Page 14 of Foundling

It looked to be far too late for him now.

Araxos hadn’t even said anything yet, but there was an anger simmering beneath his brother’s stern visage, one that would only be assuaged by blood. If any dragon was to last on the Droplets, they had to learn to read the face of the anax quickly and accurately. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.

Finally, after the echo of the silver chamber doors clanking shut faded, Araxos began to speak.

“The evidence has been laid out before you all. As anax and as victim of this conspiracy, I take my right to judge.”

Attalus snorted. Their brother hadn’t been victim of anything in his life, other than perhaps overconfidence.

“Will the accused admit to their crimes and earn themselves mercy?”

Peering up at the dais, Attalus couldn’t help seeing their father in Araxos. Of all the siblings, he resembled Diometrios most. There was no madness in his eyes; instead, his rage was a cold, banked thing that sent a shiver down Attalus’s spine. Whatever Araxos planned, whatever it was he thought this would accomplish, he truly seemed to believe it.

Beside him, Phiobos inhaled sharply.

Don’t, idiot. That’s exactly what they want.

“I seem to recall our celebrated new anax vowing to rule with justice and honor,” said Attalus instead. “Were those not your exact words?”

“And what is this if not justice?” His voice didn’t rise, his body barely moved at all, but the weight of Araxos’s attention and disdain fell heavily upon Attalus. “Conspiracy must be rooted out, treachery must be punished.”

“Indeed. It must be proven first. On what grounds are we accused?”

“The evidence against you has been found and proven valid. The two of you are guilty in conspiring to poison me.”

“Can you truly claim a just rule when the accused aren’t afforded a chance to defend themselves? Who defended me and my good name in my absence?”

“We searched for kin to defend you but found none,” sneered Erastus. “As for this good name, we didn’t find that, either.”

A few nervous chuffs took up the air of the chamber.

“I can defend myself, then. Certainly against the likes of you.” Attalus directed his spite at Erastus, knowing full well it was too dangerous to aim it at the dais.

Gold scales flashing as his body twitched in indignation, Erastus spat, “The evidence is overwhelming and conclusive. You’re guilty, krotos ader. Best to make this quick and clean.”

“What evidence? A handful of barrels that could’ve been procured from anywhere? Gossip and hearsay from idle tongues? Such evidence wouldn’t hold up before a tavern court with drunken jurors.”

Mutterings and chuffs buzzed through the chamber.

Sensing the shift, Erastus motioned for the guard beside him to hand over his metal spear. Palming the weapon, Erastus growled, “I’ve been waiting for this.”

Fuck.

“This is not justice!” Attalus cried. “This is murder! Dais-sanctioned murder! Who will be next, anax?” For a moment, he met Araxos’s icy gaze. There was nothing to find there, no understanding, no pity. Just a bleak determination that left Attalus’s guts cold.

“Araxos Anax has decided!” Erastus bellowed above the growing noise of the court. “Chain them.”

The cold pit of Attalus’s stomach dropped when he saw the dull gleam of manacles swinging near him. There’d been rumors, in Bargarad and the other cities, of spelled manacles making their way across the continent. Horrible things that not only suppressed magic but absorbed it. Stopped mantii and Savrakae from shifting, sapped the very magic from even the fae.

His two hearts wrenched in his chest. Absolutely not. If they were going to kill him, it wouldn’t be on his knees. They’d have to earn it.

Attalus unfurled his wings and spun, the dirk at his back slicing across the scales there. Twisting away, he grabbed Phiobos’s shoulder, muttered, “Run,” and kicked him in the direction of his kin.

The court exploded with the commotion, bodies surging forward to see what happened, others shouting for justice or to kill the poisoners.

Gorgoroi clawed at Attalus, and the deadly point of Erastus’s spear charged for him, but he kept himself moving. Never get caught, never stumble or misstep.

He might’ve been the charming one, the lazy one, but for much of Attalus’s life, there’d been nothing to do but train with Theron. His mother had taught them to survive, to live, and most importantly, to fight.