Page 29 of Foundling

“I can tell you’re thinking very hard about whatever it is.” Although she couldn’t see his face and refused to look, she could hear the laughter in his voice. “Might stretching help you to think?”

And let him ogle her in the process? Absolutely not.

“Silence is what helps.”

“I see. Apologies, then.”

From the rustle of his wings, she thought he’d moved off, only for him to reappear in her periphery. He laid down this time, making sure they aligned for her to notice him, his arms and wings splayed across the ground.

“I thought you had objections to sleeping on the ground,” she said before she could bite her lips shut.

Indeed, he’d asked over cushions and bedding multiple times.

“I do, but I’m not sleeping. Ash can be beneficial to scales.” He said it so straight, she couldn’t tell if he was teasing again.

Probably best to assume he was always teasing. She doubted very much that this male took anything seriously.

He mercifully lapsed into silence—or at least, not speaking. He was never truly silent. Instead, he continued to stretch, making pleased little sounds in the back of his throat. Then, when the marten crawled up onto him, he played with her with his hands, laughing and cooing.

If she hadn’t known about the horns, she wouldn’t have believed him anything close to royalty.

Clearing her throat, Leita grumbled, “If you’re going to stick around and bother me, you may as well answer my questions.”

“Bother you?” he echoed, not contrite at all. “I was merely enjoying what sunshine there is.”

Gritting her teeth, Leita refused to rise to the bait. “Why did you fly north? There hasn’t been a dragon in the faelands for centuries.”

Just as the faelands had suffered Amaranthe, the dragons of the Droplets too had been in turmoil for centuries. Their anax was rumored to be a violent, angry sort who’d killed multiple wives. At least, the old one. Word from Balmirra was that a son had killed the father and taken the throne—or the dais, as dragons didn’t sit on thrones. Or chairs that much.

She didn’t think Attalus was that son. He didn’t seem the usurping or ruling type.

“Familial dispute,” was his uncharacteristically brief answer.

“Familial disputes within a royal family are no small thing.”

She heard his sharp inhale and bit back her triumphant grin. It seemed she’d managed to surprise him.

“The horns?”

“The horns.”

“Hm.” Attalus fell into a short, moody silence as he considered his answer. Leita gave him his peace, showing that it could in fact be done.

Finally, he said, “Things are…unsettled in Highhome. I’d headed north with the idea of trying to find my brother Theron. He traveled this way with our half-sister some years ago.”

“He wouldn’t have come to the faelands.”

“No, indeed. It seems the winds had other plans for me.” That grin was back, she just knew it. “Instead they brought me to you.”

“That’s giving the wind an awful lot of credit.”

“Oh, I don’t know, the winds have a will of their own. Just like the tides and the forests.”

Leita’s cheeks burned at his words. He spoke so easily, so candidly of those natural forces as if they were his friends, the same beings who turned away from Leita.

She’d be lying to say it didn’t make her sore, even if she refused to show it.

“And you?” he asked. “Why are you out here in the wilderness all on your own?”