Court of Dragons (Dragon Isle Wars #1)

Her fingers tightened around the fire poker as she eyed the bailey. It was empty. Not even the echo of a footstep could be heard around her. What had taken place in her absence?

The wooden doors that led into the grand hall were chained closed and were unbroken. She frowned and then realization dawned. They’d locked the people in before they attacked. Disgusted, she limped around the side of the building to the left-hand corner of the courtyard, knowing that there was a secret entrance from there into the great hall and chapel.

The castle really was full of a ridiculous number of secret passages.

Wren was thankful for the countless hours she’d spent memorizing them with her father. And for exploring them with Rowen, believing them to be their own personal gaming grounds for hide and seek. The memory of those secret passages truly had been put to good use.

The entrance to this particular passageway was a trapdoor made to look suspiciously like the cobblestones that covered the courtyard, nearly impossible to spot, even if one knew it was there. Wincing at the strain in her arms, Wren swung herself down into the passageway before closing the door behind her. The tunnel was pitch-black, but she knew where she was going.

A few short steps forward and some more to the right, and she reached another door. This one, she knew, opened behind the tapestry that hung wide and proud on the southern wall.

Her hand shook as she turned the doorknob and swung it inward, a cool waft of air hitting her face as she did so. The chapel had always been colder than anywhere else in the castle, not to mention the east wall was completely missing now. Feeling her way around the tapestry, she clung to the fabric, and, when she reached its singed edge, she forced herself to pop her head around to view what remained of the once-beautiful place.

That was when she realized she was not alone.

In the very center of the chapel stood a man.

He stared at the spot where Wren had said her vows. Her heart twinged.

Stop thinking about it.

This room, again, had been cleared of bodies, only serving to fuel her rage. But Wren was too tired and upset to do anything about it; perhaps if the man had not been in the room, she would have kicked something in her despair, for all the good that would have done. Instead, she continued to observe her enemy.

He wasn’t wearing a helmet. That was unusual.

He was huge, all tight muscles and long, braided, silvery-white hair pinned messily back. His pointed ears gave him away for what he was: a Verlanti soldier. What was he doing in this desolate place? Was he here to gloat over the lives he’d taken and ruined?

Her fingers squeezed the fire poker as she eyed his weapons. A sword hung at each of his hips, along with several daggers strapped to his thighs and upper arms. A bow and quiver hung over his bare back. The man was dangerous. She could tell that much. Only an assassin carried that many weapons. Perhaps he was sent in last to clean up the mess?

Bile burned the back of her throat and Wren was happy that she hadn’t eaten anything yet.

The elf rolled his neck and prowled toward the edge of the room, the wind ruffling his silvery hair. The way he held himself was like that of a…mountain cat—sleek and powerful. He leaned over the edge and if she thought she had a chance, Wren would have sprinted across the room and shoved him off the cliff.

But she held her place.

Her attention returned to the engraving on his vambraces that covered his forearms. They were intricate, expensive even. Something told Wren that this man was no mere foot-soldier. He was important, of that she had no doubt.

He dropped his right hand and flexed his fingers. An alien sensation moved through her as she stared at him. He could strangle her with one hand. But even with his back to her, standing on the edge of a four-hundred-foot drop, he looked completely comfortable.

He’s not on guard.

He glanced to the right, giving her a glimpse of his profile as he clenched his jaw. High cheekbones, slender nose, and a dimple in his cheek. Wren blinked. It didn’t seem right that her enemy had dimples. Dimples were too cute for the predator who stood casually in front of her.

The elf ran his right hand over his face and sighed, shoulders slumping as if he was upset about something.

What did he have to be upset about? He stood in her home painted in her kin’s blood. Wren’s anger burned hot.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a bloodied sword abandoned in a corner. Without thinking, she snuck over to it on silent feet and switched the fire poker to her left hand. Wren picked up the sword before she could shake some sense into herself. She indulged a terrible desire to creep up on the man and cut him down where he stood.

This is for my family.

Without sound, she closed the distance between them in a few scant seconds.

You should have been on your guard.

She stabbed him, but it glanced off a rib.

The soldier growled and spun toward her, knocking the sword from her hand. She stumbled back, clinging to the fire poker. He rushed her, his face contorted from the initial pain in his side before he removed the blade from his flesh and tossed Wren to the ground. No energy was wasted in his movement; he was lithe and careful and very, very calculated. He dropped to his knees and his huge hands found her throat, and, though she scratched and scrabbled at them and kicked the man in the stomach to try and shake him off, he simply would not budge.

On another day—when Wren was not exhausted, nor injured, nor overburdened with grief—she would have been able to find a way to squirrel away from the man. She could have outsmarted him and landed a crippling blow. Or, at the very least, managed to get away. She had no doubt she was faster than him. As her vision grew dark, she found herself focusing on the man’s face, committing his features to memory to take with her to the grave.

Impossibly light, reflective blue eyes, as if they were made of crystal. High cheekbones. Longer eyelashes than she’d ever seen on a man. A strong jaw and regal nose. His face looked too handsome—too heroic—to match the savagery splashed across his features. Even the snarl on his face looked elegant.

In the last second before she plunged into darkness for good, Wren thought she saw a flicker of recognition cross the man’s face, and she imagined that his hands might’ve loosened just a little from her throat. But then her vision went entirely, and all of her thoughts—of the man who was killing her, of her parents, of Rowen, of Britta—faded away, and then there was nothing.





10





Arrik


This was exactly why he hated female warriors.

It was wrong to hurt a woman and yet she’d been the one to draw first blood.

Arrik sighed and released her throat. Her breaths were steady, but she wouldn’t be out for long. He’d only held her down long enough to get her to pass out, so he didn’t do any permanent damage on accident.

His father would call him weak. Maybe, he was.

What was she doing up here?

He’d specifically chosen this spot to gain some peace. After his men swept the keep one last time, they had taken every last morsel of food, wine, and ale from the castle and carried it down to the beach. Arrik had stayed behind to watch them from above as they ate, drank, and celebrated their win while the bodies of the fallen burned to ash as was proper.

Many of his men still hated that Arrik gave their enemy’s bodies the same respect. It didn’t seem right to leave the fallen warriors behind to rot. They were soldiers following orders just like he and his men were. They fought valiantly and deserved a warrior’s send off and proper burial.

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