Last Dragon Standing

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Fearghus doesn’t want any dragons but blood. He doesn’t trust the others,” Annwyl reminded her.

“I know.”

“And the females of your line aren’t exactly nanny material.”

“I have sent messages out to a few of my younger cousins who have no designs to be warriors and—”

“If they’re too young, Fearghus is not going to like that either.”

“I’ll handle Fearghus.” Morfyd motioned to the door. “Go. Get in some training.”

Seeing no point in arguing with her, Annwyl walked out the door and quietly closed it. Then she stomped away from the room. Before she reached the stairs, another bedroom door opened and Dagmar stepped out. She caught Annwyl’s arm.

“What’s wrong?”

“We lost another nanny, didn’t we?” Annwyl looked past Dagmar at the naked male stretched out, face down, on the bed in the room behind her, long golden hair reaching to the floor. “How do you listen to that noise?” Dagmar closed the door, but it only toned down some of the snoring.

“It’s amazing what one tolerates for love.”

“I don’t think I could tolerate that for anything.”

“Probably not. But what I will ask you to do is leave the nanny situation to me and Morfyd.”

“She’s trying to get one of her younger cousins to do it. Fearghus is not going to—”

“What part of ‘we’ll handle it’ are you not grasping, my lady?”

“Don’t get huffy with me, barbarian. It’s my little nightmares that are scaring off the townsfolk.”

“They are lively, fun-loving children who merely need a good, solid, and loyal nanny to help raise them.”

“You mean as opposed to demons sent from the underworld who need a good solid exorcism?”

“Must you be this way?”

“I don’t know how else to be.”

“Annwyl, just trust me, would—” A door opened behind Annwyl, and Dagmar’s eyes grew wide behind the little round pieces of glass she wore.

One hand reaching for her sword, Annwyl spun to face whatever was behind her. But her hand fell away, and her mouth fell open.

The purple-haired dragon stood in Keita’s bedroom doorway, his shirt thrown over his shoulder, his hand on the door handle, his gaze fixed on Dagmar’s.

“Ragnar?” Dagmar whispered. Annwyl would assume so, but she couldn’t tell one purple-haired bastard from another. They all looked alike to her. Just one more head begging to be lopped off.

“Uh…Lady Dagmar.”

The poor thing looked caught, ready to spring back into the room. But Keita yanked the door open wide. She wore only a fur around her body, her normally smooth and flowing dark red hair a mass of uncombed curls and knots.

“You forgot this.” Keita put a travel bag in the dragon’s hands and went up on her toes, kissing his cheek. “I’ll see you later,” she murmured.

“Now go.”

“Keita…”

“What?”

Ragnar motioned to Annwyl and Dagmar, and Keita glanced over.

Instead of grinning, as she had done a few years back when Annwyl had caught Danelin, Brastias’s second in command, trying to sneak out of Keita’s room, the She-dragon’s eyes grew wide. She looked almost panicked. Strange, since Annwyl couldn’t remember a time Keita had panicked over anything.

“Uh…Annwyl. Dagmar. Good morn to you both.” Her smile was forced, brittle. She nudged Ragnar, and, reluctantly, he walked off.

Once he was gone, Keita whispered, “You won’t tell anyone…about that…will you?”

Now Annwyl was truly confused because Keita usually suggested,

“Make sure to give all the details to my sister. Let me know if you need drawings!”

Was she really hiding this? And if she was…why?

“We won’t tell,” Annwyl said, since she had her own secrets.

“Thank you.” Then Keita slipped back into her room and closed the door.

“Is no one safe from that female?” Dagmar asked.

Annwyl shrugged since she had no answer and left Dagmar staring at Keita’s closed doorway. She headed down to the Great Hall where she found food already out and the other two Northland dragons eating at the table.

She walked over and dropped into a chair across from them. She said nothing until she’d filled her own plate and begun to eat. Then she asked,

“Did you both sleep well?”

They nodded while they kept eating. A few years ago she might have been insulted by that. But after the Northland battle in which she’d fought beside the mighty Reinholdt and his sons, she knew this to be the way of things when Northland warriors ate.

“And how’s your leg, uh…”

“Meinhard, my lady,” one of them answered while still managing to chew his food. If she was going to remember their names, she’d have to find something distinctive about them, especially since the other one’s hair would eventually grow back.

“Call me Annwyl.”

“As you like.”

“And your leg?” she prompted.

“Better. Healed up nice during the night.”

“That’s perfect.” She loved how dragons could heal quickly with a little help from a witch or mage. “I was going to get some training in—you both can train with me.”