“Yveun Dono.” Sybil sunk to a knee. “No half measures in my love for your rule.”
Leona rolled her eyes. Yveun Dono’s attention shifted slightly, his mouth twitching in genuine amusement. Sybil never learned, no matter how many times Leona explained. Yveun Dono didn’t have time for needless praise and pomp from his loyal lowers. There was only one thing he wanted from them: results. Everything else was just a cheap excuse that disgraced the true meaning of their House.
“Yes…” the King drawled. “Sybil, why are you alone? I sent you with Riders and then granted two more at your sister’s suggestion to seek you out after you had not returned in two whole days. Now, you stand before me alone.”
Leona could smell her sister’s rising panic.
“Tell me, are my other Riders waiting on Loom in dramatic suspense, holding Cvareh in chains until you summon them up here?”
“Not quite, Dono.…” Sybil faltered.
No one spoke. The silence grated on Leona’s ears. Sybil was failing test after test. She had crossed the threshold of incompetence and was now flirting with suicidal foolhardiness.
“Sybil, you were asked a question,” Leona pressured.
“He landed in New Dortam, but eluded us. We found him among the scum in Old Dortam, but then he escaped—”
“How does Cvareh Xin, a man not known for his prowess in duels or particular cunning, escape five of my Riders?” Yveun Dono flexed his hands, his claws extending just barely from his fingertips.
“He has help.”
“Help? From who? Only one glider was stolen from the Rok estate and no other Houses are permitted the technology.”
“A Chimera,” Sybil clarified. “And another Fen.”
“A black-blooded monstrosity, and a Fen.” Yveun Dono ran his fingertips over his lips. “You’re telling me that is what has made fools of my Riders?”
“They killed the rest.”
Leona wanted to throttle her sister. The details were obvious; saying them did nothing to help her case. But blended with her annoyance was intrigue. As impossible as Sybil’s claims seemed, the fact remained that four Riders were dead. Even with incompetent leadership, that shouldn’t happen.
“Where is Cvareh now?” Yveun Dono asked.
“He escaped us in the port city of… Territory 5?”
Ter.5.2, Leona thought to herself. It had taken months for her to memorize the various cities of Loom. Numbers on numbers. Ridiculous. Someone had explained the logic of it to her, but it was all dull and gray and forgettable, just like the Fen themselves.
“Cvareh Xin escaped you? A lowly Xin, a Fen, and a dirty Chimera not only evaded but killed my Riders, twice?”
Sybil lowered her head, and her silence was sharper than any executioner’s axe. Leona shifted, blocking the room’s only exit. Yveun Dono stood.
“Sybil, look at me.” Magic lapped against the King’s lips as he spoke. It radiated off his tongue, slithering into Sybil’s ears. “Tell me, what hand do you favor the most?”
Her sister was frozen on the outside, unmoving, barely breathing. But Leona knew that inside, she was waging a futile mental war. The King’s magic was strong and undeniable. His influence couldn’t be ignored, not when he threw that much power behind it.
“Tell me, Sybil.” The tone Yveun Dono took as he softly beseeched Sybil would’ve been enough to make Leona do his bidding, no magic required.
“M-my right.” The magic won out. The second her head snapped up to meet his, Yveun Dono shifted his magic.
His eyes seemed to glow in the dimly lit room as they met Sybil’s. The faint taste of blackberries filled Leona’s mouth, flowing in from her nose. The King’s magic had a sweet palate, but almost too much so. Like something that had been left on the vine for too long and was one day from rotting.
“Right it is then,” Yveun Dono whispered. “Give me your hand.”
His magic reduced Sybil to a puppet with invisible strings. As long as the King’s stare was unbroken, she was his.
Her right hand rose up from where it rested on her knee and extended to the King. Yveun Dono took it with grace, all the while his eyes locked with Sybil’s, holding his magical control of her mind.
The moment his magic shifted and Sybil regained command of herself, it was too late. The King’s onyx claws were out, magic and pure rage woven between them. He brought them down on Sybil’s right hand, where they punctured through tendon and bone, ripping meat and flesh and stringy ligament as he shredded the offending appendage.
Her sister cried out in pain as the King twisted his wrist. He rendered Sybil’s fingers to nothing more than pulp, her palm in shreds, before cutting her hand off at the wrist. Leona stared darkly at her younger sister as she nursed the stub at the end of her arm. She could feel Sybil’s magic trying to regrow the appendage, but to no avail. Dragons could regrow almost anything if their hearts and heads were intact—and if a stronger Dragon wasn’t committing himself to blocking the magical healing process.