Page 1 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
1
The practice sword felt heavier than it should have in my hands. Every movement was precise, controlled, deadly—but empty. I went through the forms Marcus had drilled into me years ago in the ludus, muscle memory guiding blade and body while my mind drifted to darker places.
Thrust. Parry. Riposte. Turn.
The training yard was empty at this hour before dawn, just as I preferred it. The other dragon riders would be sleeping still, dreaming of glory and conquest. They didn't wake screaming from nightmares of Octavia's face disappearing into flames, didn't spend their nights staring at the ceiling and wondering if the empty ache in their chest would ever heal.
Block high. Counter-attack. Spin.
A month. It had been a month since the Storm Festival bombing, since I'd watched my dearest friend vanish in an explosion of stone and fire. A month since Septimus and Tarshi had simply... disappeared. The official records listed them among the missing, presumed dead. The unofficial whispersaround the academy suggested they'd been resistance fighters who'd died in their own bombing.
I brought the practice sword down in a vicious overhead strike that would have cleaved a man from crown to groin. The wooden training dummy absorbed the blow with a hollow thud, sawdust leaking from the fresh gash.
They were all wrong, of course. Septimus and Tarshi hadn't been resistance fighters—not the way these people meant. They'd been manipulated, used, betrayed by a man we'd all trusted. But explaining that would mean revealing my own connections to the resistance, my own lies about who I truly was.
So I let them whisper. Let them think what they wanted. It was safer that way.
Diagonal cut. Backstep. Thrust.
"You're up early."
I spun toward the voice, sword raised defensively before I recognized the speaker. Marcus stood at the edge of the training yard, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the slowly lightening sky. He wore the simple brown tunic and trousers of a servant, his hair tousled as if he'd just rolled out of bed.
"Couldn't sleep," I said, lowering the weapon. It was the truth, though not the whole truth. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant seeing Octavia's face, hearing her laughter, watching her die over and over again.
Marcus moved closer, his eyes taking in the gouges I'd carved into the training dummy, the sweat soaking through my practice tunic despite the cool morning air. "Another nightmare?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Marcus had been having them too—I could see it in the shadows under his eyes, the way his hands sometimes trembled when he thought no one was looking. We'd all lost people in the bombing, but Octavia... Octavia had been special. She'd been the heart of our littlefamily, the gentle soul who'd kept us grounded when the world tried to tear us apart.
"Want to talk about it?" Marcus asked, settling onto a stone bench at the edge of the yard.
"What's to talk about?" I drove the practice sword point-first into the packed earth and left it there, quivering. "She's dead. They're all dead. And we're still here."
"Guilt doesn't suit you, Livia."
I turned to face him, anger flaring. "Guilt? You think this is about guilt?"
"Isn't it?" His voice was gentle, understanding, which only made the fury burn hotter. "You think you should have saved her. Should have somehow prevented what happened."
"I should have," I snapped. "I knew something was wrong. Jalend warned me to stay away from the festival, but I went anyway. I brought her with me. If I'd listened—"
"Then Octavia would still be dead," Marcus interrupted, rising from the bench to face me. "And probably that little girl too. The one you and Jalend pulled from the rubble."
"Miri," I whispered. The child's name was carved into my memory alongside all the other details from that terrible day. "Her name was Miri."
"Miri lived because you were there. Because Octavia was there. Because you both chose to help rather than run." Marcus stepped closer, his hands finding my shoulders. "Octavia died saving people, Livia. She died being exactly who she chose to be."
The words hit harder than any physical blow. I felt my carefully constructed walls crack, grief threatening to pour through the fissures. I'd been holding it back for weeks, focusing on routine and training and the million small tasks that kept me functional. But standing here in the pre-dawn light withMarcus's hands warm on my shoulders, I felt the dam beginning to crumble.
"I miss her," I whispered, the admission torn from some broken place inside me. "Gods, Marcus, I miss her so much."
"I know." His arms came around me, pulling me against his chest. I breathed in his familiar scent—leather and soap and something indefinably masculine that had always made me feel safe. "I miss her too."
For a long moment we just stood there, holding each other in the growing light. I let myself be weak, let myself grieve for the friend who'd been stolen from us, for the future we'd planned that would never come to pass. Marcus's hand stroked my hair, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of my emotions.
“Am I interrupting?”
I looked up to see Antonius approaching. I pulled away from Marcus, wiping at my eyes with the back of a hand that was still shaking slightly.
