Page 3 of House of Ashes

And she was already trying to lay claim to the royal eyrie.

Dying without naming a successor must have been the crowning achievement of my father’s fuck-ups.

But the ferryman was right. The last Interregnum was a bloody chapter in dragon history, all the Houses vying for power and killing indiscriminately to gain it over the span of two vicious, destabilized decades.

During the time of a declared Interregnum, any royal dragonblood pair could submit themselves as the new Drakkon and Dragonesse, and the strength of the Houses in their Court—the right of might—would prove them worthy to rule.

With my sister involved, this particular Interregnum might make the last one look like a pleasant and joyous occasion.

“Fuck the Gilded Skies,” a Bloodless man said, making a rude gesture. “Their bitch draga sent me here.”

The ferryman who’d announced imminent war accepted another tankard of shine. His eyes were already glazed from the first three cups, but he was a veritable font of information, and I could tell he wasn’t going to dry up as long as others were paying. He knew he had every ear right now and was milking it for all he was worth.

“Unfortunately, the bitch’s daughter has got the right of it,” he said, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “Princess Yura and Prince Tidas of Razored Cinders announced their mate bond last moon cycle. The Shadowed Stars have put forth Princess Maristela as a contender, but she has no mate yet.”

Rage simmered me through me, warming what the shine hadn’t touched. Yura had never wasted a moment in taking what she wanted.

Like princes promised to others.

Like thrones that should have been mine.

If my life had gone according to my mother’s plan, I would have been mate bonded to Prince Tidas as his rider. When I was eight, I’d once been lost in a daydream of riding a dragon far above the earth, scribbling our names inside a heart of flames: Sera + Tidas.

In time, I had scribbled out those hearts. I had grown to despise Tidas, but managed to maintain a civil veneer. We were, after all, arranged to be mates.

But on the day my father had stripped my mother and I of our titles and sent us to Mistward, Tidas wouldn’t meet my eyes. Because of my mother’s actions, I was dead to him.

I had never broken the Law, had always been the perfect daughter, and yet the Drakkon had sent me with her.

The House of Silvered Embers was struck from the rolls of the Great Houses and exiled from our ancestral home, Varyamar Eyrie. We were to be a House of Ashes from that day forth—burned out, useless, no longer considered true dragonbloods.

Now I would never have a dragon mate, never be a rider…

And neither could I claim the throne.

It was decreed by the gods that only a mated pair could ascend to the throne. Just like Larivor of the Wind and Naimah of the Flame had mated and created the first eyrie, where their dragonblood descendants would rule, so must a dragon and a draga be mated to claim the royal eyrie, and the titles of Drakkon and Dragonesse.

There were plenty of dragons in exile on Mistward, but I couldn’t risk it. I had been away from home for too long; I had no way of knowing if allegiances had changed, if one of those dragons held a grudge against the ashes that had once been Silvered Embers.

And even if I knew the dragon would not kill me outright, there was still the fact that none were mate bond material.

I might have actually been the only draga on all of Mistward Isle who had not committed a crime. Even now, in a life without options, I still couldn’t bring myself to sink that low.

The ferryman’s next words nearly knocked me over, dragging me from my racing thoughts. “The Jade Leaves have been demanding to know what became of Serafina of Silvered Embers. Their Lady claimed that she’s here. They put her forth as the Drakkon’s highest-ranking child and would support her claim to the throne.”

The stranger shifted in his chair.

I lifted my mug to hide my face. Surely he was joking.

An ancient House like the Jade Leaves would never throw their weight behind an exile.

One of the Bloodless exiles seemed to be of the same mind. He waved a hand. “Murderer’s spawn. And if she was sent here, she’s long dead anyway. Let the eyries tear themselves apart! Once they’ve burned themselves out, then we come in and get first pickings.” He grinned, showing an expensive gold tooth.

Ridiculous…and yet, several of the dragons in their group were murmuring, voices growing louder.

“What do you say, ferrymen?” The Bloodless man was flushed with shine and excitement. “The Drakkon’s dead! His decrees don’t matter now. Bring us back home. Push them into their little war, let them kill themselves off, and we split the spoils of the eyries.”

One of the dragons, the auburn-haired male, stood up. He towered over the Bloodless man, vibrant crimson scales gleaming on the tan, bare flesh of his shoulders and arms. Pointed, scarlet-tipped nubs grew high up on his forehead.

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