The design I had chosen.
That tree had been the only thing left of Aillira and Veronis after the gods destroyed their lives. Draki had ripped it up from its roots, but I would carry it with me. A symbol of the love Reyker and I had shared, even if symbols were all we had left. Even if everyone else saw only a mark of ownership, a sign that I was the Dragon’s most prized possession.
No, the woman staring back at me from the mirror was not Lira—not any version of her I’d ever known. She was aloof. Resigned.
This was Jarl Lira of Drakin. The Dragon’s consort. Empress of a broken world.
When a servant brought me a goblet of sweet wine, I drank deeply and asked for more. Maybe I would get drunk and make a scene, trip and rip my pretty gown, knock over a table. Anything to embarrass Draki, to disrupt this fancy Season’s Eve party I wanted no part of, despite being its focal point.
There was a knock on the door. Draki entered without waiting for my permission. Once he made his public announcement at the ceremony, and I accepted, the last barriers between us would be gone. There would be no more courtesy knocks. There would be no more courtesy.
I stayed where I was. Draki came and stood behind me at the mirror, dressed in deerskin trousers and a tunic made from the same blue silk as my gown, and they fit him just as snugly, revealing every lethal bit of strength in the body they concealed. The tunic’s top buttons were open, and the inked knots and dragons climbed from beneath it, across his chest and throat, the side of his face, vanishing beneath his hair. He was a glowing, otherworldly presence encompassing me. A gilded god.
“Our guests have begun to arrive,” Draki said. “Your presence will be expected soon.”
“A few minutes more. Please.” Imploring him was like chewing planks, smiling around the splinters in my tongue.
Draki’s hand slid along the curve of my neck, taking hold of my chin, lifting it gently so our eyes met in the mirror. That such a powerful, savage man could be gentle always set me off-kilter, defying the lines I’d drawn around him.
“When you accept me as your consort, Lira, we will be near equals. You will never bow or beg, not to anyone for anything, not even me. Unless you choose to, of course.” His mouth quirked, and I flushed hot and cold at once, enticed and repulsed. Draki had caused a rift inside me—I was two women, trapped in the same skin, each struggling for control.
“Take as much time as you need, little warrior.” Draki traced his thumb over my bottom lip. “But do not leave me waiting forever.”
He drifted from the room, and the air grew lighter, the room larger. I took a deep breath and turned away from my reflection.
My door was unlocked. There were no servants or guards hovering in the hallways, all of them diverted to other areas because of the gala. Either Draki trusted me not to run or trusted I wouldn’t get far enough for it to matter if I did.
This was Draki’s wing of the fortress, and I’d been allowed to explore it on occasion. There was a small library, a sitting room I doubted he’d ever used, three bedrooms and three bathing rooms—one for him, one for his consort. Another for his lovers.
I’d heard the servants’ whispers. Draki was the most powerful man in his country, and he was intensely alluring; he could have anyone he wanted, and he had, from jarls to peasants, Iseneldish and foreign, women and men alike. And he’d made it clear he would continue to share his bed with whomever he chose, even after our vows were spoken. A consort was not a wife. Any promises we made would have nothing to do with fidelity, only consolidating power. For him, at least.
If I was ever caught with another lover, they would die. Brutally.
On impulse, I went to the door I feared most, the one connecting my room to Draki’s. It swung open at my touch.
I was looking for something, anything—a clue about who Draki was beneath his facade, what he wanted from me. I slipped into the Dragon’s private chamber, disappointed at how plain it was. The room was large but sparse, with a stone hearth that took up half of one wall, a wooden table and two chairs, a massive bed with a frame made of elk antlers, the mattress topped with white fur blankets.
I tore my gaze quickly from the bed.
There was a wardrobe in the corner, and I rummaged through it. Inside were trousers, jerkins, tunics, things I’d never seen him wear, some the simple garb of peasants, others richly crafted and fit for a lord. At the bottom of the wardrobe, behind a row of boots, was a sword. I pulled it into the light, drew it from its sheath. It had a tapered cross guard, a crown-shaped pommel.
This was Reyker’s father’s sword—the one he’d fought Draki with as a boy—which would have passed to him the day he became lord of Vaknavangur. I recognized it from Reyker’s memories, but it had been altered. An inlaid pattern of flames was etched into the blade. A design that matched the tattoo over Reyker’s eye.
Reyker thought Draki had the sword destroyed, but here it was, in pristine condition, recently oiled and sharpened. By Draki? To what end?
I put the sword back, searching the rest of the room, finding nothing of interest. Then I looked at the doors. There were four: One led to my chambers, another into the hallway, one was attached to the bathing room. The last door, at the back of the room, was shut tight. I crossed the floor and opened it.
Behind the door was a passageway that ended at a narrow staircase, twisting downward.
Hilde had warned me about this door, and where it led—a prison where Draki kept the magiskas he captured. Pray you stay in his favor and never see the inside of those cells, she’d said. But I needed to see. This was where Draki would put me, consort or no, if I did not please him. If I did not obey.
I followed the hidden staircase down to a well-kept dungeon. Two rows of wooden doors had windows cut into them, revealing cells with beds and chairs and sinks. Comfortable, as much as a prison could be. Five of the cells were empty, and I shuddered at what that meant, at how many magiskas the Dragon had pushed to their breaking points, draining their gifts until their bodies gave out.
In the sixth cell, a woman lay on the bed, a blindfold covering her eyes. I’d have thought her asleep, she was so still, but her lips moved.
The cell keys hung on the wall. Carefully, I opened the door and went to her bedside. “Hello?” I touched her shoulder, but she didn’t stir. “Are you all right?”
Her dark hair fanned across the pillow beneath her head. I eased the blindfold away. Beneath it, her eyes were open, turned in opposite directions. They were an odd shade of shiny gold.
Her murmurs were barely audible, words running together in an endless stream, and I leaned in, listening. “The blood will spill the gods will cry the world will shake the meek will kneel the strong will break the ice will crack the fires will burn the blood will spill . . .”
Who was this woman? What was Draki doing to her?