Light My Fire

That’s when he heard someone—it sounded like bloody Celyn—yell out, “Spear!”

Bercelak spun around to see Aberthol running toward him, his sword out, his face a mask of rage as he screamed out, “In the name of the one true god I smite thee!”

Bercelak pulled his sword, but as he raised it, Celyn flew in from above, catching the spear that one of his kin threw to him before he spun in midair to give him power, slammed his wings against his sides, his entire body shooting down.

Ramming his back legs into the Red’s back, his talons digging past scale and flesh to tear into precious spine, Celyn forced the dragon to the ground and then buried the tip of his spear into the back of Aberthol’s neck. He twisted it one way, then another, until the dragon stopped moving.

Bercelak stared down at Aberthol’s body.

“You all right?” Celyn asked.

Bercelak nodded. “How did you know?”

“Because you weren’t the only one. They already tried to kill Princess Agrippina.”

Bercelak shoved his sword back into its sheath. “Rhiannon? You left her?”

“She’s with Mum.”

Bercelak opened his maw to argue, but they both knew he couldn’t. Next to being protected by Celyn or Bercelak himself, the queen couldn’t be in better claws.

“But I don’t think the assassins will go after Rhiannon or Annwyl. I think they want the deaths that will lead to war.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They kill you, there’s no stopping Rhiannon from going head to head with the Salebiris and the Cult of Chramnesind. I sent Brannie to my father’s, and Izzy and Éibhear to Dagmar. But Brannie will need the most backup, I think. Father has more pull with the dragons than Dagmar.”

“Have you talked to your mum?”

“Can’t get through to her. Something is blocking the communication between us.”

“Keep trying.” Bercelak walked through the silent crowd of Cadwaladrs. He pointed at one group. “You lot . . . go to Bram’s. Don’t waste time. Brannie’s on her own.” He pointed at another group while the others took to the air. “You lot to Devenallt. And the rest of you back to Annwyl’s castle to back up Izzy and Éibhear.

“I’m going back to my mate,” he finally told Celyn. “You go to your father. Last I heard, my grandson Var is with him. Make sure he’s safe.”

Celyn nodded, unleashed his wings, and was gone.

Alone, Bercelak looked down at Aberthol’s body. The cult had turned a guard closest to the ruling powers of this land, but they hadn’t ordered him to kill Rhiannon. Probably knew they couldn’t. As protected as Rhiannon was, she was also bloody dangerous on her own.

But this cult . . . they’d gone after Bercelak instead, not bothering with Rhiannon because they were thinking about long-term and long-lasting damage.

The realization worried Bercelak more than if they’d tried for Rhiannon and Annwyl. Because now he understood what Fearghus had been trying to tell him for years.

That whatever was about to happen with these zealots . . . it might just tear their world apart.

The soldier, a man Frederik didn’t recognize, snarled at him.

“Little bastard,” he muttered before yanking that blade from the ground and charging him.

Frederik started to jog backward, but then realized he had nowhere to go. He wasn’t armed, which would just make him a running target that wasn’t nearly as fast as he probably should be with all those days in the library now catching up with him.

So Frederik didn’t move. He stood his ground and let the soldier run right at him, the blade held high to impale Frederik in the face.

But as the soldier neared him, Frederik pulled his eating dagger from the belt at his waist, and dropped into a crouch, then brought the dagger in and up, burying it inside the soldier’s thigh.

With a scream, the soldier went down and Frederik quickly stood to his full height, the bloody blade in his grip, as he heard someone cutting through the trees toward him. He yanked the blade out of the dying soldier’s hand, but he quickly let out a relieved sigh when he saw Izzy and Éibhear.

“Thank all reason,” he said, panting.

“Are you all right?” Izzy asked, her hand on his shoulder.

Frederik briefly watched Éibhear continue to run right by him. “He tried to kill me,” he said of the soldier bleeding out on the ground.

“I know him,” Izzy said, appearing shocked. “He was once in my platoon.”

“Where’s Éibhear going?” Frederik asked.

Izzy’s eyes grew wide. “Fuck. Dagmar.”

Arlais pointed her finger in Dagmar’s face. “I’m telling Daddy!”

“You do that! In fact, let’s go find him right now and I’ll tell him myself!”

Dagmar started to push her chair back, but Adda suddenly brought her big dog head over and gripped Dagmar’s forearm between her jaws.

Arlais’s eyes widened in panic and she yelled out, “Adda, no!”

But the dog ignored Arlais and suddenly scrambled back with Dagmar’s arm still caught in her mouth. Afraid the dog would rip it to shreds, Dagmar allowed herself to be dragged out of the chair, across the floor on her knees, and toward the door, where Adda released her, turning her focus on the desk she’d just pulled Dagmar away from.

That’s when Dagmar saw that her assistant of the last eight years had buried a ceremonial dagger right where Dagmar had been sitting.