Page 33 of Foundling

He was supposed to be princeps, damn it. Even if it’d nearly gotten him killed, he still considered himself as such.

As the unicorn mare stared down at him, Attalus began to worry she might see all that and more. Orcs had the right of it, these unicorns truly were unnerving creatures.

Suddenly, the inside of Attalus’s skull itched before a piercing pain stabbed him from right eye to nape. His sinuses throbbed, and his tongue nearly lolled out of his mouth.

It was over after only a moment or two—and replaced by something far worse.

I’m watching you carefully, lizard, said the unicorn, directly into his mind.

Attalus groaned. “Oh, no…”

Oh yes. Your piddly bond with my foal would’ve allowed me to speak to you eventually, but I’m forcing the matter.

“Piddly…?” he mouthed.

If you think crashing into her life gives you any sort of rights to her, think again.

“You make it sound as though I have nefarious intent or meant to crash here.”

Didn’t you? Drawn by the allure of a beautiful, powerful mate?

“No, I…” Attalus could hardly believe the half-silent argument he was having. With a unicorn. “I followed the fire.”

Hmph. Shaking out her mane, the mare began to pace. At any rate, that’s quite enough familiarity for one day. Release her now.

“I think the both of us are quite comfortable where we are, thank you.”

Oh, I’m just sure you are, lizard.

“I’m beginning to think the two of you mean that derogatorily.”

You don’t say. The unicorn’s sarcasm washed over him, as did her hot huff. Then I shall join you.

“That’s not—”

Slinky squeaked unhappily as the mare folded her legs beneath her to lay alongside them.

Attalus bit back his sigh. It wasn’t as though he could stop the unicorn from doing whatever she wanted—like stabbing him in the eye. Probably best to please her; without giving up his very pleasant hold on his soft mate.

“Well, I suppose if we’re going to be speaking, we should be acquainted,” he said eventually.

I already know who you are.

“Yes, but who might you be?”

Pinning him with those fathomless eyes, the unicorn told him, I am Thalia the Moonchaser, daughter of Lorlain the Lightfoot, grand-foal of Archadem the Cleaver, mother of Leita, and dread-mare of the southern wilds. All who know me fear me, and rightly so.

Attalus blinked, honestly impressed. Dragons loved a list of titles and sobriquets.

Lips twitching, he couldn’t help replying, “I must say, she doesn’t look much like you.”

Thalia groaned—or perhaps farted. You’re an unamusing lizard.

“Just give me a little time.” He was good at figuring people out; it’d kept him alive so far.

Peering down at the sleeping mate in his arms, he asked gently, “And what do they call Leita?”

The unicorn’s pause was longer than he thought necessary. Squinting at her, he tried to decide what her sudden silence might mean when she finally answered, She doesn’t have other names. Yet.