, trying to calm her frantic nerves. Now that he spoke, she recalled the way the ground had quaked a second time, the way the isle had plummeted for a moment, though at the time, she hadn't stopped to think of it. She’d been too lost in the scraping of her knife to absorb anything else.
Her mouth was dry. The question came out like a raspy breath, “What?”
“The raven prince—he saw too much, and then he got away.”
Her pulse took a painful leap. “No.”
The word erupted before she could contain it. Because she could read the command hiding behind what he said, revealing what he wanted. She knew what he was asking.
Oh, she knew.
He frowned. “No?”
“I’m going home.” She shook her head in thick denial. “I’m going home. Lyana will need me. She won’t understand. I’m supposed to be there with her. To help her. I need to be there. I need to go home.”
“Kasiandra.” His voice could be so alluring when he wanted it to be, just like his magic. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to step forward or whether it was he who demanded it—but she did, closing the distance between them. He put a hand to her cheek. Magic smoldered beneath his skin, sinking into hers and healing her wounds. “He saw too much.”
So had she.
She’d done too much—the blood proof was still on her skin.
She couldn’t give any more.
“I’m done,” she said, forceful this time, finally finding her voice.
The king raised his brows. “You’re done when I say you’re done.”
“I’m not a killer,” she snapped and stepped away from his touch, away from his magic, where she could breathe. “I’m not your assassin. I won’t be.”
“You’re not an assassin, Kasiandra,” he said evenly as golden flecks sputtered to life around his hands. A fist closed around her heart, one she couldn’t see, but the viselike grip was more real than any touch she’d ever shared with him before. Her king stepped closer, so close he towered over her, his power pulsing through the air, making her feel small. “You are a weapon. My weapon. To be wielded any way I choose.”
“I won’t—”
He cut her off, “You will, because the cause we fight for is greater than you or me or any one person. Our lives don’t matter. Our souls don’t matter. We’re the casualties of a war we have no choice but to win. You will do this last thing, and then finally, you’ll come home.” He paused—another silent challenge for her to refuse him. When nothing came, his posture eased. “You should wash in one of the rivers before you return to the castle. You look a fright.”
Without another word, he left, disappearing in the depths of the metal boat.
But a piece of him remained.
His magic wrapped around her legs, binding them together, gluing the bottoms of her feet to the ground, creating roots so deep she had no hope to pull them free. Cassi beat her wings, pushed and flapped and fought with all her might, but there was nothing she could do.
Her king had stolen her sky.
No. Not my king. Malek. She shook her head, realization like the blow of the sharpest blade. King. Malek. They were one and the same. The boy she loved, the boy of magic and wonder, he was gone. Dead. Reborn into a man she didn’t recognize. And she could no longer fool herself into believing anything else.
Malek has stolen my sky.
Something within her unraveled. A bitter, angry laugh seeped from her lips as the metal boat glowed with the olive spark of earth magic. A gust of yellow wind whipped through the forest, diving beneath the vessel and lifting it from the ground.
I won’t, she thought, watching the magic gather. I won’t and from so far away there’s no way you can make me. I won’t. I won’t.
“I won’t!” she screamed, refusal cutting its way out of her throat like the edge of a blade. “I won’t, Malek! I won’t!”
Again and again.
Each time more broken than the last.
Until his name held no more power.
Until the magic binding her to the dirt disappeared.
Until the ship blinked out of sight.
Cassi leapt into the sky, her wings defiant. And that was when she saw the orange glow at the edge of the horizon, growing larger—a dragon, lured to the world above by the irresistible scent of Lyana’s magic.
66
The Captain
The day was eerily silent, nothing but the slapping of waves on wood, the creaking groan of a ship long past its prime, the gentle flapping of loose canvas in the breeze. The crew sat alert but scattered across the main deck, attention on a thick fog so bright it burned the eyes. They were waiting, an ominous pastime for a group that had run to the seas to escape its enemies, some real, some imagined.
Then she felt him.
The mist was nearly opaque, but her magic stretched wide, flying with the breeze. His body was like a dagger cutting through the wind, heavy and piercing.
“He’s here! Starboard side, raise the anchor, loosen the sails!”
They jumped into action immediately.
She closed her eyes, confident her crew would handle their part, and pushed back her single wing, letting her muscles flex and feathers rustle as she tightened her hands on the wheel. The canvases snapped and a squall rushed across the deck, magic and air crashing in a wild torrent that brought a smile to her lips. She lived in that tornado, letting it whip her clothes and her hair, basking in that brief moment when the ground fell away and the sky held her in its arms and she almost, almost felt as though she were flying.
She opened her eyes and threw the breeze back across the sea.
The fog dispersed. White tendrils drew shapes in the air as the gusts swirled and twirled around a single falling figure. The blast formed a cyclone to slow the rapid descent, air turning into a cushion, a loving embrace that held him as he dropped gently through the haze. By the time they reached him, he was hovering in midair, a peaceful moment at the center of a storm.
“Ready?” she called.
The crew grunted.
She pulled the magic back beneath her skin. The wind died away. The boy dropped…and smacked against the moist wooden planks of the ship.
“Ten sailors and not a single one of you thought to catch him?” she shouted with a sneer, jumping over the rail of the quarterdeck and landing hard enough to make them flinch. What a bunch of no-good sluggards! “Look alive! Fresh water, bandages, and for the love of all the magic in the world, somebody fetch me a bottle of dragon’s breath.”
They scattered, which was good, because she didn’t want her crew to s
ee the way her fingers trembled as she rolled the boy over and pressed her fingers against the bloody wounds on his back, silver magic flickering beneath his gnarled skin.
Her own scars burned.
The memory flashed like lightning, the sort of pain and terror no time would ever erase. The slash of the knife. The white-hot searing. The scream that couldn’t possibly have come from her own throat. The echo of boots as her mother and father walked away without so much as a goodbye. The kick to her back that sent her teetering over the edge. And the never-ending fall, which still gave her the sweats in the dead of night.
Her shoulders writhed.
Her single wing folded around him, half-hiding them both from view. She brushed the hair from his cheek, revealing smooth ivory skin and a jawline that would make the handful of girls in her crew swoon, and hell, some of the men too. But she was sure of one more thing.
“This will not defeat you,” she whispered. “It will not define you.”
The curved edge of a glass bottle nudged her shoulder. She turned to meet the concerned gaze of her first mate. He’d been with her a long time, long enough to understand the turmoil churning in her icy eyes.
Captain Audezia’d’Rokaro snatched the bottle and took a long sip, shaking her head as the fire poured down the back of her throat. It settled like a flame in her stomach, shocking her system back to life. Dragon’s breath, indeed. She stood and stepped to the side, letting the crew take over. They cleaned the boy's wounds and wrapped him in bandages.
While they worked, her first mate leaned over, arms crossed, focus on the murky fog. “I got news of an attack on the floating city of Ga’bret. A whole district was burned, Zia. Could be the beast we’ve been tracking.”
The edge of her lip perked. “Then by all means, old friend, take the wheel.”
67
The King
He cut the necklace of onyx feathers from around her throat and tugged it gently away before running his gaze over the edge of her ivory wing. Unable to stop his fingers from inching forward, he ran them along the graceful curve, her plumes like living silk beneath his skin. Her eyes were closed. Her features relaxed, serene.
Like an angel from the myths of old, he thought, putting his hand to her cheek, holding her the way he did so often in the dreams that Kasiandra didn’t spin.
He’d been alone with this burden for too long, hardened by it, molded by it, chipped away, bit by bit, day by day, until sometimes he didn’t know what part of himself was left. The boy he used to be, a child of wonder and hope, was gone. Now he was a king—no, not just a king. The king. The King Born in Fire. He’d forgotten how to be anything else.
But finally, someone would understand.
He could share the weight.
The pain.
The fears.
The words of the prophecy were as ingrained in his soul as the blood in his veins, part of him, vital and sustaining, providing drive and focus and fuel whenever he needed it most.
The world will fracture, splinter in two,
One made of gray, the other of blue.
Beasts will emerge, filled with fury and scorn,
Fighting to recover what from their claws we have torn.
Two saviors will arise, one above, one below,
A king born in fire and a queen bred of snow.
Together they will heal that which we broke,
With magic and spirit, with mirrors and smoke.
But only on the day when the sky does fall,
Will be revealed the one who will save you all.
That was the burden he carried, the burden they would carry together.
A king born in fire and a queen bred of snow.
The pair foretold to save the world.
To heal the rift.
To defeat the dragons.
To fell the sky.
To force the chosen one forward.
He didn’t remember his claim to the prophecy. He’d been nothing more than a babe. But he’d been told his mother gave birth in the middle of a sea of dragon fire, surrounded by the raging flames. They’d been called by his magic, lured to the spot by the power brimming beneath his skin. She wielded her power to keep the inferno at bay, pushing it back long enough to bring her son into the world. And then she tossed him out the window into the churning sea moments before the blaze devoured her. An aero’kine waited beneath the waves. He brought the air around them so they could breathe, and there they hid until the beasts flew away. Within days, he was delivered to the king and declared not only the heir, but the one foretold to save them all, a weapon forged from fire to do whatever needed to be done.
What of his queen bred of snow?
Did she have ice in her veins?
He gripped the shears next to him on the bed, steeling his resolve.
You’ll need it.
He reached for her wing and gently spread it over his lap, so her primary feathers opened like a fan across his thighs. Then Malek cut, one by one by one, until he was satisfied that when she woke, she would have no hope of flying away.
68
Xander
Xander emerged from the sacred nest to absolute silence. Eyes fell on the blood staining his chest and then darted to the gaping emptiness behind him, but no mouths moved. No one questioned as he took to the sky. Not his mother. Not Helen. Not the guards. As though something in his gaze had stolen the breath from their lungs, making them mute.
He was numb, still reeling, lost in the chaos of his own confusion.
How have I been so blind?
Everything was so obvious now—so painfully, achingly obvious.
The white feather he’d found on the bridge those many weeks ago? Lyana. The mysterious woman who helped heal Rafe from the dragon wounds? Lyana. The reason for the smile that had been lurking on his brother’s lips during their stay in the House of Peace? Lyana. The reason it had disappeared the second they’d landed here? Lyana.
All Lyana.
And Rafe.
Two players in a game he hadn’t even known was underway.
But that didn’t explain what had happened to Lyana when they entered the sacred nest. Why had she fallen to the ground? Who was that man who had wielded such lethal power? Why had his isle rattled so precariously in the sky? And where was Lyana being taken? Because he had known without a doubt, as an invisible pressure shoved his chest and her shout rang in his ears, that she was going somewhere he wouldn’t be able to follow. That she was gone.
Go.
Go.
Go.
The word played over and over in his mind as he soared over the forests of his homeland, back to the city of Pylaeon.
Fly.
Flee.
Go.
Go.
As he crested the ridge of Taetanos’s Gate and the valley slipped into view, he stopped dead. Black smoke billowed in the sky. Gray dust formed a cloud over the city. Angry flames enveloped the castle. And now that he’d been pulled from his own mind, he could hear the anguished screams and cries of his people.
A roar shattered the air.
The dragon emerged from beneath the edge, a vision, a nightmare, so familiar Xander could do nothing but hope the beast disappeared, just a dark memory come back to haunt. Suddenly, he was back in his room, a boy, watching through the curtains as his city burned, too afraid to move, too afraid to fight, waiting for word from his mother that it was safe. A boy running through the charred halls of his castle. A boy finding his father too late and pulling his brother from the wreckage he’d had to face alone.
Go.
Go.
The word continued to ring, but he found the voice had changed, no longer Lyana’s, but his own.
Go.
Go.
A million moments flashed through his eyes as the dragon landed on the castle wall and sent a blast of flame into the sky, so hot that a wave of heat struck his cheek. Xander letting his sword fall to the grass and walking from the practice yards, looking over his s
houlder to realize his father hadn’t even noticed he’d gone. Xander sitting alone in the tallest spire of the castle, no company but his books as he watched other children splash in the fountains so far below. Xander putting the royal seal around his brother’s neck and disappearing at the first hint of danger. Xander anxiously waiting in the guest accommodations as his brother fought his battles for him. Xander afraid to approach his mate. Xander hesitant. And nervous. And running, always running from the things that scared him.
Go.
Fly.
Go.
Fight.
Go!
The voice grew into a shout that splintered his thoughts. All the anger that had been boiling beneath his skin exploded into a raging inferno. His mind went blank. His vision turned red. For the first time in his life, he let his invisible fist unfurl, releasing all the hate and the loathing and the bitterness he wasn’t supposed to feel. He let the darkness take him. He let go.
Xander pumped his wings and raced for his home.
He didn’t think.
He didn’t question.
He just acted, plunging over the edge of the waterfall and following the path of the river. He had no weapon. No magic. No hope to best the type of beast it had once taken twenty of the finest guards to bring down. All he had was the unyielding sense that if he didn’t do something, if he didn’t for once in his life face his own demons, if he ran, he would die anyway. And he would rather die a hero than the coward he feared he’d always been.
Shouts for him to stop echoed. Shrieks begged for help. Cries of all kinds littered the air—of pain, of fear, of heartbreak, of hope. He heard them all, letting every piercing wail flood his blood, a fuel unlike any he’d ever known before.
With a beat of its leathery wings, the dragon launched into the air.
They flew toward each other, two enemies on a collision course only one would survive. Xander wasn’t an idiot—he knew his odds. Yet he found he couldn’t stop, even as the beast grew, doubling then tripling in size as it neared. Fire rippled across its skin. The blood-red eyes narrowed. Razor-sharp claws flexed. The dragon inhaled, chest expanding, preparing for the killing blow. Xander snapped his wings forward and stopped, hovering in the air.
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