The King paused, looking out over the veranda where Leona sat. He considered the sunset as though he hadn’t even noticed the passage of time over the past few hours. His face relaxed, just a fraction. There were only a handful of people Leona suspected would notice the subtle shift in his brow that occurred when the King transitioned from their supreme leader to just a man.
“I suppose it is a nice evening.”
Leona averted her eyes, focusing on the horizon once more. Her magic flowed hot through her veins at the King’s agreement; it churned in delight, sparking against his as he suddenly appeared at her side. He moved as effortlessly as the wind, as soft footed as starlight.
Her eyelids felt heavy as he ran a claw up the line of her spine. They were so close she could feel the air shifting from the movement, a hair’s width from her flesh. He still withheld his touch from her. They were nothing. But he was her everything—and what made them dangerous was that he knew it. His breath was warm on her cheek, the only thing he let touch her skin as his face hovered over her shoulder.
She waited for him to say something more. The silence held ciphers of truths that lingered between them, written in a script that neither knew yet how to decipher. This would not be the moment they were given sound.
Yveun Dono pulled away and returned to his desk. Leona continued to stare at the horizon. Neither said anything further until night had begun to overtake the sky.
“I think it’s time to dress for dinner,” he announced.
Leona rose to her feet a moment after her King stood, then crossed the balcony and fell into step just behind him. They left the room and she saw him to his chambers. His manservant took over and Leona was dismissed from her post.
She started for the dining room, taking back halls to avoid any other House Rok nobility. Coletta’Ryu would be about to dress as well, and Leona’s feet purposefully avoided the walkways the queen was known to haunt. It wasn’t hard. Yveun Dono’s sickly mate didn’t wander far from her bed or gardens.
She was halfway to the dining room when she heard the crack of a glider breaking through the clouds below. Leona rushed to the window and scanned the darkening sky. There was the telltale glitter of magic fading on the wind…
A single ribbon where there should be several.
Cursing, she made her way to the landing platform. All the while, Leona was waiting for the sound of more gliders, but none came. A total of five Riders had descended to Loom and only one had returned? Something was off—and Leona, as head of the Riders, would find out.
The platform was a wide, open expanse of cement. Ironwork weaved against tall grasses and wild flowers on the perimeter. The manor opened like the mouth of a fish gasping for water and Leona was equally hungry for information.
The Rider eased their glider onto the platform. It looked lonely as the sole vessel returning, its wide, golden wings dwarfed by the potential capacity of the landing pad. Leona raised a hand to her forehead, pulling away stray bits of garnet colored hair. A familiar woman released the pulleys on the back of the glider and hopped off with an exhausted sway. Bruises from the exertion of flying the glider quickly faded from her skin.
Leona crossed over to her. The Fen slaves stayed behind, waiting to service the flying contraption. They knew their place well and wouldn’t interrupt.
“Sybil.” Leona dragged her thumb across her palm. Her sister copied her, cutting a golden line into her flesh. The two clasped hands, gold smearing against gold before it could dissipate on the air.
“Leona To.” Her sister never forgot Leona’s proper title.
“You are…alone?”
“There has been trouble.”
Sybil—sweet, nervous, uncertain, aspiring Sybil. The girl nearly stuttered over her words. That was the moment Leona knew there would be no helping her from what awaited. Leona didn’t have to know what ‘trouble’ her sister was speaking of. This was supposed to have been a straightforward mission, simple enough that even a novice should have been able to complete it.
“Say no more. It is not me you will need to answer to this night.”
Sybil’s face paled at her sister’s severity; Leona could practically smell the fear radiating off her. She turned and started for the red room. It was the room Yveun Dono preferred for meetings he wasn’t looking forward to.
The King was waiting for them, dressed in the rich velvets and heavy fabrics of his evening garb. His chest was bare from the opening in the middle of his sleeveless robes. They spilled over the edge of the chair and pooled around his feet. A wrapped belt held up wide-legged pants that swayed slightly as he shifted his feet.
“Sybil, you have returned to me.” The King smiled wide, displaying his canines.
Leona stopped at the door. She couldn’t help her sister now. Sybil walked to the center of the room alone. Whatever awaited her, she had brought upon her own head. There was no helping it.
“Yveun Dono.” Sybil sunk to a knee. “No half measures in my love for your rule.”
Leona rolled her eyes. Yveun Dono’s attention shifted slightly, his mouth twitching in genuine amusement. Sybil never learned, no matter how many times Leona explained. Yveun Dono didn’t have time for needless praise and pomp from his loyal lowers. There was only one thing he wanted from them: results. Everything else was just a cheap excuse that disgraced the true meaning of their House.
“Yes…” the King drawled. “Sybil, why are you alone? I sent you with Riders and then granted two more at your sister’s suggestion to seek you out after you had not returned in two whole days. Now, you stand before me alone.”
Leona could smell her sister’s rising panic.
“Tell me, are my other Riders waiting on Loom in dramatic suspense, holding Cvareh in chains until you summon them up here?”
“Not quite, Dono.…” Sybil faltered.
No one spoke. The silence grated on Leona’s ears. Sybil was failing test after test. She had crossed the threshold of incompetence and was now flirting with suicidal foolhardiness.
“Sybil, you were asked a question,” Leona pressured.
“He landed in New Dortam, but eluded us. We found him among the scum in Old Dortam, but then he escaped—”
“How does Cvareh Xin, a man not known for his prowess in duels or particular cunning, escape five of my Riders?” Yveun Dono flexed his hands, his claws extending just barely from his fingertips.
“He has help.”
“Help? From who? Only one glider was stolen from the Rok estate and no other Houses are permitted the technology.”
“A Chimera,” Sybil clarified. “And another Fen.”
“A black-blooded monstrosity, and a Fen.” Yveun Dono ran his fingertips over his lips. “You’re telling me that is what has made fools of my Riders?”
“They killed the rest.”
Leona wanted to throttle her sister. The details were obvious; saying them did nothing to help her case. But blended with her annoyance was intrigue. As impossible as Sybil’s claims seemed, the fact remained that four Riders were dead. Even with incompetent leadership, that shouldn’t happen.
“Where is Cvareh now?” Yveun Dono asked.
“He escaped us in the port city of… Territory 5?”
Ter.5.2, Leona thought to herself. It had taken months for her to memorize the various cities of Loom. Numbers on numbers. Ridiculous. Someone had explained the logic of it to her, but it was all dull and gray and forgettable, just like the Fen themselves.
“Cvareh Xin escaped you? A lowly Xin, a Fen, and a dirty Chimera not only evaded but killed my Riders, twice?”
Sybil lowered her head, and her silence was sharper than any executioner’s axe. Leona shifted, blocking the room’s only exit. Yveun Dono stood.
“Sybil, look at me.” Magic lapped against the King’s lips as he spoke. It radiated off his tongue, slithering into Sybil’s ears. “Tell me, what hand do you favor the most?”
Her sister was frozen on the outside, unmoving, barely breathing.
But Leona knew that inside, she was waging a futile mental war. The King’s magic was strong and undeniable. His influence couldn’t be ignored, not when he threw that much power behind it.
“Tell me, Sybil.” The tone Yveun Dono took as he softly beseeched Sybil would’ve been enough to make Leona do his bidding, no magic required.
“M-my right.” The magic won out. The second her head snapped up to meet his, Yveun Dono shifted his magic.
His eyes seemed to glow in the dimly lit room as they met Sybil’s. The faint taste of blackberries filled Leona’s mouth, flowing in from her nose. The King’s magic had a sweet palate, but almost too much so. Like something that had been left on the vine for too long and was one day from rotting.
“Right it is then,” Yveun Dono whispered. “Give me your hand.”
His magic reduced Sybil to a puppet with invisible strings. As long as the King’s stare was unbroken, she was his.
Her right hand rose up from where it rested on her knee and extended to the King. Yveun Dono took it with grace, all the while his eyes locked with Sybil’s, holding his magical control of her mind.
The moment his magic shifted and Sybil regained command of herself, it was too late. The King’s onyx claws were out, magic and pure rage woven between them. He brought them down on Sybil’s right hand, where they punctured through tendon and bone, ripping meat and flesh and stringy ligament as he shredded the offending appendage.
Her sister cried out in pain as the King twisted his wrist. He rendered Sybil’s fingers to nothing more than pulp, her palm in shreds, before cutting her hand off at the wrist. Leona stared darkly at her younger sister as she nursed the stub at the end of her arm. She could feel Sybil’s magic trying to regrow the appendage, but to no avail. Dragons could regrow almost anything if their hearts and heads were intact—and if a stronger Dragon wasn’t committing himself to blocking the magical healing process.
“Dono, Dono,” Sybil wailed. “Forgive me. Spare my life.”
Yveun Dono looked down at the bloodied mass of what he had hailed as one of his Riders in disgust. His magic was still locked with Sybil’s, stopping hers from healing the wound. He started back for his throne.
“Very well. I will spare your life.” The King sat. “And I will defer to your commander, my Master Rider, for administering any remaining discipline.”
Leona met her King’s red eyes, still glowing with magic in the near darkness of the room. He radiated effortless authority. She dissected his decree, looking for the scrap of his true will in it. If there was one, he was hiding it. The King appeared to be giving her a genuine choice.
She met Sybil’s eyes. Her sister was still huddled, wounded. Pathetic tears streamed over her cheeks and soiled the floor upon which their King walked. No half measures. Sybil had given the King her word and failed time and again. Now her eyes had the audacity to seek forgiveness in light of her shame. Her sister clung to the desperation to live more than she sought the glory of their house.
Shameful.
Leona wouldn’t explain her actions. If her sister had any sense left in her, any pride remaining as an Anh of House Rok, she would know. They were one body, and they worked to serve one mind—Yveun Dono’s. Any who didn’t were a cancer ravaging the system, leeching resources for their own selfish gain. There was only one course of action when a tumor had grown.
Sybil’s eyes went wide in shock the second Leona’s hand plunged into her chest. The sharp edges of ribs raked against her fingers and wrist. Her blood mingled with her sister’s for what would be the last time. Leona held Sybil’s frantically beating heart in her palm. Golden blood dribbled from the younger Dragon’s mouth.
She stood over her sister’s corpse, the heart still twitching in her fingers with the dying pulses of Sybil’s magic. She offered the organ to the King.
Yveun Dono turned his head in a slow, deliberate side-to-side. “It was your kill.”
Leona raised the heart to her mouth, tearing into it with her teeth. Her canines rendered the tissue into thin strips that were palatable on her tongue and easy to swallow. Power surged through her; Leona’s head swam. She gorged herself on magic and meat until her vision blurred and her stomach felt fat.
“Imbibe her strength. Take her magic.” Somehow Yveun Dono was right before her. She hadn’t even heard him move. “Take your trusted two—Andre and Camile.”
His hand was lacing around hers. He was touching her. The King was touching her. Leona’s whole body flushed on a high she had never felt before. Magic mingled with hers, filled her, overwhelmed her.
Golden blood slicked between their fingers, the sticky liquid fading in the air. Leona looked up at her sovereign and breathed the taste of blackberries. If she was ever to die, she would want it to be by his hand; she would want him to be the one to feast on her heart and engorge himself with her essence. She would want her magic to cloud his head and make him feel heavy. She would want him to be drunk on her as she was drunk on Sybil.
“Take your fastest glider and make your way to Loom.” He lowered his chin and met her eyes.
“I will take back what is rightfully yours,” Leona uttered.
The King’s other hand snaked in her hair, under her braid. It tensed, claws scratching against her scalp, hair tangled and pinched between his fingers. The mostly-eaten heart fell to the floor with a dull, wet splat. Leona locked eyes with Yveun Dono, giving him the ability to take over her mind if he so desired. He could take whatever he wanted from her. There was nothing she wouldn’t give.
“Not quite,” he rasped. His voice consumed her, his magic thrilling her to the bone. Leona’s chest swelled to press against his, as if she was offering him her own heart—everything she ever was and would be. “You will act as my hand. For I am the only one to take what is mine.”
Yveun Dono yanked her head back. Leona hissed, more in delight than pain. His canines raked against her bottom lip. The kiss exploded violently, smearing across their mouths with the bright sharpness of heavy summer berries, as the King used Leona’s body for vindication of every heated truth he breathed into her exposed skin.
13. CVAREH
Florence hadn’t said a word for two hours. She’d argued with Arianna for a short five minutes, then slumped against the wall on her stool, staring at nothing. Cvareh might only have known the girl for about four days, but it had been a long four days mostly spent in close quarters. He could read her, if only just.
Cvareh had studied the people of Loom all his life. He’d learned of the Five Guilds and the specialization of each of them. He’d studied Fenish, the language of the people. But being on the ground itself was a surreal experience. It was like he knew the notes, but he couldn’t hear the melody that was being sung. He could say “Rivet,” but he didn’t understand what that really meant—and every look from Arianna over the past few days had confirmed as much. But nothing made it clearer than Florence’s expression.
The girl was in distress. A line marred the space between her brows, her young face twisted in a scowl. Cvareh understood the plan Arianna had laid out—more or less. He knew of Ter.4.2, and the Underground seemed like a logical enough choice to move quickly without being discovered. He understood the word “prison” in the sense that his mind could come up with a definition, the equivalent word in Royuk, but somehow he wasn’t speaking their language yet. The gravity he felt at the idea of a prison break was a weightless cloud compared to the lead in Arianna’s eyes and, so plainly, Florence’s heart.
He wanted to help. Petra had made him smile thousands of times when he was sad. His sister knew exactly what to say to encourage him. But he only had four days of knowledge to draw from when it came to the young Fenthri.
“Florence?” Arianna gave him a cautionary look the moment her pupil’s name crossed his lips. The girl was oblivious to her teacher’s protective urges, but her eyes came into focus slowly at the sound of her name. Cvareh put his pride aside and sought an absolution from his ignorance from someone who
was twenty years his junior. “Can you explain to me how your revolver works?”
“What?”
“Your revolver. I watched you oil it on the train, and then you used it in the scuffle. I know you’re not a Chimera and don’t have magic… So how did you manage a shot like that?”
“You want to know about guns?” she asked timidly.
“If you’ll teach me.” Cvareh prayed he hadn’t misread the hopeful note in her voice incorrectly.
Florence was moving again. Spurred back to life, she rummaged through her bag on the floor, pulling from it a small red tin that Cvareh recognized instantly as her gun care set, another medium-sized box where she kept her powders, and her weapon. She moved off her stool to sit in front of him on the floor.
Cvareh lusted after the empty stool that would insulate him from the grime and dirt, but he made no motion. His clothes were ugly and dirty, and the stool was really no cleaner. It certainly wouldn’t be comfortable. Plus, Florence had already set up shop in front of him, and this was for her.
“Well, it’s not that complicated.” She put the revolver between them, pointing to different parts. “You have the hammer, the cylinder, the trigger, the barrel and the muzzle. The hammer cocks back, engaging the trigger when you’re ready to fire. It strikes against a canister in the chamber and that exchange of force causes a chemical or magical reaction—a small explosion.” Her voice lifted on the last word. “That explosion is sent through the barrel and out the muzzle, propelling a bullet. Or whatever else is in the canister.”
She held up a small chunk of metal. It was pointed on one end and flat on the other. Cvareh accepted it from her to inspect, pleased the action delighted her.
“The bullet sits on this end of the canister, near the primer—that’s what the hammer hits.” She produced a long hollow tube that, sure enough, the bullet could be fitted into. “What I fill the canister with, and how much, determines the type of shot.”