Page 30 of Dragons' Future

Cyril and I both scramble for a better hold. Our palms meet, both our breaths ragged. Cyril’s blue eyes are bigger than I’ve ever seen them as his gaze latches to mine. "I've… I’ve never felt anything like this," he whispers. "I don't think anyone has. Not in our lifetime."

The egg vibrates, emitting a sound like a small purr as its shell shifts around from purple to turquoise to a deep emerald that ripples from its center in rhythmic waves.

Cyril laughs, but there is a hitch to his voice. It takes me a moment to realize his eyes are brighter than usual. No, not just brighter, but glistening with tears.

“Hey,” I say softly.

Cyril swallows. "We have to keep them safe," he says. "We have to.”

“We will."

The egg bounces again, this time nearly succeeding in ejecting itself from our hold and smashing into the ground. My heart skips a beat. Cyril mutters a curse.

"You've got to calm down before you fall," I tell the unhatched dragonling. Not that it cares. It jumps again, continuing in its suicidal quest until Ettienne, of all people, cradles it against his chest and softly hums the lullaby that had tugged me here. The egg settles. Cyril and I exchange baffled looks.

“You know the song?” I ask.

Ettienne says nothing but nods. All his attention is on the egg and his scales are a soft shade of lilac. He finished a stanza and swallows, his throat bobbing. The egg purrs and seems to nestle into him.

Ettienne smiles warmly at it—actually smiles—before starting to hum again.

The egg’s iridescent shell turns the same lilac hue as Ettienne’s scales, its wiggles reducing to small snoring shakes.

Well that’s… not what I expected. Leaving the first egg in Ettienne’s care, Cyril and I hastily pull down the flower bed and re-settle the next egg into the warm soil. It takes a lot of singing and agility on both our parts.

“Five of them,” Cyril says. “How exactly are we going to move five of them from here if we can barely hold one between the two of us?”

Fair question.

“Do you think Tavias has a sense of where we are?” I ask. The intensity of the bond has settled now, and though I still feel my mates on the other side of it, I can no longer tell one apart from another. “If he knows our location?—”

“- it is of no matter at all.” The voice I’d hoped never to hear again sounds through the chamber, its familiar cadence sending a rush of fear through me. There is a click of a latch engaging and then the head priest himself steps out from behind a curtain of flowering plants. He is alone, his robes billowing on a phantom breeze. Before any of us can react, the priest fires a crossbow bolt directly into Ettienne’s chest.

CHAPTER 18

Kit

Ettienne staggers back, one hand around the arrow shaft protruding from his chest while the other protectively clutches the egg he holds.

Cyril’s hand goes to the hilt of his sword. His blue eyes are already crackling with magic.

“I wouldn't do whatever you are considering," the priest says and points his crossbow at the nest of eggs sleeping in the flower bed. He sighs, shaking his head like a disappointed father chastising a group of misguided children. "Trust me when I tell you that I can pierce the shells faster than any magic you might throw takes effect. And truly, I don't even need to do as much." His hand moves at his side and the eggs shudder in undiluted panic that I can feel rippling over my skin.

I put myself in front of the eggs, for all the good I can do.

Ettienne groans. Honestly, I was half expecting him to snap his fingers and make the bolt disappear—because, well, because he is Ettienne. Instead, it's all the king can do to pass his egg safely to Cryril before collapsing against the wall, his breathing heavy.

“Wyrm's bane,” the priest gestures causally towards Ettienne’s chest. "It's an ingenious potion to tame the dragon's power. The main ingredient is called shackle weed, which is truly an understated name for its magnificence. We’ve had a strong crop of it this year as you can see.”

He motions to a set of blue flowering vines stretching from their beds toward the skylight on the other side of the room. “Its poison drains a dragon's powers and eventually kills its victim, even in small doses. The amount on the bolt was much greater than small. Which is a long winded way of saying that you are already dead, your majesty. Unless of course we come to a new sort of understanding.”

“An understanding?” Ettienne’s face is white, his breathing hard and shallow. “You have been deceiving my people for centuries.”

“The dragons have enslaved and abused mine for far longer.” The priest pulls back his hood, revealing his shaved head with constellations tattooed over each inch of exposed skin. “Tell me, do you not force young women believed to be human into fates of death and breeding? Is that not what these trials you so support are about?”

Women believed to be human? I frown at the wording.

The priest smiles, though it doesn’t touch his eyes. “The ones qualified for the trials all have remnants of dragon blood in them. The order culls the dames, but the dragons themselves seek out and kill the lesser abominations. It’s truly a beautiful setup. Or was, until today.”

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