Page 36 of Dragons' Future

“Ravencrest was a key trading crossroads,” Cyril continued. “You suspected the Serpari had lured nightwings there to destroy the town’s defenses so they could take over the territory.”

“Hm-hmm.”

“The battle went poorly. We’d underestimated the nightwings’ numbers, and were taking too many losses for me to stomach. I ordered a retreat over Tavias’s objections. He wanted to go back the next night. He told me if we waited then everything we fought for would be for naught.”

The too familiar command tent filled Cyril’s memories, the screams of the wounded echoing inside him.

“I wanted to give the healers time to tend the wounded. Tavias disagreed. ‘If they can’t walk, they can’t be fixed. You don’t get to save everyone, Cyril. The world, the blight, it doesn’t rutting work that way.’

“I overruled him. By the next morning, I discovered that he’d been right. The blight hoards had reclaimed everything we’d fought for.”

Ettienne grunted and shifted painfully into a more comfortable position. Cyril didn’t help him.

“If you think I’ll believe that you ran from the crown because a battle didn’t go your way, then you’ve forgotten who you are talking to,” Ettienne said. “I know you, Cyril. What was the real reason?”

Cyril swallowed. “The loss wasn’t the reason, no. It was what I did next. I was angry. No. Enraged. The attacks were unnatural, even for blight’s filth. We’d already suspected that the Serpari had a hand in luring the creatures, but it seemed likey that they’d had help. A network of traitors from Ravencrest itself and other nearby towns. That’s when I gave the order to round up every male of fighting age in the entire territory and press each and every one of them into service.”

Cyril’s jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth scraped together and he had to work to get himself talking again. “Everyone. Farmers, healers, blacksmiths, teachers, youths barely old enough to lift a blade. I’d lost many soldiers, but I could make up for their loss with civilians. They could make up in numbers what they lacked in skill. I didn’t care how many of them died. These people, and their neighbors, were complicit in the attacks. It was only just that they reaped what they sowed. Like I said, these weren’t just towns—they were vital trading posts. Massa’eve was owed for the losses we’d taken.”

Cyril paused and studied Ettienne’s face for reaction. Disgust or condemnation or understanding. There had to be something. But Ettienne just sat with his head cocked, as if listening to a mildly curious tale. When the silence grew too long, Cyril continued.

“Tavias tried to talk me out of it. He shouted and nearly brought lightning down on the command tent itself. And then he brought in one of those civilians I’d ordered conscripted—a frightened, too skinny boy. He tripped over his own feet just walking into the tent and could barely lift the sword he’d been given. I could see he had no notion of what to do with a weapon.

“Tavias ordered the boy to explain why he was to fight. The child just told me that such was the will of the crown of Massa’eve. He understood nothing of what was happening, but he would die just the same. Tavias told me that the boy was assigned to the front lines, with others like him. Fodder. There was no other use for them on the field.”

Ettienne made a non-committal sound with the back of his throat. “Since that battle, the one to retake Ravencrest and the trade routes, never happened, I presume you saw the error of your ways and called off the assault?” A narrowing of Ettienne’s brows said he presumed no such thing.

He was right. He was always bloody right.

“I called off nothing,” said Cyril. “I took out my blade and struck the boy down where he stood. Then, told Tavias to expect similar consequences for any other manipulations he intended to attempt.”

“Ah,” said Ettienne. “And then?”

“Then Tavias punched my lights out, took command and controlled the damage. When I finally came to and realized what I’d almost done, I knew that I should never have the power to give such an order again.”

Ettienne stretched out his long legs. “I never learned the truth of that until now. An impressive feat to keep such a secret from me.” He paused. “You know, Tavias did disobey a direct order. During active combat. That’s treason. At the very least he deserved to be lashed within an inch of his life. Had such a thing not occurred to you?”

A snarl rose from Cyril’s chest, “If anyone deserved a lashing, it was me, not Tavias. And I’d have taken it without complaint.”

“In fact you did,” Ettienne made a motion with his hand. “Proverbially speaking.”

Cyril shook his head. His father had asked for the truth and the truth was given. He didn’t wish to discuss it. “Do you see now why I cannot rule Massa’eve?”

“I’ve learned nothing I did not know, Cyril. You were never destined to be a general. You care too much. Feel too much. Commanding troops is your brother’s destiny. Ruling Massa’eve is yours.”

“How can you say that after?—”

“After what? Hearing that you don’t imagine yourself amongst the gods? You took your general’s council. Tavias having made his point with knuckles is irrelevant. He is your bloody twin. You’ve spoken with fists since you came out of the womb. Don’t delude yourself into thinking it was the punch—and not your choice to yield to it—that made the difference. Or that you’ll never use your own fists to enforce your point.” Ettienne stopped and panted, his breath dissolving into another long coughing fit that left him too exhausted to move for several minutes. When he looked at Cyril again, his eyes had a glassy sheen, the pupils wide and unfocused.

“I’ve used my fists to make my points as well,” Ettienne said, though his words were weak now. Just above a whisper. “Sometimes it worked. Sometimes not. And I’ve been jerked up short too. That mate of yours. I’d wanted her dead. Quinton… Quinton gave me that same punch Tavias gave you. And thank the stars he did. Thank the stars for her. For your pack. The eggs.”

“Ettienne?” Cyril scrambled for the potion, still clutched in the king’s hand, but Ettienne would not release the vial. Instead, Ettienne removed his sigil ring from his finger, his powerful hands trembling so badly that he nearly dropped it altogether.

Cyril’s breath froze as he caught sight of that blackened leathery skin spreading down Ettienne’s wrists. “You have to take the antidote. Ettienne. Father. There is no more time for games. You have to take it now.”

“There were never games,” Ettienne said, placing the sigil into Cyril’s hand. “The priests took my life the moment their bolt pierced my lung. They want to leash me now. Control me. Make me do their bidding just to get the next dose of the antidote. That is not the king Massa’eve needs. And not the life I can accept. Nor will I let them use me against you.” Ettienne’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Father!” Panic rushed through Cyril’s chest .

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