Onyx Storm (The Empyrean Book 3)

Do not mistake a dragon’s bond for fealty. If you expect a dragon to choose their rider over the well-being of their own kind, prepare for two things: disappointment and death.

—Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

The plaza falls silent, but at least there are no flames erupting from the three dragons behind me, two of whom I know are pissed.

Xaden tenses, and our squadmates quickly form a line on my other side.

“You can’t be serious.” I shake my head at the Queen of Unnbriel’s ludicrous suggestion.

“We want dragons,” she repeats with an infuriating nod. “Not fully grown, of course. Your kind has let them become too headstrong, too arrogant.”

“I will show her arrogance,” Tairn threatens, and I wince at the godsawful sound he makes dragging his talons along the stone walls.

“Not necessary,” I promise as Molvic and Cath land hard beside the others, straining the limitations of the wall.

The queen turns fully and arches an eyebrow as though Tairn just proved her point. “Bring us, say…twelve eggs—two of each breed—and I’ll bring my army to the Continent.”

Eggs? My stomach hollows, and I retreat a single step as Tairn growls in warning. The second Krovlan uprising. Dad was right. But they weren’t looking for feathertails because of their gifts; it was because they thought they were…malleable?

Sgaeyl leaps from the wall, landing a few feet to Xaden’s left. The scent of sulfur fills the air as she lowers her head, baring dripping teeth.

A handful of the guards bolts for the gate at the top of the steps, but most stay.

Impressive.

Queen Marlis stares up at Sgaeyl, utterly enthralled. “What do you say?”

“If you want to be a rider, the quadrant accepts those who cross the parapet on July fifteenth.” The ache in my ribs starts to throb as the adrenaline wears off. “And the dragons choose their riders, not the other way around.”

“Surely a queen is worthy.” She lifts her hand like she might actually try and touch Sgaeyl.

Sgaeyl’s growl rises in pitch as she opens her jaw—

“Trust me, she’s not impressed by titles.” Xaden looks over at Sgaeyl. “If you want to, I understand, but her death would be incredibly inconvenient. Can you pick a guard or something?” The absolute lack of emotion in his voice lifts the hair at the back of my neck.

Golden eyes narrow in his direction, but she slowly clamps her teeth.

“Even thinking we might accept that offer makes you unworthy,” I tell the queen. “We don’t trade in dragons.”

“That’s what I thought.” Marlis lowers her hand. “Hold on to that indignation, at least for now. But do visit again when you feel more desperate. From what I know of them, they’re rather dedicated to protecting their own, and perhaps a dozen eggs aren’t such a bad price for saving the rest of them.” She leaves without another word, flanked by guards as she climbs the terraced seats to the gateway above.

Dedicated.

I look toward the temple, but there’s not a blue robe in sight, and the platoon of silver-uniformed guards standing watch in front of the steps serves as ample warning that we’re not welcome anymore.

Between finding our abandoned weapons and the time it takes to get back to the meadow, an hour passes before we arrive at the clearing. Trager rushes to Cat before she redirects him to Dain, across from where Tairn and Andarna land. Dismounting through the constant, pulsing pain in my arm and ribs takes me so long that I’m tempted to simply sleep in the damned saddle and keep my own field dressing on this cut, but I eventually make it to the ground.

Mostly because I know Tairn will never let me live it down if I don’t.

“Did you wield?” Mira is in my face before I have a chance to take more than a few steps.

“What?” I hold my ribs and spot the Unnbrish soldiers retreating into the surrounding jungle.

“Did you wield?” Mira repeats, grabbing my shoulders and examining my face. “Aaric and Cat filled me in on what happened.”

“Relax.” I lift my brows at my worrywart sister. “We got caught in a storm. Lightning struck multiple times, and luckily a really close strike scared the shit out of the queen. There’s no magic here. Why do I have to keep reminding people about that? Can you wield?”

“No, of course not, but you can still speak to your dragons.” She sighs and drops her hands as Xaden approaches. “I’m sorry they won’t ally with us. I thought an isle loyal to Dunne was our best chance.”

“Me too.” My brow furrows as I remember the priestess. “When did my hair turn silver at the ends?”

“Turn?” Mira’s expression mirrors my own. “It grew in that way. Are you all right? I thought Dain was the one knocked unconscious.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her as Xaden reaches us. Of course my parents didn’t dedicate me. That practice was outlawed in the two hundreds, and even earlier in Poromiel. “The high priestess just said some weird things that distracted me.” And I foolishly let her. I’m supposed to be smarter than that.

“As I’m sure she meant to do,” Mira says. “What does that have to do with your hair?”

“I saw a girl with the same hair as me.”

“Really?” Mira’s brow knits. “That’s bizarre. It’s not like we have family from the isles.”

“Right? I’d never thought of it potentially being hereditary—” I wince when my ribs protest a deep breath.

“We need to get you wrapped.” Xaden’s mouth tightens. “We might not have a mender, but we can at least hold the bones in place to heal, and Trager should see if you need stitches.”

“You’re the one who needs stitches,” I argue. “But yes to the wrap. Let’s make sure everyone is ready to leave as soon as possible. I don’t want to stay here a moment longer than we have to.”

“Agreed.”

• • •

After resting the gryphons for a full day at Drake’s suggestion and a thirteen-hour flight, it’s morning when we land on the rocky coast at the edge of Vidirys, the cream-stoned capital of Hedotis.

Have to admit, this is the isle I’m most excited to explore. A whole community built on knowledge and peace? Yes, please.

The weather is slightly colder this far south, and I strip off my gloves before dismounting. My wrapped ribs scream when I make impact, and I take a second to breathe through it before moving forward. “The vegetation is even paler here,” I say down the bond as I crush barely green sea grass under my boot.

Even the sporadic bushes are— Wait.

I crouch next to a wiry bramble bush and note the nine-pointed leaves, then lean closer. “This looks like tarsilla, but the bark is nearly white.”

“Perhaps magic weakens the farther from the Continent one gets?” Tairn muses. “Though I’m not sure how it can be much less than nonexistent.”

“I do not like this place.” Andarna scrapes a single talon through the grass, revealing only damp sand. “My kind would not settle here. We should leave.”

“Cover that. We have to at least ask. Besides, where better to find a cure for Xaden than on the isle of wisdom?” I stare up at the city as Xaden reaches my side. “It’s beautiful but all so…uniform.” There’s a single row of merchants about fifty feet away, and then the three-story buildings begin. They’re all the same color with equally distanced windows, each with the same muted flowers hanging in baskets beneath them. “They razed the original structures about a hundred and fifty years ago and rebuilt with what Dad called intention.”

“That’s a little unsettling,” he agrees, looking back between our shoulders. The tiny cuts on his cheek and forehead have scabbed over, but the bruise along his jaw looks worse today. “And there’s no port. It’s a coastal city with no port.”

The trading vessels are all anchored off the coastline, and we passed more than a few dinghies on the flight in. Small boats line the beachfront, pulled up onto the sand as if marooned here. For being the isle of wisdom, it’s a far from logical approach.

“So, this one is all you, right?” Ridoc asks as he approaches from the left with Cat and Maren. “You have to take a test or something to enter?”

“One of us has to prove wisdom in order to meet with the triumvirate,” I answer.

“I can’t believe they elect people for high leadership,” Cat mutters, glaring at the city like it might bite. “Town councils? Sure, but how can you confirm someone has the skills to lead if they’re not trained from birth?”

“Being trained from birth doesn’t make you any more qualified,” Aaric retorts from the right, Trager at his side. “Any of you truly excited at the prospect of being led by Halden?”

Cat crinkles her nose.

“Valid argument,” Trager points out.

Wait, is it just me, or did Cat actually grin at him?

“Not just you,” Andarna notes.

“Let me see the arms.” Trager moves to stand in front of Xaden and me, and yep, Cat totally tracks the movement.

I slip my left arm free of my flight jacket as Xaden does the same with his. My face puckers in a grimace when the blood-stained bandage catches on the cut beneath. I tug gently to remove it, and a bead of blood rises from the center of the cut, directly between the six stitches Trager sewed into my skin yesterday.

“Looks good,” Trager notes, lowering his head to my arm, and I bite back a smile when I spot a mouth-shaped bruise on the side of his neck. “No infection, no swelling.” He frowns at the last stitch, which is doing its best to tug straight through my skin. “That one doesn’t seem to want to stay put, though.”

“Happens.” I rotate my arm. “You did a good job with the stitches.”

“Thanks.” He flashes a soft smile, then looks to Xaden. “Your turn— Damn.”

“It’s fine.” Xaden’s arm is red and angry along the deep gash that required fourteen stitches.

“It’s not fine.” I step into his space and examine the cut. “I brought some Lorin salve in Brennan’s med kit. It will help with the inflammation and fight off any minor infection, but we need to get it on you in the next few hours.” Wind gusts, peppering our legs with sand, and I turn my back to the breeze, sheltering Xaden’s arm as much as possible. “Let’s wait until we’re out of the sand.”

He nods and quickly wraps the wound.

“Because that wouldn’t work,” Mira snaps at Drake as they walk over with Garrick and Dain, who sidesteps a dead bird.

Yuck.

“It really would,” Drake says to her with a grin that would probably charm anyone else but just seems to enrage my sister. “You pull a two-pronged Pelson flight formation—”

“And wyvern would pick you off twice as fast for dividing your forces in that environment.” Mira shakes her head.

Xaden and I slip our jackets back on.

“You clearly don’t understand Pelson.” Drake lifts his hand toward his cousin. “Tell her, Cat. In a contained environment, a Pelson maneuver—”

“I’m not telling Mira shit.” Cat shakes her head. “It’s like arguing with Syrena.”

“Oh, come on. Maren? Someone be on my side here,” Drake pleads.

Maren winces. “Have you seen her right hook?”

“I have,” Drake admits.

“I know Pelson,” Mira argues, crossing to my left. “I’ve studied Pelson at length because it was my job to beat your maneuvers for years. And you have no real-world examples to prove your theory. Just stop talking.” She looks me over like she expects new wounds.

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“Drake, you’re starting to annoy me,” Xaden warns with a sideways glance. “You should stop that.” His tone ices over.

Garrick glances my way, and his mouth tenses.

Surely something that innocuous wouldn’t trigger—

“We have company,” Tairn alerts.

I yank my focus forward to find half a dozen people strolling onto the thick wooden walkway that connects the beach to the market. “Xaden.”

He lifts his head and moves closer to me.

The group is dressed in tunics and gowns of various pastel colors, the one-shoulder fashion something I’ve only seen in history books or onstage. Fabrics billow in the breeze as they come closer, all staring up at the dragons in awe.

“They’re incredible,” the middle-aged man in front says in the common language with a toothy smile. His hair bears two strips of silver amid red curls. “And well worth the walk to the beach to welcome you.” The intricate metallic embroidery of his tunic speaks to money, as does the sparkling red gem at the top of his cane.

It’s the brightest pop of color I’ve seen on the isle so far.

“And you might be?” Xaden asks.

“Where are my manners?” The man places an empty hand over his heart. “I’m Faris, the second of the triumvirate. The other two enjoy standing on ceremony, of course, but I see no benefit in waiting to meet you and therefore am here.” He bows slightly, then lifts his gaze as he straightens.

I blink and fight against the urge to stare. His eyes are so blue they’re actually…purple. And here I’d thought Dad had written that part of the tome in hyperbole.

“Welcome to Hedotis.” He turns his smile on me. “You have very unusual eyes. Not entirely blue or green or gold, but an amalgamation of all. Fascinating.”

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” I admit.

“Mine are quite common on our isle,” he says. “I’ve brought my household to formally make your acquaintance and escort you through our beautiful city. If you’re amenable, we have room for you to rest at our home on the northeast shore.” He gestures up the beach, then glances back over his shoulder. “Darling, won’t you come say hello? I apologize for my wife. Talia seems to be overcome by your magnificent dragons.”

“I’m here, my love,” Talia says as she walks up the pathway behind him, her pale green gown and long black hair catching in the breeze. She moves to his side, then quickly laces their fingers before lifting her gaze. Her dark-brown eyes settle on Xaden immediately, and they flare in blatant, palpable shock.

“Is there a problem?” Faris asks.

She studies Xaden with a desperate intensity that puts us firmly in awkward territory, and Xaden must feel the same, given that he’s practically petrified into a piece of stone beside me.

“Oh, shit.” Garrick’s face drains of color.

“Xaden?” Talia whispers, lifting her hand, then quickly dropping it. “Is it really you?”

My eyebrows hit my fucking hairline.

Xaden reaches across me and wraps his hand over my hip like I need protection. “Mom.”