Page 107 of Foundling

At least, she thought so. Her hand was so soaked in blood, she couldn’t tell if her side had closed yet.

His focus honed on her, and his giant head gently hovered before her. A sad trill vibrated in his long throat, and Leita slumped against his snout. His hot breath cascaded across her face and shoulders, ruffling her hair.

“It was Ondra,” she whispered. “How could she do this? Why…?”

Tears slid down her cheeks to sizzle and evaporate on his scales.

With Attalus there and bearing her weight, Leita managed to calm herself. More magic flooded inside her, numbing the pain as her innards and tissues knitted themselves together. She itched more than hurt—why is healing always itchy—and so when she leaned back at the sound of a great clatter across the yard, her head was clearer.

Marcades came barreling through the archway, a small army behind him.

“My Queen!” he cried, hurrying toward her.

Attalus growled a warning, red flame glowing in his mouth.

Marcades slowed but didn’t stop, his soldiers fanning about the square to secure it.

“It’s all right, Attalus,” Leita soothed, “it’s not his fault.”

A torrent of hot air slapped Marcades as Attalus snorted, making his thoughts known.

With Marcades and Attalus beside her, Leita determined to stand, but her dragon licked her from sternum to chin before fixing her with a hard look. Stay here, he said, before he turned and threw himself into the sky.

“Wait!” she called after him, but Attalus beat the air and gained height. He didn’t heed her command to stay, spiraling higher over the city before cutting east.

Then he was gone, and Leita shivered.

Marcades knelt before her, shoulders slumped and expression crestfallen. “My Queen, I…”

“It’s not your fault, captain.” Leita took the hand he offered, and together they carefully stood. Leita let him and another guard look at her side after she gingerly peeled her hand away.

“The skin has closed already,” the guard marveled.

“I’m all right. Just…shaken.”

Marcades nodded. “Anyone would be. We had no notion that Ondra would…” The captain grimaced, looking away as his frustration grew. “She’s a Meringor, she was trusted.”

“Could she have been put up to it?”

The idea didn’t seem to encourage Marcades. “Let’s hope the guards find her before your azai. If he does, there might not be—”

The air heated and pressure grew. Wind buffeted them on all sides as Attalus dropped from the sky onto the adjacent building. From his mouth dangled—

“Attalus, no!”

He released a limp, bleeding Ondra onto the ruined cobblestones, the woman bouncing in a wet smack. Ondra groaned but didn’t get up.

Attalus sneered, throat rumbling. His lips and fangs parted, dragonfire licking his tongue.

“We need her alive!” Marcades cried.

Her dragon bared his fangs, and down their bond Leita felt just how livid he was to be denied his kill. Ondra’s life was forfeit. Justice called for blood and flame.

When his predator’s eyes fell on Leita, she shook her head. Don’t, she implored.

Attalus’s lip drew back, his displeasure clear, but the flames retreated. Lifting his head, Attalus roared across the city, warning every creature from here to the River Lune that a dragon’s mate had been harmed—and that there would be no mercy.

26