King Thaon Percy was furious.

He was terrified, disoriented, and absolutely furious!

How had two legionnaires from Thieves managed to slip past his garrison, murder the guards outside his royal apartments, and wake him from his slumber at the point of a dagger? How had they managed to move with a speed only a shifter or a dragon should possess and shackle his ankles together, slip an iron collar around his neck, and tether one hand behind his back before he could shift into his bear?

How had they gotten into the castle at all?

None of it mattered now.

He was halfway to Thieves, and he reeked of refuse and excrement, having been dragged through the castle’s moat into an underground tunnel and later tossed into a shallow boat, awaiting the legionnaires along the River Lycania.

Now, as he stared at his hideous captors—their Mercian Purist’s hoods could not hide their ugly serpents’ heads from the king’s discerning gaze—he growled in fury and contempt. “Release me now, and you may yet live!”

The largest of the two, and by all accounts the leader, the one called Titan, son of Thunder, raised his oar as if he meant to bash the king’s brain in with the blade. “There is only one way you will ever be released—there is only one road to freedom. Cede the western territory of Lycania to the ruler of Thieves, from the southern edge of the restless sea to the northern gorge, just west of the capital, and you may yet live to rule your province again. Play fast and loose with Gideon, son of War, and come sunset on Sunday, you will drown in your own excrement—the smell is all the same.” He curled up his nose, and it only made King Thaon see red.

Both Titan and Vrega had briefly bathed in the river before climbing into the boat, but they had left the king—the royal sovereign of the greatest land the north had ever seen—to rot in his filth. He hoped they choked on the stench. And he hoped his guard and his mercenaries were as adept as he presumed they were because he had used the same excrement to scrawl a note along the long, winding underground tunnel: Every fifteen to twenty feet, he had swiped the filth from his tunic and drawn his finger over the tunnel wall in order to form the symbols of the Lycanian syllabary, one by one, in what he’d hoped would appear as nothing more than desperate scrawlings, without any intention or coherence: the mad gesturing of a captive king, flailing like an imbecile while trying to escape.

T-H-I-E-V-E-S.

The first seven letter he had scrawled spelled Thieves.

The next eleven had spelled Prince Dante.

King Thaon had kept his end of the covenant for the past thirty years, providing twenty seaworthy vessels to Dragons Realm; teaching the Realm’s merchants and villagers the advanced techniques of weaving, the science of engineering, and the unparalleled artistry of sculpture, painting, and pottery. Nonetheless, he was yet to receive his first full purse from the Dragons Realm Treasury. He had agreed to wait until Prince Dante sat upon the throne of Castle Dragon, understanding instinctively that King Demitri would never agree to such a progressive alliance.

Well, King Thaon could wait no more.

A deal was a deal.

While Prince Dante had reneged on Prince Damian’s initial agreement to provide assistance in capturing slaves, and while he had taken over the treaty as if Damian hardly existed, Prince Dante had agreed to the most important and singular term of the covenant: to provide King Thaon and all of Lycania with the protection of an immortal dragon, should the kingdom’s enemies attack.

Attack they had.

They had abducted the king!

It was time for the sapphire dragon to arise as the fully formed, primordial beast he was capable of becoming and to keep his word to his ally. It was time for the sapphire dragon to show gratitude for Thaon’s gift to Prince Dario—Thaon’s only daughter, Princess Gaia, given as no more than a glorified whore for the prince’s private use and entertainment. It was time for the sapphire dragon to make his allegiance clear: Give us your southern lands or we’ll murder your monarch? Ha! Return King Thaon to his throne, unharmed, or I will scorch your kingdom to dust!

Prince Dante Dragona no longer had a day to spare.

Forget asking King Demitri for permission.

Forget Asher’s birthday gala on Sunday. Celebrations could always come later.

The time to act was now.

* * *

Aguilon Jomei, high mage of Warlochia, advisor to Prince Dante Dragona of Castle Warlochia, and senior member of the Warlock’s Council on Supreme Magic and Mystical Practices, inched further out on the balcony, glaring at the moon.

For several nights now, the bright, ominous orb had cast a double shadow over the land, a portent of looming treachery. Schemes were being made, plans were being hatched, and evildoers were masking their deeds beneath the cover of darkness. But this night, there had been a triple shadow, and the stars had retreated from the sky, shrouding the land in mystical darkness.

Aguilon had awakened from a fitful sleep.

And he assumed all the other warlocks from the Council on Supreme Magic had done the same.

Their souls could not rest beneath such a dark omen.

And as for Aguilon? He was alone at Castle Warlochia with only Thomas the squire, the castle’s garrison, and the various servants to assist him. They were charged with the protection of Mistress Ahavi and Princess Gaia—yea, of the Blood Ahavi as well—while Prince Dante and Prince Dario were away. The elder dragon was searching for his son, scouring the Realm in flight, and find him or no, he intended to hole up at Castle Umbras for the night. He had news to impart to Ari, Azor, and Asher. He had matters to discuss with Mistress Mina. And the omen, the moon, and all it portended made Aguilon extremely uncomfortable.

Seeking further information from the spirit world, Aguilon lit a candle on the terrace and set it on a small table made of poplar wood in front of his black Scrying Mirror. He stooped down, stared deeply into the dark, empty screen, and called on his full breadth of power. Gradually, a dim bluish light appeared in the center of the screen, and as the light expanded outward, it began to glow, pale gold, like a lantern illuminating a scene: a shadow, a drunkard, and a warlock, gathered in the Wild Witches Tavern…

Only, it wasn’t just any warlock; it was Kristof Nocturne.

And it wasn’t just any drunkard; it was Prince Dario Dragona.

Blessed Spirit Keepers and Ancestor Warlocks!

Aguilon blinked three times and squinted at the mirror, waving his hands in a circular motion above the glowing candle to invigorate the flame: “Burn brighter, seek deeper, bring all that is shadow into the light.” The black surface of the Scrying Mirror began to crack down the center, dissecting the screen in a single vertical fissure, but not before Aguilon saw what he needed to see.

He leaped back from the screen and gasped.

He tunneled his hands through his blue-black hair and closed his amethyst eyes. “Blessed Nuri, Lord of Fire, give me wisdom.” He reopened his eyes and paced about the deck, praying, thinking…analyzing: All these years, Eliaz Griswold had kept possession of Prince Damian’s soul, and now the beleaguered, vengeful dragon was alive and dead-set on revenge!

Aguilon’s breaths came in ragged gasps.

Based on the position of the moon, as it was shown in the reflection, Prince Damian, Kristof, and Eliaz had left the tavern on horseback around two thirty in the morn, and they were planning to ride straight through to Castle Dragon. They were going to alert King Demitri. Such a journey would normally take two days, riding a solid eight hours each, but if their steeds were swift and sure, if they only rested them once or twice for no more than a half an hour, they could make the journey in seventeen hours. They could be at Castle Dragon by 7:30 P.M.

And all would be lost to Prince Dante.

All would be lost to Aguilon Jomei as well, for the king would tear the warlock to pieces, dine on his innards, and mount his head on the castle battlements.

It was forty hours, or five days’ travel, between Castle Warlochia and Castle Umbras, assuming one rode eight hours a day, and another twenty-four hours—or three days’ travel—from Castle Umbras to Castle Dragon, assuming the same. Even if Aguilon rode straight through, he would never make it in time. Yet and still, dragons had wings, and creatures with wings could fly. That was exactly how Prince Dante Dragona managed to traverse the Realm so freely.

So quickly.

An eight-hour ride at a fast-paced gallop could be reduced to a one-hour flight.

Aguilon Jomei had no other choice.

He would have to leave Mistress Cassidy and Princess Gaia in the care of Prince Dante’s regent, Thomas. And he would have to trade ten years off his advanced life in exchange for the darkest use of magic, as an offering to the Lord of Agony.

It could not be helped.

Unless he called upon the powers of the Forgotten Realm, he could not become a raven on his own, and by all that was unholy, Aguilon Jomei needed wings.

And he needed them now.