But beyond the stone slab was a large plot of land, filled with overgrown shrubs, trees, vines. At the very back of the garden was a smaller structure, similar in architecture to the citadel but kept apart.

Zaridan landed on the stone slab, surprisingly graceful for one so large. Just then, one of the three Elthika that had accompanied us to the citadel landed—an Elthika and rider I recognized.

The other two continued on, circling back toward the main city.

Behind me, I felt Sarkin dismount. I would never admit it to him, but I’d felt safer flying with him at my back. I’d felt more protected, and I was silently grateful that he’d changed our positions for the rest of the journey.

“Get down,” he grated from below. I bit my tongue, my lips pressing together. Even being the outcast of the royal line in Dothik, I hadn’t been ordered around this much in years.

I huffed, but instead of sliding off Zaridan—I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching me struggle to dismount—I reached over and tapped at the joint of her wing, just as I’d seen him do the night before.

Triumph and relief went through me when she extended it in response. I hid my wince when I swung my leg over, my limbs feeling like boulders, and then carefully navigated down the flattest part of Zaridan’s wing, taking my time though I felt the burn of Sarkin’s eyes.

When I stepped off and looked up at him with mild smugness, he was studying me—his expression neutral, his jaw clenched. He wasn’t glaring, at the very least, and I thought I almost caught a hint of approval.

Sarkin broke our gaze to retrieve the satchels, and as he did, I felt Zaridan’s stare. When I moved my head, I bit the edges of my tongue, regarding her carefully. Once, she’d been my nightmare. I’d feared sleep because I’d feared she’d kill me in my dreams. But now I wondered if I’d had it wrong. She hadn’t hurt me. She’d marked me. Why? To lead me to this place?

She’d showed me Sarroth before. I’d caught glimpses of the river, of the city, though they’d been like wisps of memories, uncertain and blurred. She’d showed me…but for what purpose?

And what of the other dragon that haunted my dreams?

Sarkin stepped between us, and I felt like I could breathe again. He placed his hand on her wide snout, inspecting her eyes, turning her this way and that way like he was a concerned parent.

Then he murmured something in the Karag language, which sounded like beautiful, soft whispers, so unlike the harshness of the Dakkari tongue.

I watched the exchange, rapt and intrigued, though it felt oddly like spying. They’re bonded, I thought. What was that like? The Dakkari revered the pyrokis, our great, powerful creatures that rode across the wildlands with our hordes. But this felt different. This felt fated.

Sarkin ran a wide, calloused palm down her snout, raising his chin as he stepped back.

“Thryn’ar esh lyiss,” he said. “Sen endrassa.”

“Thryn’ar,” I whispered under my breath, studying the way Sarkin’s lips formed the words. He’d said that word before, and so I memorized it. “Esh lyiss.”

Zaridan pressed low to the ground, her muscles bunching, power in every small, minuscule movement. Then she launched herself into the sky, the gust in her wake nearly knocking me backward.

A pair of hands righted me, and I looked over my shoulder, startled, only to find Sarkin’s rider there. His dragon followed Zaridan, leaving the three of us standing near the back gate of the citadel.

He released me, then approached Sarkin, leaning forward to murmur something into his ear. I caught the way Sarkin’s mouth tightened briefly before he nodded.

Then the commotion came behind me—footsteps and chattering voices. My movements were limited given the stiffness of my limbs, but I still stepped back, seeing a small group of Karag approach.

They were all of differing ages—some old, some young. Some were dressed in rich purple or dark green robes, others were in more fitted clothing, dragon scales stitched into them like a plating of armor.

I could feel the burn of every one of their eyes, could feel the palpable tension in the clearing when they approached. I could feel them sizing me up, and one older female narrowed her eyes on Sarkin, Karag words tumbling from her lips.

Sarkin replied, his voice cold and unyielding.

Then her eyes snapped to me. In my language, she demanded, “You. Dakkari. What is it that you think you’re doing here?”

I didn’t react. With calm I didn’t feel, I replied simply, “I believe I’ve agreed to marry Sarkin Dirak’zar.”

A sound left Sarkin. All at once, the group erupted into chaos, and I took a step back in retreat, only to meet my future husband’s unyielding hand, pressing into my spine, holding me in place.

“Coward,” he rasped. A gasp left me, my back going ramrod straight as my neck turned sharply to regard him. Those swirling eyes were looking at the group, and I thought I caught a hint of gleeful malice in his gaze. He liked to see them in disorder? Who were they? “Never run.”

“I wasn’t,” I gritted out. “I haven’t, have I?”

His eyes cut to mine. “No. You haven’t, princess.”

“What is the meaning of this?” the older female demanded, stepping toward us. She was dressed in light purple robes that brushed the stone. “Sarkin. This is reckless, even for you.”

Sarkin’s thumb brushed up my spine. Once. Twice. I blinked quickly.

“I’m honored you traveled all the way from Elysom to meet my new bride,” Sarkin replied. “But you came in vain. We leave for the Arsadia at dawn.”

More travel? I thought in dismay, feeling my body painfully throb in response.

“On Muron, you will not,” she snapped. “Elysom has forbid this union until we can make contact with⁠—”

Sarkin stepped forward, blocking my view of her.

“I am a Karath,” he growled. “You do not choose my wife. Or have you forgotten your place, Aunt?”

His…aunt?

“You stubborn bastard,” she said quietly, so quietly that I thought the rest of the group couldn’t hear. The words were meant only for Sarkin. “You couldn’t stand it, could you? You never liked to be told what to do. By anyone.”

Behind her, I noticed a long tail sweep the stone. So the Karag did have tails…just like the full-blooded Dakkari. So why didn’t Sarkin? Or any of the riders I’d seen? My eyes swept to the group behind her. Most of them had tails as well, save for a handful.

“Only when they were wrong,” Sarkin corrected, his voice just as low, and I had the strangest sense I was stumbling onto some very rooted issues between the two Karag. His aunt scoffed as Sarkin stepped forward until they were only an arm’s length away. “Elysom gave me two mysar commands to repay what my father did. I have now fulfilled them both. The last of the Dakkari patrols are over. I have secured a wife of my own choosing. Elysom will no longer give me orders. My freedom is mine, as is Sarroth’s. Don’t forget that. Or you will answer to Muron’s wrath.”

My lips parted, hearing a heated passion in Sarkin’s voice that I hadn’t expected. No longer cold or detached.

“You disgrace the Karag to choose a wife such as her. And you know it,” his aunt returned. Never run was what Sarkin told me. Well, she wasn’t backing down either. “The council will decide on this once we return to Elysom.”

“It’s already done,” Sarkin rasped. His aunt froze, a glare forming. “Zaridan has accepted her. I heard the sy’asha. An Elthika’s song is more powerful than any binding ceremony in this mortal life. But you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

The sy’asha?

An Elthika’s song?

Immediately, I knew what he was referring to. That moment on the wildlands, outside the East Gate. It seemed as if Zaridan’s scales had whispered, a song only we could hear. It had been mesmerizing, lulling. I still remember the heat of Sarkin at my back, the brush of his thumb across my neck, the rhythm and softness of it.