Page 57 of Stolen
It’s her.
Jules.
My viyella.
I know what’s at stake.
I know Nightfall teeters on the edge of unraveling.
The SoulTakers are closing in.
The crown is hidden—barely.
The other Lords are restless.
Everything could crumble before moonrise.
And yet, I stand here like a fool on the wind-swept rooftop of the Eyrie, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my tunic, waiting for her.
Because today, I will do something I never thought I’d do.
I will shift into my Dragon form and take myviyellaon a tour of our land.
The wind curls around me like a familiar pet, excited by my excitement.
Below, waterfalls crash into crystalline pools, silver mist rising like breath from the earth.
Forests stretch toward the horizon in shades of violet and jade, dotted with glowing fungi and creatures that exist only in this world.
From this perch—my mountain throne—the land is harsh, beautiful, wild. And today, it is hers to see.
The sound of footsteps breaks my reverie, and I glance toward the stairwell as Shade emerges first. Regal and composed as always, her fiery hair swaying like a banner.
And then—thank thegods above and below—she appears.
Myrrin. Jules.
Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, gleaming with whatever magic the Eyrie infused into her bath.
She wears a shorter, slate-blue dress made of silk that clings and flows in all the right places, cinched with a belt of braided silver.
Beneath it, she wears the supple leather leggings I sent—hand-treated by my artisans to be soft against skin, but durable enough to protect her from the rub of scales.
I had them made just for her. And I’d conjured a riding seat, too—woven from elemental silk and anchored with rune-locks.
It will rest between my wings, built for one rider.
Her.
She approaches, looking up at me through thick lashes, cheeks pink from the mountain air—or perhaps from whatever she saw in my expression.
I clear my throat. “Myrrin, are you ready for an adventure?”
“Another one?” she quips, arching a brow. “I guess so. But I’m warning you, Alaric—” her voice lowers as she steps closer, eyes teasing “—a girl could get used to this.”
“Good,” I murmur, taking her hand and brushing my lips across her knuckles, “because I fully intend to get you very used to this.”
She laughs softly, and the sound—gods, the sound—it echoes like wind chimes caught in a sunbeam. I swear I can feel my Dragon stir beneath my skin in response.
