Asha stood alone in the moonlight, staring down at herself.
What was she afraid of? If the dragon wanted to kill her, it would have done so already. Wouldn’t it?
Asha started undoing buckles and taking off pieces of armor. The burn on her axe hand hurt as much as ever. She unbuckled the slayers from her back, then shrugged them off and dropped them next to her armor. The night air rushed up her hunting shirt and across her bare arms. Crouching low, Asha began unlacing her boots. One by one, she slid them off.
In her bare feet, with the esparto grass brushing against her knees, Asha felt . . . unsheathed. The wind tugged at her hair. The night air kissed her scarred skin. She’d thought standing armorless before a watching dragon would make her feel vulnerable and exposed. And she did feel those things. But she felt something else too.
Unfettered.
Wild.
Free.
Without a single thing to protect her, she moved past the slave, through the stream, and back into the trees—toward those slitted eyes. She heard the anxious swish of a forked tail as she approached.
Three steps. Then two. Then . . .
The dragon fled.
Balling her hands into fists, Asha growled. “It didn’t work!”
The slave’s dark silhouette moved toward her. But Asha walked right past him, back through the cold water of the stream, shivering in the night. What a mistake this had been.
When she stood over her pile of armor, though, she no longer recognized it. It looked more like the discarded skin of a lizard and she couldn’t bring herself to buckle any of it back on.
“I’m wasting time,” she said, thinking of Kozu prowling the Rift somewhere. She should be hunting him down, not trying to tame this senseless beast. There were only four more days until her binding night. Four more days before Jarek took her to his bed.
Her eyes stung at the thought. Asha pressed her palms against her forehead and crouched down in the grass.
A shadow fell across her. “He’s a wild creature, Iskari. And you’re a hunter. You can’t expect him to come when you call. You have to earn his trust.”
Asha looked up at the slave’s silhouette. “So what do I do?”
“You wait,” he said. “You let him come to you.”
The moon was waning. Asha couldn’t wait.
But maybe she didn’t have to. How many times in the past year had she lured a dragon to her? Too many times. The thought of it made her stomach clench. If she lured this one to her, the slave would know she’d been using the old stories. She was still the same corrupted girl who’d brought disaster upon her people.
But then, who cared what the slave knew?
Sinking back on her palms, Asha took a deep breath and began.
Willa’s Story
Willa was a farmer’s daughter. She was a problem for her parents, who couldn’t marry her off, because no one wanted a wife who needed to stop and rest in the middle of a harvest. No one wanted a wife who might not last through childbirth.
Willa had a weak heart and it made her a burden—until the day she went to graze the sheep and never came back.
The Old One appeared to her out in the sand hills. He’d set her apart for his first Namsara. She was to be Elorma’s hika—a sacred companion, a perfect match, fashioned for him like the sky fitted the earth. The Old One told her to leave her family behind and seek Elorma out. Willa, who had always been devout, did as she was bidden.
She set out across the desert; and when she arrived in Firgaard weeks later, stepping through the temple doors, Elorma—who’d never seen her before in his life—knew exactly who she was.
It was nine moons before they could marry, though, because Willa was not yet eighteen. In that time, Elorma taught her to read and write so she could help him in the temple. He explained Firgaard customs and taught her the ways of city dwellers, and he never minded, not once, when she needed to stop and rest because of the weakness in her heart. In fact, with every day that passed, Elorma fell a little bit more in love with her.
But Willa did not love him back. She would do as she was bidden, but the Old One could not make her love a man. Elorma tried to win her affection. He brought her gifts, and when they didn’t work, he wrote her poems, which didn’t work either. So Elorma went to the Old One for guidance, but the Old One kept silent.
One day, the city was set upon by enemies from the west. Elorma himself was captured and held hostage while the invaders established themselves as rulers over the city. It was Willa who herded the people of Firgaard and led them in a revolt. It was Willa who stood before the imposter king with a thousand fists at her back, demanding he hand over her betrothed.
After they’d chased the invaders out, Elorma beseeched the Old One to release Willa from their bond. He didn’t want to be responsible for clapping a bird in irons and forcing it into a cage.
This time, the Old One granted his request.
Elorma sought Willa out. He told her to return to her old life and be free.
But Willa refused. The people of Firgaard no longer saw her as a silly peasant girl. She was a hero in their eyes, and the city was her home now. Willa was Elorma’s match.
On the night of their binding, Elorma waited in the temple while Willa made her way through the streets. The citizens of Firgaard threw flowers at her feet. They kissed her cheeks and wished her well, and Willa’s heart glowed within her. She was a burden no longer.
But Willa never made it to Elorma. She heard Death call her name and her weak and glowing heart faltered.
As Willa collapsed to her knees on the cobbles, the cheers around her went silent.
“My love,” she whispered, “I’ll wait for you at Death’s gate.”
The wind carried her words to Elorma, who ran to the girl he loved. But before he could reach her, Willa’s heart stopped beating. Death, the thief, stole her away.
When Elorma reached her, Willa’s body was still warm. He clung to her, cursing the Old One for not saving her, weeping into her hair.
But when Willa arrived at Death’s gate, she planted her feet and looked back to the land of the living. Souls were not permitted to linger at the gate, so Death himself came out to sway her.
She was unmoved.
He sent a sweeping cold to freeze the love in her heart—but Willa didn’t budge.
He sent a raging fire to burn away her memories—but Willa held them fast.
He sent a wind as strong as the sea to force her through—but Willa grabbed hold of the bars and wouldn’t let go.
So Death gave up and left her alone, thinking time itself would wear her away. But Willa’s loyalty never wavered. She waited until Elorma himself stepped up to the gate, a lifetime later, and the moment he did, she let go of the bars.
“What took you so long?” she asked. And then, taking his hand in hers, Willa walked her beloved into death.
Eighteen