2

Wind blasts my cheeks and whips tears from my eyes. I forgot how uncomfortable it is to fly for hours, grasped in the bony claws of a dragon who doesn't care for my well-being. Fortunix said he's supposed to deliver me undamaged, but apparently he doesn't think a few bruises will interfere with him receiving his reward from the King of Vohrain.

We're high up, gliding through wispy clouds as we approach the capital city of Elekstan. Fortunix is angling slightly south. If he continues this trajectory, we'll bypass the city entirely.

"If you're aiming for the palace, you should be heading due west," I call.

"Thank you, Princess," he replies in a dry, grating tone. "If it wasn't for you, I'd be utterly lost, bumbling about with no sense of direction."

"Fine, so we're not heading for the palace. Where are we going?"

"Wait and see. "

I sigh gustily and fall silent, watching the landscape roll beneath me. It's familiar and yet foreign, since I'm not used to seeing any of it from this height. When Kyreagan carried me away from my home, I was too frantic to appreciate the view. I'm scared now, too, but it's a different kind of fear, not the raw panic I felt on the day Vohrain conquered my kingdom. Perhaps I've grown more used to danger and unexpected occurrences.

Apart from some debris along the beach, I've seen no damage from the Mordvorren during our flight, for which I'm relieved. My kingdom has suffered enough without bearing the fury of a monstrous storm. According to the tales, the storm tends to choose particular places over which to hover. Targets to torture, I suppose. For some reason it selected Ouroskelle. I'm still curious about why I couldn't see the receding cloud mass when Fortunix and I left Kyreagan's cave. The Mordvorren should have still been visible on the horizon. But it was utterly gone, as if something swallowed it up. Convenient that it disappeared when it did, since we were all on the brink of starvation.

Speaking of which, I'm famished. I'm not sure what sort of reception to expect when I'm brought to the King of Vohrain, but I hope it includes food.

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.

"You like my new adornments?" He grins wider and pulls open his shirt and doublet. What used to be a smooth, paneled chest worthy of a young god is now a mass of twisting scars and knotted flesh. "I had a shitty healer, you see. She saved my life, but she couldn't fix this . And before you ask—yes, it's all over my body. Even my dick. I won't show you that, though—it still works, but it's so grotesque you'd faint."

"I'm sorry," I breathe. "But, Zevin—your beauty was never the best part of you. I liked you because you were smart, and funny—"

"And rich, and well-bred, and noble-born." His upper lip curls. "I served you faithfully, and you threw me away. Tossed me out into the war, where I got fried by the fucking dragons. Now it's your turn to suffer." He nods to the tall soldier. "You have confirmation of her identity. Take her."

Instantly I dart to the left, heading for the trees, but I've only taken a dozen steps when my bare foot impales itself on a sharp branch. I scream and stumble, unable to keep my balance, and as I crash onto my left shoulder, pain explodes through the joint. My abdomen goes into another series of dull, aching cramps, leaving my insides weak and wobbly.

It's too soon after the birth of the eggs. My body is still recovering, nowhere near ready for such physical exertion.

One of the Vohrainians comes forward, yanks my arms together, and clasps manacles around my wrists. He jerks me to my feet and tugs sharply at the chain linked to my wrists. I have no choice but to stagger after him into the trees.

A last look over my shoulder shows Fortunix collecting his chest of treasure and taking to the sky. Much as I hate that dragon, my fear deepens once he's gone, as if some small measure of protection left with him. Perhaps I was hoping he'd change his mind, but there's no chance of that now.

The enemy soldiers hustle me through a narrow belt of trees and up a broad path bordered by crisply-trimmed box hedges, toward the entrance of a stately manor. I've been here before. It's the ancestral home of the Harlowes.

So Zevin is identifying prisoners for the Vohrainians and letting them use his family home. Bitterness stings my tongue. This must be how Kyreagan felt when he learned of Fortunix's treachery.

"Your mother once called this house ‘quaint.'" Zevin walks beside me, his tone conversational, but with a trace of venom. "It wasn't a compliment, of course. She thought this manor was old, run-down, and inconveniently distant from the bustle of the city center. But my family had reasons for maintaining this residence, in addition to our townhouse within the capital."

"Reasons?" I ask.

"Oh yes. There are certain private activities we enjoy. I've made my own share of life-changing memories here." He gazes up at the building's gabled peaks and narrow dormer windows. Smoke drifts from two of the chimneys, trailing away into the blue sky.

My wounded foot leaves wet, scarlet prints as I'm forced to mount the steps of the house.

"Are your parents home?" I ask. Perhaps Zevin's mother and father would be more loyal to my family than he appears to be.

"Oh no, my parents fled the kingdom. Of course they killed Grandfather and Aunt Dara first, since they were both too old to make the journey. I should be glad they didn't slit my throat as well. Mother and Father left me behind because I'm too noticeable, too grotesque for the new life they plan to begin." Zevin steps aside as we enter the foyer and watches, smiling, while I'm dragged across the marble floor. I hear the clip of his boots as he falls in behind us, following me and my captors down a long corridor and through a thick door reinforced with strips of iron. Steps lead down into lantern-lit gloom.

I've never been down here. Didn't even realize there was a lower level, a dungeon of sorts beneath the manor. My gaze skips from the worn pavers of the subterranean floor to the dark, splattered stains on the stone walls. Those dark splashes tell a tale about Zevin's family that I'd rather not know.

The Vohrainian soldiers shove me into a large room, a cell whose gray stone bears more hideous stains. Metal loops and hooks are bolted to the walls.

The tall soldier attaches the chain of my manacles to one of the hooks and locks it in place. I have barely any leeway for moving my arms, and there's not enough slack for me to sit down. I can only slump wearily against the wall for support.

After the soldiers leave the cell, Zevin Harlowe approaches me. The remaining tufts of his blond hair aren't carefully coiffed like they used to be—they stick out wildly from his head. His eyes hold a glint of mad humor.

"Look at you," he says. "The Crown Princess who always thought she was so good because she did a few servants' chores. Fortunix told us you were taken to be a dragon's whore. Did you let a dragon fuck you, Serylla?" He lays a hand on my stomach, which has shrunk somewhat, but is still more distended than usual. "Looks like you've been stretched out by dragon cock. I hope he tore your hole wide open. Spread your legs and let me see. "

"Lord Harlowe." The tall soldier stands in the doorway of my cell, one hand on his sword hilt. "The King gave orders that no one was to touch the girl except him."

"It's my fucking house," snaps Zevin.

A low rasp as the soldier slides the sword partway out of its sheath. "This house and everyone in it are subject to the word of the King of Vohrain."

Zevin snarls a few curses, but he stomps out of the cell, past the soldier, and up the stairs. The tall soldier remains in the doorway, his helmet angled toward me.

"I'm in pain," I tell him. "My foot is bleeding, and my stomach hurts. Please… if there's anything you can do…"

The soldier closes the giant wooden door. A key grates and clicks in the lock, and booted feet walk away.

"Well… shit," I wh isper.