Page 124 of Foundling

“This doesn’t have to end in bloodshed,” Attalus insisted. “I didn’t poison Araxos—and even if I had, he lived. I’m gone, never to return. He never has to see me again.”

“Gone off to another court, no doubt selling secrets.” Tychon huffed. “And you claim to be mated to not just any fae, but their Queen. You are more a threat now than ever.”

“We don’t have to be enemies. Fallorian and Highhome could be allies.”

Tychon’s laugh was coarse with smoke. “Our anax doesn’t need an ally of that old cunt.”

Flame hissed from Attalus’s lips. “Watch yourself, brother. The old Queen is dead. My mate is young and strong—and she’s already slain one sovereign.”

Tychon revealed his fangs. “You dare threaten—”

“A warning, brother. That’s all. Now go back to Highhome and be the hero who prevented a senseless war. Make Araxos see reason.”

The sound Tychon made was part laugh, part scoff. “Our father’s blood is strong in his veins, Attalus. Spare your mate while you can.”

Attalus’s blood ran cold at the insinuation.

But he was ready for Tychon’s lunge, twisting away and landing a swift kick on his brother’s side. His talons scraped over Tychon’s flank, pulling away scales.

“Don’t make me drown you, brother. You need to play messenger.”

Growling, Tychon banked hard, barreling for Attalus. His brother was bigger, probably a little stronger, but Attalus had everything to win. He wasn’t a scared little prince anymore, terrified of his big brothers and their long fangs.

He caught Tychon’s outstretched claws and tucked his wings, sliding beneath him through the air even as he threw the larger man over him. Attalus kneed Tychon in the guts for good measure, his brother’s sputtering a pleasant sound.

Attalus watched as Tychon fell halfway to the water before regaining his bearings. It took several mighty flaps before he reclaimed some height, and he tangled with a flock of outraged albatrosses, cursing the whole way.

Tychon banked hard, finally drawing level with Attalus again but some distance away. Flame puffed from his nostrils in a disgruntled snort. “You little shit. You’ll have your throat ripped out for this.”

“Give our brother my regards,” Attalus called back.

Leita watched breathlessly from the tower window as two dragons clashed over the sea. They were too far out to discern much, but she wanted to believe that Attalus not only held his own but rebuffed the larger gold dragon.

It wasn’t until the other dragon fell nearly to the water and turned south, and Attalus too turned for home, that Leita let herself breathe.

“Perhaps they’ve reasoned it out,” Marcades offered halfheartedly.

Not unless the airborne scuffle was really a friendly Savrakae greeting.

“Post more scouts along the border and send ships out to watch by sea. Have Charis give all units a spelled crystal.” Leita finally turned her gaze from Attalus and the sea to fix Marcades with an unyielding stare. “I will be the first to know of the next dragon.”

“Of course, my Queen.”

She wouldn’t allow Attalus to put himself in danger again.

30

Barely two days later, Leita reentered her bedchamber to find Attalus dressing for the day. When she’d left before dawn, he’d been fast asleep, his face free of the worries that plagued them in waking. It’d taken effort to leave him, the desire to ignore everything outside their door pinning her to the bed as surely as the faelands’ weight.

Leita returned now, some hours later, knowing that the time had come to do what she’d promised herself—even if her stomach turned at the thought.

Attalus peeked at her over his shoulder at the click of the door closing behind her. His grin was tired but genuine, drawing Leita near.

“Good morning, agae. Have you been up long?”

“Before dawn.”

As he tied his robes closed in an elaborate knot, Leita wrapped her arms around him from behind. Nestled between his wings, she rested her cheek on his warm back, the soft slide of silk against her skin pleasant, but she wished to touch his scales.