Page 18 of King of Fire and Scales

Sorcha stood evenly and unfazed.

“The height at which dragons fly is dangerous to humans, especially one in ill health like your father. The air is far too thin. That is why you passed out after being taken. When we are in the company of humans, we prefer to travel by land.”

Thalia had no clue how to feel. All she knew was that she was still direly thirsty and that her body was permeated by exhaustion.

“My father is well, though, isn’t he?”

Sorcha smiled. It always struck Thalia as earnest.

“I applied some of my spells if that is what you are asking. For now, he simply needs rest.”

Thalia remained unsettled and tried to climb out of the bed that felt like quicksand. Sorcha came to her side.

“Honey, you also require rest. Your father, he…”

The door of the bedroom banged open, crudely interrupting Sorcha’s attempt at reassurance. Thalia melted back into the mattress.

It was King Drake. And his expression was hardened with anguish.

His lips thinned into a line as straight as an arrow. “You may leave us now, Sorcha.”

Sorcha gave both Thalia and the king a curtsy before departing. When they were alone, Drake dashed to her bedside, falling to his knees as if to grovel. He grabbed both her hands and held them between his own, his eagerness both disarming and paralyzing.

Thalia felt an urge to reach out and comfort the king. It felt strange wanting to bring peace to the man who’d upended her entire life not two days ago. She resented him for it, despised the way he spoke to her, and yet the pull was still there.

Absently, she raised her hand, feeling it rest on the side of Drake’s head. She thought of her own mother doing the same for her a very long time ago. A budding magic stirred there, warm and pleasant.

It scared her, and she yanked her arm back. Drake, in his panicked state, did not seem to notice.

“Did he hurt you?” he demanded, his eyes making haste over her form. “Tell me, what were your injuries?”

Thalia didn’t know herself. She gave herself a once over, noticing a gauze wrapped around her forearms, and then a larger bandage tightened around her waist. Beyond the fatigue and concern for her father, she felt perfectly well.

“I look fine to me,” she muttered.

“I assure you the dragon that committed such an atrocity is no more. He met his maker by my hands.”

He spoke with a brazen dutifulness that Thalia didn’t quite understand. With her hands still resting in her lap, and his cupped around them as if summoning secrets from a crystal ball, she shared her disquiet.

“I am not sure I enjoy the idea of a life ending due to me.”

She stared at his hands, and the king recoiled, rising valiantly back to his feet. Thalia raised her head to meet his, feeling as if her skull was balancing on a pin.

“Many would kill in your name, my Creation Sorceress,” he said in a grave, formidable tone. “This is why we flew you to the castle, you and your ailing father.”

Thalia had enough of the declarations. She took her palms from her lap and pressed them against the mattress, shakily attempting to remove herself from the bed.

“I want to wash up. Please help me.”

The king aided her with one hand while she gathered her own strength and slowly slid out of the bed. When she placed her feet down on cool, onyx-colored marble, she pointed at a door.

“Is that…”

“Yes,” the king replied, unsteadily. “Would you require assistance?”

Thalia told him that she would be fine fending for herself. She sauntered into a bathroom larger than the entire terrain of her village hut.

It was all too much to drink in—the fine, golden trimming, the gleaming copper faucets. The day trickled in through a long window, and she peered out briefly before stripping down.

---