Sol inched past him without another word, her bottom lip just beginning to tremble. She ducked beneath the threshold and disappeared onto the deck, her braided hair a flash of red in the wind. Fynn stilled as she left him there alone, his mind wandering into far too dangerous territory.
Who did the Captain need to kill for instilling such fear in Sol Rosebone?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOL
Thane Grayclaw was not a name that had crossed her mind since Sol had fled from home. Her betrothal to the Crown Prince of Dyn had not seemed real when Silas had sent her away, and it hardly seemed real to her now.
But it was.
She was only on this ship because her freedom had been promised to a tyrant, because Sol’s life had meant more to her brother than peace between Sonamire and Dyn.
Had Silas not told her to flee, she would certainly have been married by now. Thane was not known for his patience, and had he decided that Sol was fit to be his bride, he’d surely have insisted they be wed. He would one day need an heir to his throne, and Sol was meant to be nothing more than the one who birthed his children.
He’d have certainly beaten her, too, if the rumors of his nature were anything at all to judge him by. Perhaps if her hair were a single strand out of place, or if her dress were a color he did not like. Silas had once told her that he’d seen the Prince of Dyn murder a young boy for accidentally stepping on his shoes.
Sol did not have faith that his wife would be exempt from his cruelty.
She sat on the edge of Fynn’s bed, her trembling fingers fiddling with the chain around her neck as the Captain rummaged through his things. He was digging through a small, ornately carved box that sat in the center of his crystals, the items inside clinking together like a hoard of delicate bells.
When Fynn found what he was looking for, he sat on the floor in front of Sol. “Have you ever seen a dragon?”
The Princess furrowed her brow. “No,” she said. “But my father and brother told me about them. During the war, father said that the Kingdom of Dyn used them to obliterate Sonamire’s army. Have you seen one?”
Fynn splayed his fingers to reveal what he held in his hand. “I have.”
Sol gasped as she slid off the bed, clambering to her knees in front of Fynn. “Where did you find that?” she asked. The dragon scale, no larger than a small, sparkling stone, shimmered in the Captain’s hand. “These are rare beyond the Dryu Islands.”
“I have several of them,” Fynn said. He pressed the scale into Sol’s palm. “This one is one of my favorites. Amael said it’s from a Dryuan Whiptail.”
The obsidian-colored scale was warm against Sol’s clammy skin. It thrummed with life between her fingers, like the dragon who’d shed this scale was still alive and raging over the land on Dryu. The edges were rough and jagged, weathered with age and from the elements.
“It’s beautiful,” Sol mused. She traced her thumb over the scale. “Did Amael give this to you?”
Fynn shook his head. “I bought it from a man in Nedros who thought it was a piece of agate.”
“How do you know it’s not?”
He took the scale and scratched his thumbnail along the edge. Small, sparkling black shavings drifted from the scale and scattered across the planks between them. “Agate doesn’t flake,” Fynn explained. “And neither do most other stones. Not with a fingernail.”
“Do you collect them?” Sol asked. “Were you looking for more in Valestorm?”
“Yes.” He gave the scale back to her. “But I’m looking for one in particular.”
Sol frowned as she studied the scale, as she traced its shape with her thumb. “There’s one in particular worth finding?”
Fynn pulled his knees against his chest. He was quiet, silence gripping him in a way Sol was unaccustomed to when it came to him. She lifted her eyes to find him biting at his bottom lip, his face drawn with uncertainty. “Have you ever heard stories of the Dragon’s Heart?”
In all her lessons with private tutors in Sonamire, Sol had never heard of such a thing. And if Silas had known such a tale, it was one her brother had never shared with her. “What’s that?”
A guttering breeze tousled her tangled braid. “The Dragon’s Heart,” Fynn began. “Is the source from which all our Magic originates.”
Sol glanced at the scale she held, a relic teeming with life. “Tell me more.”
The Captain sighed, like some horrible weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. His eyes brightened with such shameless mirth, and Sol knew that this story excited him. Had no one ever listened to him tell it?
“When the Ancients were still settling in this world,” he started, speaking as if he were reciting the lines of an old narrative. “When Ealdyr was shaping our lands and Thymis filling our seas, dragons ruled over the skies. It was their home, as the ground is ours, and we lived together in peace.” He dropped his chin against his knee. “But they were powerful, magical beasts that the Ancients eventually grew to envy.”
“I’ve never heard of dragons possessing Magic.”
“Because they don’t anymore,” Fynn told her. “The Ancients bred the Magic out of them, then clipped their wings and banished them to the Dryu Islands. The Dryuans were tasked with keeping them there, crippling them so they couldn’t escape.”
Her heart ached, heavy as the ship’s anchor as it sank low in her chest. “Why?”
“Because although they wanted their power, the Ancients feared it, too. As peaceful as the dragons might have been, the Ancients were afraid that someday that peace would end in bloodshed—and it did.” Fynn’s nostrils flared, the light dimming from his eyes. “They’re not so peaceful anymore.”
Sol absently reached for Draven. She threaded her fingers through his fur, tugging gently at the coarse hairs until he dropped his head into her lap. “What’s the Dragon’s Heart?” Sol asked, gripping the scale in her fist. “Where did it come from?”
“The Dragon’s Heart is a single scale from Indyr, the first of the dragons.” Fynn took a breath, hesitantly reaching for Draven. The direwolf opened one sleepy eye and looked at him, huffing contentedly as Fynn brushed a hand down his back. “The Ancients wanted him dead. His Magic and strength were infinite, and they feared him most of all. Should he ever decide that the skies were no longer enough, Indyr could have wiped the Ancients from existence. But he was peaceful. He had no qualms with mankind.”
Sol swallowed. “Did they kill him?”
“Yes.” He scratched Draven behind his ear. “But before they speared him through the heart, there was a woman who tried to save him. One who fought against her people and tried to insist that Indyr wasn’t a threat. The Ancients killed them both, but not before Indyr gave her the gift of his Magic.”
“The Dragon’s Heart?”
Fynn nodded, smoothing down the fur that jutted from the nape of Draven’s neck. “Indyr thought it might save her, but she couldn’t control his Magic. The scale contained too much of it, and she wasn’t a natural-born Wielder like we are.
“But she gave the scale to her son; made him promise her to keep it safe and to someday learn how to Wield it. The Gods only know if he did, but he certainly found a way to infuse the Magic into our bloodlines.”