Chapter 32

Kit

It's morning by the time the five of us soar into the heart of the capital, where the Massa'eve palace stretches toward the sunbathed sky. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to seeing the world from the clouds. From this high above, the capital looks like a collection of perfectly sculpted children's toys, miniature houses and rivers and boulevards all laid out against a carpet of rolling hills and manicured trees. Horses and wagons and people move around but make little headway. Even the flag fluttering atop the towering spire of the palace seems insignificant against the expanse of the world.

Cyril swoops low and we follow, keeping a diamond formation with me in the middle. His blue scales catch every facet of sunlight in a mesmerizing display of muscle and beauty. Every line of the dragon is dominance incarnate. Perfection. Life. Death.

The buildings grow beneath us, the trees bending to the wind from our powerful wings. People stop in the street. Not every fae in Massa'eve can shift to dragon form, but they clearly all recognize who is coming in. I can't hear their words, but I see them all watching. Pointing. Changing their own trajectory to match ours. They take off their hats—or else hold them down to their heads against the wind—but they all look up toward the sky. Toward their king.

They are looking at you, Tavias says into my mind.

They aren't the only ones, Hauck adds. In close formation I can hear all my mates now, though it takes concentration. Hauck's mind voice is the easiest to discern after Tavias's. It's low and velvety , like a caress along my belly. It's taking all my self control to stay the course.

A lewd image coalesces in my mind and I miss a wing beat, nearly falling out of formation before the males adjust their speed and altitude to conceal my error. The image ripples and I can feel a self satisfied smirk behind it. Hauck. I don't know how he did it, but I know he is behind that.

No sky patrol, Cyril points out, Tavias sending a curt agreement. Tension fills the bond, wiping away thoughts Hauck had tried to plant in my mind. Salazar obviously knows we are here. He is choosing to let us approach unchallenged. And unwelcomed.

Cyril banks again, making a tight circle above the courtyard, which has filled up with a sizable crowd by now. Then we are down, shifting in a flash of light until we stand side by side at the steps of the eerily silent palace. I can feel the crowds' eyes piercing into my back.

There are at least ten uniformed males by the grand palace doors in front of us, five on each side. They all look formidable. Through the bond with my males, I already know they are all Salazar's people.

Is this the part where the palace guards try to kill us? I ask Tavias.

No yet. No one is fool enough to attack a prophecy incarnate in the middle of a courtyard.

So that's why Cyril ensured we circled nice and low before landing. He was ensuring everyone got a good look at me.

Cyril strides forward toward the guard in charge. Unlike the guard's perfect uniform, Cyril's clothes are still wet from our swim and his hair clings in wet strands down the sides of his face. The hard lines of his body, which I know so well, radiate the same leashed power that they did in dragon form. A warrior amidst dressed up dolls.

"Captain." Cyril pins the guard with a cold glare. "First, straighten your collar. Second, take us to Salazar. I'm certain he will not wish to delay learning of our safe arrival."

I swallow a snort. Yes, the lies Salazar had spun about keeping the throne warm for his dear brother are biting him in the ass now. Not that an ass bite will keep the bastard at bay for long, but it's nice to see.

Cyril is speaking loudly enough for the crowd behind us to hear and a rising murmur fills the air. I can't make out the words, but I can feel their tension. They know something is happening and whatever it is will change their lives. First a dame soaring through the sky, and now a royal pack marching alone on the palace. The whole situation is so volatile that it threatens to explode if someone strikes a match wrong. And if it does, if fighting breaks out, these people will be among the first casualties. No matter who wins.

Of course they are on edge.

I know that Cyril is doing his best to keep the casualties low. That's why he turned down Tavias's proposal of calling in the army units still loyal to Ettienne's line and marching the host against Salazar. Any large-scale assault would see the capital running red with blood. Cyril is trying to protect his people, but there is no guarantee he'll succeed.

The ironic unfairness of it all hits me in the chest. Ettienne, Salazar, us. Everyone is struggling for the throne, for the power to rule the people of Massa'eve—but who is asking the people what they want? And what if… what if a dame sounded good to them in the prophecy but not in the flesh? Not if it means more turmoil in their lives? I've been a slave. I, of all people, know who takes the whippings when the lords and masters squabble.

The guard clicks his heels together, his face a stone mask of professional apathy. "Lord Salazar is reigning regent until the king's return," he replies just as loudly as Cyril has spoken. "But I will inform him immediately that his nephews wish an audience. Wait here, please."

Quinton breaks from formation and I swear I see shadows swirling around him as he steps forward.

"You may inform him that the king has returned," Quinton says with ghost-cold calm. Gripping the guard's shoulder, Quinton cuts a telling gaze to the sigil on Cyril's finger, which marks him as Massa'eve's true sovereign. "Lord Salazar's services will no longer be required."

Gasps sound from the crowd, their anxiety rising another notch.

The guard captain looks at where Quinton grips his shoulder and pales. The captain knows what Quinton is. Knows that he has one heartbeat to decide whether this will be the moment blood magic melts his internal organs to goop.

He wisely decides to live and steps aside.

Tavias and Hauck pull open the double doors and we stride in, heading directly for the throne room. The corridors are eerily empty except for the guards trailing in our wake. Whatever palace staff still loyal to Ettienne that remain are wisely keeping that fact to themselves.

The two guards standing outside the throne room look unsurprised at our approach. They make no move to stop us from unceremoniously flinging the door open.

Probably because there are two dozen of Salazar's warriors pointing their weapons down at us from the mezzanine the moment we step inside.

"Cyril." Salazar lounges rather than sits on the throne, his lean frame sprawled with an arrogance that seems to drape over the sides. Standing behind his father, Geoffrey grins with malice that's mirrored in every face, every weapon now pointed at us. Even Bianca, sitting primly on a velvet chair in the corner, is beaming with self satisfaction. "What's this talk of you flashing about Ettienne's sigil? Have you killed our beloved ruler, nephew? Truly, I didn't think you were capable, but here we are."

"You are in my chair," Cyril says as if we don't have two dozen weapons pointed at our heads.

I don't think Salazar is going to go for the ‘give me my crown back please' approach, I say down the bond.

Cyril's face doesn't change, but I feel wry amusement trickling back toward me. At least no one can accuse us of not trying.

"You are no king," Salazar looks down his nose at Cyril, ignoring the rest of us. "You're a pup with a trinket. So allow me to disillusion you of whatever standing you think you have here." He rises and strides down the few steps from his dias. Behind him, Geoffrey's face fills with subtle gleeful anticipation. Salazar spreads his arms. "I'm sitting on this throne and you are not. I've the ear of the people. The support of the soldiers. Raise a hand against me, rally whoever you think will come to your cause, and the only thing you'll discover is how much innocent blood can fill these corridors."

Salazar drapes his hands behind his back and continues his lecture, gaining more momentum with each word. He's probably been practicing this speech ever since whatever message system he has in place informed him of our breakout from Nyx.

"And when I win," Salazar continues, "and win I inevitably shall, I will string you and your brothers up as traitors and hang you from the city walls. You will go down in history as power drunk princes who killed their father and then turned on each other." He pauses, letting his words sink in before facing Cyril and smiling. "Or… you can take my deal."

"A delightful offer, I'm certain," says Cyril. He wears the expression of schooled indifference, but I feel his patience straining through the bond.

Salazar scowls. "You will bend your knees before me," he says more briskly than his earlier dramatic tones. I think our lack of trembling is shaking his confidence somewhat. Or at least his ego. "You will publically tell the story of your father's tragic death, and his last desperate order: that I oversee Massa'eve in his place. You will bow to the wisdom of the old king and new, swearing your fealty with an oath of blood as all of Massa'eve looks on. In return, you and your brothers will be allowed to remain here, as honored members of my court and with enough decorations and allowance to maintain the lifestyle you are accustomed to."

I don't think Salazar quite understands what lifestyles my mates are accustomed to. Or anything else about them.

"Intriguing." Cyril rocks back on his heels. "Except for the part of anyone believing these conjurings. You forget that the dragons have awaited Kitterny for generations. She is the prophecy awoken. And she is ours."

"Oh, that," Salazar waves his hand toward me as if referencing a small rodent. "The dame belongs to Geoffrey. Don't fret. Unlike you, he knows how to handle a broodmare."

Lightning cracks the air apart as Tavias loses his grip on his temper, and a dozen charred bodies of Salazar's guards crumple to the floor.