Page 132 of Foundling

“Attalus?”

“I’m not sure, it’s—”

“Fae of Fallorian!” The three of them stopped suddenly in surprise, looking between one another as a great—familiar?—voice boomed from outside. “Araxos Anax, Sovereign of the Droplets, demands the return of Attalus Princeps. Surrender him now and spare your city.”

Tamerlan peered around the doorway and cursed—possibly the first time Attalus had ever heard him do so. “There’s at least fifty of them out there.”

Attalus recognized the voice. Chrysanthe led this force. He told the two fae as much, perhaps foolhardy to hope, “I might be able to reason with her if I can just…”

Attalus pulled at the restraints.

“Keep trying,” Charis encouraged, getting back to work with her magic. Tamerlan joined them, and together the three battered the magic chaining Attalus.

His arms screamed in protest—almost louder in his head than Leita’s sudden distress. Utter shock reverberated down their bond, and Attalus went tumbling backwards with the force of his own pulling. The magic holding him snuffed out, leaving nothing behind.

His bond with Leita warbled.

Something had changed, and it wasn’t good.

“Did we do it?” Tamerlan said.

Attalus didn’t know or care. Throwing off his singed robes, he ran for the balcony. “I’ll delay them, draw them off if I can. Make ready the defenses!”

He launched himself off the balcony, leaping from the railing into the sky.

The warm afternoon air rushed past, the bright daylight saturating the coastline and catching on the myriad of colorful scales of the Savrakae hovering just offshore. Units of black-armored gorgoroi but also many blue, green, and yellow dragons. A single one remained unshifted, Chrysanthe at the head of the party in armor that matched her blazing bronze scales.

“Chrysanthe Principida!” he called, swooping upright so that all might see him. “I’m here.”

“Attalus. You’ve become quite the problem.”

“Why aren’t you south, treating with Queen Leita?”

“Insurance.” Drawing off the main force to attack from the vulnerable flank. Perhaps Araxos wasn’t as mad as Attalus feared. “Give yourself up and face the charges against you.”

“We both know I didn’t poison our brother. I wouldn’t be so stupid!”

“A guilty man would say that,” Chrysanthe growled.

“So would an innocent one! Chrysanthe, you can’t possibly think—”

“I have my orders, Attalus. You’ll come willingly or in chains. It’s your choice. Don’t make more suffer for your stupidity.”

He snorted. “The fae have no qualms with the anax, yet he’s disrespected their borders and attacks their capital.”

“Because of you, brother.”

The truth stung, but Attalus put it aside. He had to hope his plan meant Fallorian wouldn’t need to use any of the loaded ballistae currently trained west.

In a voice less commander and more sister, Chrysanthe told him, “The anax isn’t in his right mind. He must have his justice, Attalus, and the only way to ensure the safety of the fae and their city is for you to come quietly.”

“There are dozens of war machines pointed at you right now. Although without their Queen, every fae can wield magic. How many of you wish to die for an insane, meritless charge?”

More than a few Savrakae exchanged looks between them. A yellow dragon shoved forward—Damianos or Demetrios, he couldn’t tell which—and roared at him, fire glowing in his throat.

“Don’t make them die for you, Attalus,” Chrysanthe called.

“I’ve no intention of anyone dying today, sister. Certainly not for anything so pointless.” Gauging the forces amassed behind Chrysanthe, Attalus decided, yes, he might just make it. “You have your orders. Come get me.”