Page 123 of Foundling

He promised himself that when this business with his brother was over, they would focus on finding a way to lift some of the weight from Leita’s shoulders.

Don’t buckle, he begged her silently through the night. Just hold on a little longer.

Attalus would do whatever he had to. Whatever was needed to eliminate the danger he’d brought upon her. This was his problem, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t the solution.

He could bear this burden, at least.

But even as his purpose crystalized and the palace defenses manifested, he couldn’t help noticing the distance between Leita and himself. Even when he clutched her to his chest at night, her breath tickling his scales and her cold feet stuck between his shins, their hearts lay on opposite sides of the bed.

Attalus didn’t know how to bridge this gap—nor if he could just yet.

He suspected they both prepared to upset the other. Leita had made him no promises about not stopping or detaining him again. In fact, she’d made her stance quite clear. Whenever she spoke of keeping him safe, a desperate, almost manic light burned in her eyes.

Part of him was flattered to know the lengths his mate was willing to go for him. The powerful Fae Queen would defend him to the last should it come to that.

But Attalus wouldn’t let it come to that.

So, on the third day, when a single dragon was spotted out to sea, Attalus took his chance. Up in the north tower discussing ballista placement, he and Marcades spotted the golden glint on the horizon at the same moment.

“My prince…”

“Give me a headstart,” he entreated before throwing himself out the nearest window.

His wings snapped open, and Attalus pushed himself higher and faster. He spiraled up on a draft, letting loose a stream of flame so that the messenger might see.

Over the crashing waves he flew, desperate to get far enough out to perhaps nullify Leita’s reach. She had far less power over the sea. This might be his only opportunity.

Gulls cried below, circling over a pod of breaching whales just past the wave break. The water here was dark and deep, sure doom for a dragon who got his wings wet. Here, Tychon’s larger size would matter little.

“Shift,” he demanded when he got close enough. “We must speak.”

Tychon, the youngest of Araxos’s full-brothers and serving him as head of the armies, huffed. For a moment, Attalus wasn’t sure he would. Tychon wasn’t known to be clever like Araxos and Erastus, but he was loyal.

Finally, his brother shifted, golden scales sliding as his limbs retracted and his muzzle softened into a face. A scowling face.

It took effort to hover there, facing each other, but any dragon worth their wings could do this for hours, days if needed. Attalus doubted he had that much time before he was discovered, called back, or worse—Leita came flying out herself.

So he’d need to be quick.

Without preamble or niceties, Attalus declared, “I’m mated to Queen Leita and Prince Consort of the Faelands now. I won’t suffer threats to her or her people.”

“Yet you cower behind her in that pretty hidey-hole,” Tychon sneered.

“I’m a subject of the faelands, beyond Araxos’s power. Make him understand this—or have him face me himself in battle. No more of this craven flying about.”

“You would challenge the anax for the dais?” Tychon sneered.

“No, you stupid fuck! I don’t want the dais. I don’t want anything to do with the fucking islands.” Gods, he’d known getting away from his family was pleasant, but it proved even more so being in a brother’s company again.

“Yet you would challenge our brother?”

“I’d have him face me himself. If his pride is so keen for justice, let him settle with me.”

Tychon’s nostrils flared, wisps of smoke quicky lost on the wind. “Then come with me now. He won’t be satisfied otherwise.”

“I can’t leave my mate like that.”

“If you care about her, you’ll come with me.”