Total pages in book: 247
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
“It wasn’t a compliment.” His words sharpen. “Our breed is born for peace, not violence like others.” He spares Tairn a single glance before returning to Andarna. “You were left behind as the criterion. The measurement of their growth, their ability to choose tranquility and harmony with all living things. We’d hoped you would return to tell us the humans had evolved, that they had blossomed under the wardstones and no longer used magic as a weapon, but instead you have shown us the opposite.”
I wrap my arms around my waist as he slices her—us—to the quick.
“And dragonkind has not learned their lesson, either. While you”—the male in the center’s gaze jumps to Aotrom—“gifted your human with ice”—he dares to shift his focus to Tairn—“you armed yours with lightning.”
“That’s not how signets work,” Ridoc argues.
“And you”—the male lowers his gaze to Andarna—“our very hope, have handed this human something far more dangerous to wield, haven’t you?”
While the enemy’s advance throughout Krovla makes it impossible to station a full riot at Suniva, we offer you four dragons and their riders. In the spirit of our alliance, you may expect a shipment of our most valuable resource—weaponry—to be used at your discretion.
—Official Correspondence of General Augustine Melgren to Queen Maraya
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Handed me what? I blink in confusion.
Ridoc glances my way, and I shake my head with a shrug. I haven’t manifested a second signet from Andarna.
“You have weaponized your magic, even your tail,” the tallest irid continues. “You’ve become the very thing we abhor, the horror we fled from.”
He did not. Rage brings my power buzzing to the surface.
“She is not a horror!” I march forward as Andarna’s scales turn black, unable to listen to one more second of this bullshit.
“No, you are.” The male cranes his head in my direction. “She is but what you made her.”
My nails bite into the palms of my hands and my chest tightens.
“I do not understand…” Andarna’s tail flicks over the sand in front of me, and I step back, respecting the boundary. “You will not return with us?” she asks. “You will not help us achieve the peace you worship?”
“We will not.” The male lifts his head, and I follow his line of sight. Chradh and Sgaeyl are back, just in time to witness our complete and total failure. “We have watched some of your journey and feel it is not peace you seek, but victory.”
The male with the spiral horns stares at Andarna but remains quiet.
My heart starts to race. Oh gods, this is really happening. Our last hope is dwindling right before my eyes. We’ve risked everything, and they won’t help.
“Peace requires the Aretian wardstone, which we cannot fire without you!” Andarna snarls.
“I fail to see how that is a mutual problem,” the female replies.
“Do you not care that people will die?” Andarna curls her tail high above her back.
“Perhaps they should.” The tallest male blinks. “Perhaps the corrupted ones should devour the land in its entirety. Only when they’re faced with starvation will they confront the evil they’ve become. Either they’ll die off and the land will regenerate, or they’ll confront the abominations they’ve become and change.”
Change. My heart launches into my throat.
“How do they do that?” Andarna asks, and apprehension trickles down the bond from Tairn as wingbeats fill the air. Xaden and Garrick are almost here.
“Their offspring could evolve, perhaps,” the female muses, watching Sgaeyl and Chradh land near the stream twenty yards away. “Others arrive. We should depart.”
No, no. Panic climbs my spine. We can’t fail. This can’t be it.
Xaden and Garrick dismount on the black sand beach, high above the tide line, and Tairn snaps his head toward Sgaeyl. Whatever he communicates keeps the two dragons from coming our way, but not their riders.
“Is that the dark wielder’s cure?” Andarna asks, her head moving in a serpentine motion. “To evolve?”
My breath freezes in my chest.
The female’s golden eyes narrow to slits. “There is no cure.”
No cure? Her words hit like a physical blow, and my knees threaten to buckle.
“If they trade their soul, surely they can get it back,” Andarna retorts.
“It is not a trade,” the female lectures. “The soul is not kept by the earth as dark wielders steal its magic. The power exchange kills the soul one piece at a time, and death has no cure.”
Xaden and Garrick keep their eyes on the irids as they stride our way without their flight jackets, swords strapped to their backs, the perfect example of warfare.
His soul isn’t dead.
“Will you not at least tell us how the dark wielders were defeated in the Great War?” Andarna asks, her words flowing faster, like she knows her time is short.
“Apparently they weren’t if you’re here asking,” the female replies.
The male with the spiral horns watches Xaden and Garrick as they carefully cross behind Ridoc and me, moving to my right side.