“You can lower your arms now, Iskari.”
The slave turned away to mark something down. Relieved, Asha did as she said. The other two slaves turned to put away their pins, leaving Asha an unobstructed view of the mirror. Her dress shimmered like sunlight on the sea—which Asha had swum in long ago, on trips to Darmoor with her mother. The port city was surrounded on three sides by a vast expanse of salt water.
The long, petal-shaped sleeves were slit at the elbows and fell past her wrists. Embroidered flowers entwined themselves around her collar. There were two layers: gold underneath and white on top. From the waist down, the wedding dress flared out in shimmering layers of fabric so light, they felt like seafoam.
It was the prettiest thing she had ever seen.
It did not suit her.
The delicate elegance made her scar stand out even more than usual. The mottled, discolored skin ran from the right side of her forehead down to her ear and jaw and continued past her throat and shoulders, disappearing beneath the neckline. The rest of it hid beneath the fabric where no one else could see it.
Jarek’s slave had seen it, though. He had seen all of her.
The thought sent hot shame rushing through her.
The slave girl returned with a bolt of gold fabric, severing Asha from her reflection. “Can you raise your arms, Iskari?” she asked, holding a soon-to-be sash up to Asha’s waist.
Asha raised her arms.
The moment she did, a scream shattered the calm.
Asha and the slave girl looked to the door, where two soldats burst in without knocking, their steel morions askew.
“There’s a dragon in the city, Iskari!”
The slaves before her trembled in terror.
Asha slid the top layer of her dress off easily. The bottom layer was another matter. Jarek had this dress made to his exact specifications: the buttons were minuscule, climbing up the back, making it physically impossible for the wearer herself to undo, ensuring that only her husband could get her out of it on their wedding night.
Another show of dominance. Another form of control.
“Get this thing off me!”
Three slaves moved toward Asha at once. Their quaking fingers fumbled the buttons as more screams erupted. The heavy, rhythmic thud of soldat boots echoed down the halls. Asha didn’t wait for the slaves to stop their fumbling. She grabbed a hunting knife from where it hung on her wall and placed it in a slave girl’s hands. “Cut it off me.”
Wide-eyed and terrified, the girl took the knife. Asha turned around. The room fell to silence as the knife ripped through the delicate fabric and the dress loosened around Asha’s shoulders and ribs. If they noticed the linen bandages wrapped around her torso, they said nothing.
The moment she was free, Asha pulled on leggings and a thin hunting shirt, then buckled on her armor. She grabbed an axe with a jeweled handle from the wall, given to her by her father on her last birthday. Ornamental until today, but still sharp as the day it was honed. She tucked it into her belt, laced up her boots, and went to find the dragon she thought she’d left behind.
Asha saw it through the arched windows as she ran through the corridors of the palace. Young and lean, the dragon flew into view as the city below descended into screaming chaos. The bright sun silhouetted its form.
The second time it flew into view, she knew its forked red tail and the curve of its head.
As she ran through the outer court, leaving the sun behind, it flew into view a third time. This time, she recognized its pale, slitted eyes. They were the eyes staring down at her last night when her killing blow was intercepted.
Elorma’s words rang through her mind:
You must keep it from harm.
Soldats ran past Asha shouting contradictory orders of “Get to the roof!” and “Get to the street!”
In the case of a dragon in Firgaard, a soldat’s first priority was to the city. Palace soldats were instructed to abandon their posts and either make for the roof with arrows and spears—things that could take down a dragon—or head to the narrow, winding streets to make order of the chaos.
The street was the most dangerous place to be with a dragon on the loose.
Asha ran with them out of the palace and into the street, where carts lay overturned. Merchant stalls stood abandoned. As people ran in every direction away from the dragon, half trampling one another, soldats tried to keep people calm, corralling them into their homes.
A few braver ones stood on rooftops with the soldats, loading slings with shards of glass, stones, and bits of broken bone. The dragon roared when the projectiles hit. Asha thought he might retaliate, but instead, he rose higher and flew toward the Rift.
Asha followed him to the north gate.
The wall came into view, shielding the mountains beyond. Soldats stood straight as columns along its dusty ramparts, all staring up at the shape in the sky. Jarek had doubled their presence after the last big raid of the slave quarters, when weapons were found hidden in cupboards and pots, shoved beneath mattresses, and tucked into bed frames.
On the ground, half a dozen soldats stood in a line, blocking the gate. Asha slowed at the sight of them.
“You don’t need to go out there, Iskari. The commandant already sent out hunters.”
Asha’s hand tightened on the handle of her axe. What would happen if Jarek’s men killed the beast?
Asha remembered her paralyzed arm—punishment for misusing the Old One’s first gift and disobeying the command that accompanied it.
She needed to stop those hunters.
“Open the gate.”
Beneath their steel brims, the soldats exchanged glances.
“We’re under orders not to open it, Iskari.”
Asha frowned. “Orders from who?” Surely not her father.
“From the commandant.”
“Do you serve Jarek or do you serve the king?” Asha’s thumb slid across the sharpened edge of her axe. “Because it was my father who gave me this task, to hunt down each and every dragon”—she pointed to the shadow in the sky—“including that one.”
They didn’t answer her. They didn’t have to. Their silence was a clear indication they followed the king’s orders . . . until those orders conflicted with their commandant’s.
Asha prickled with unease. It was just as she feared. “Open the gate.”
Over their shoulders, the dragon dived down into the Rift—where hunters waited to kill it.
“Open it!”
Nobody moved.
“Asha,” growled a voice.
Fire flickered through her. She spun to face Jarek, who was coming at her like a storm. His official crest—two interlaced sabers—blazed across his chest.
“Tell them to open it,” she demanded, pointing her axe edge at the gate.
Jarek stepped right up to her, his gaze boring into her. It was one of the reasons people stood in such awe of the commandant: he didn’t fear her in the least.
“Tell me where he is,” he said, “and I’ll consider it.”
He.
The slave.