Page 76 of A Matter of Destiny

Hiding me.

“No,” I whisper.

“I have a Champion,” Rensivar growls. “Don’t I, Rayne?”

His eyes narrow. Kings above, he’s staring directly at me. His nostrils flare, winking in the darkness like crimson eyes.

“I know you’re here,” he rumbles. “I can smell you, child. Weapon. And I know something else too.”

The entire world holds still. Even the tentacles wrapped around my ankles freeze, and for a moment I wonder if it wouldn’t be better if I just let them drag me under and take me wherever the rest of the Valgros Army has just gone.

“You’re going to fight for me,” Rensivar finishes. His voice echoes across the mountains like the slam of a door.

“No!” someone barks.

Doshir. By the kings, no! My hand clamps over my mouth as my eyes sting. Rensivar can’t know what Doshir means to me. I turn away from Rensivar’s looming silhouette, like a child pretending to be invisible by covering her eyes, and my gaze catches on the elf wrapped in chains. The flames coming out of his eyes are smaller now, and in their absence, I can see the wreck of his face. It’s a tapestry of bruises and lacerations with a split lip and a filthy bandage covering one of his eyes.

And in that ruin, I see Doshir’s future. What better tool for Rensivar, after all? If King Donovan’s impending demise won’t motivate me to be Rensivar’s Champion, then what about torturing the golden dragon of Cairncliff?

The elf who punched Varitan in the back of the head leans toward the elf in chains.

“Rowan,” he whispers, but the rest of his words are lost in a gust of wind that shakes the tops of the pines.

I step backward, breaking the warm embrace of the tentacles wrapped around my ankles and shaking my head as if I could shut out what I’m hearing and seeing, what I’m thinking. The ground shudders beneath me as the crack at my feet closes, the purple glow and the tentacles both vanishing as Rensivar’s laugh booms over the little grove of pine trees.

“Oh, but she will,” Rensivar hisses. “She will fight for me. Or do you care so little for your king, Rayne?”

Rensivar’s eyes narrow but his jaw widens as his lips pull back into a grin. My king. The dragons watching this unfold must think he’s talking about himself, the new King of the Iron Mountains.

But I know better. It’s King Donovan he’s using to control me. He still thinks I love the king of Valgros. Fear pulls my muscles tight. Stars above, what if Rensivar realizes he’s mistaken? What if he learns it’s not Donovan I care for? Whose life will he threaten then? Rage and shame burn inside my chest as I lower my head.

He has me.

I can’t run. I can’t hide. I found the hidden human army, I discovered the General, Varitan was swallowed by the same mountain that ate the Army of Valgros, and all of this has changed absolutely nothing. If I run now, who will be the first dragon Rensivar will question? Who will he capture and torture, wrap in chains, and leave bloodied and bruised?

Rensivar sits on the Throne of Claws, his plan complete, and he holds me within the cage of his claws. Because the choice is obvious: I serve him, or Doshir dies.

“Oh, Rayne!” Rensivar calls. “Don’t keep the dragons waiting, child.”

An explosion of voices greets this declaration, dragons hissing and growling and shifting uneasily on the ridge that just swallowed an army. I pull in a breath, then lift my head and square my shoulders.

I have no choice in what I do next. But I’m going to do it like a soldier in His Majesty’s Royal Army. With measured steps and my head held high, I walk toward the edge of the pine forest.

“Hey,” someone hisses. “Dragon lady!”

It takes me a heartbeat to realize the voice comes from behind me. I glance over my shoulder. The elf with the blue fire eyes is still grinning at me, but now there’s something almost friendly in his battered expression. His eyes lock on me, and then, very slowly, he winks and tilts his head.

It’s almost a rude gesture, but that wouldn’t make any damn sense. Frowning, I follow the tilt of his chin through the lattice of interlocking pine branches. He’s pointing at Rensivar.

“Rayne,” Rensivar calls, and there’s an edge to his voice now that promises pain.

I narrow my eyes, certain I’m missing something. The elf twists his neck again, angling his chin through the trees. At Rensivar. A growl rises in my throat; yes, I know Rensivar is sitting on the throne.

No, he’s pointing at the throne! I run my eyes over the sharp angles of the Throne of Claws, the thing I’m somehow prophesied to destroy. Rensivar has hooked his massive claws deep into the twists of metal and threaded his tail through the base. But what am I supposed to see—

I gasp. Kings above, it’s obvious.

The ground behind the Throne of Claws is black, the rich darkness of shadows and the moonless night. But it’s also moving, writhing slightly with the motion of delicate ink-black tentacles rising from another violet-tinged hole in the mountain. A hole that’s exactly the size and shape of the throne’s shadow. The Throne of Claws is made of nightmare steel, Doshir said, and that blocks magic. Of course, the strange elf’s magic couldn’t open a hole beneath the Throne of Claws. He couldn’t pull Rensivar and the Throne of Claws directly under the mountain.

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