Page 116 of Reign

I wasn’t used to sharing my burdens, but the ache in my chest from heartbreak pushed me to seek his counsel—even if all he could offer was comfort.

Clearing the sadness from my throat, I tried to steady my quivering voice. “If I’m honest, I’m heart—”

“Ah!” Fitzroy interrupted, his concern vanishing as his gaze swept over my head to something in the distance. “There he is!”

He waded through the long grass toward Greyclaw, who lay sleeping among wildflowers and moss. Fitzroy’s blatant disregard for my despair was rude—I should have left him to venture to Annwn alone. Yet the glimmer of affection in his eyes at the sight of Greyclaw distracted me from my anguish.

“He’s the dopiest creature I’ve ever met,” Fitzroy said, stroking Greyclaw’s scaly belly. “Most domesticated wyverns bond with one rider, but Greyclaw will take anyone above the clouds. Despite his stupidity, I’m rather fond of him.”

I recognized the iridescent sheen on Greyclaw’s wings. He was the beast Bash and I had once ridden together. Warmth spread through me as I recalled soaring through the midnight sky, but my memory soured as I remembered Bash’s betrayal-stricken face when he learned the truth. Shaking my head, I wished desperately to erase that once fond memory.

Fitzroy hoisted himself onto Greyclaw’s thick neck, seizing the reins firmly in his hands. “Come on,” he called.

Clinging to the wyvern’s spikes, I struggled to pull myself up. Fitzroy grew impatient with my feeble footing and weak arms, grabbing the collar of my coat and hauling me with great effort. While Fitzroy struggled, Bash would’ve lifted me effortlessly. I sighed sadly, trying to forget the muscles that bulged from his arms. Bash’s strength was no longer my concern.

Finally managing to swing my leg over, I mounted Greyclaw behind a panting Fitzroy. Unsure whether I should cling to him for safety or anchor myself to the wyvern, I hesitated.

“Fleoge, Greyclaw.” Fly, Greyclaw, Fitzroy commanded.

The wyvern strode swiftly through the trees as I wrapped my arms tightly around Fitzroy’s waist, fearing I might fall off.

We ascended quickly, breaking through the foliage into the sky. Below us, dense clouds obscured the realm until, as the Isle drew closer, the gray mist parted to reveal flickering beacons ahead.

A silhouette darted across the horizon, followed by several more amorphous shadows. As the figures drew closer, their outlines sharpened into wyverns ridden by goblins. They circled us; a spiked tail narrowly missed perforating my face. Panicked, I buried my head against Fitzroy’s back, clinging to him with all my might as Greyclaw swooped between the defenders.

Fitzroy gasped. “By the blood of the gods.”

Peering over his shoulder, I saw a serpentine shape slithering through the sheet of rainfall. Its powerful wings, larger than a ship’s sail, beat rapidly as it approached. This wyvern miniaturized Greyclaw—if it attacked, the three of us would be dead.

Saddled on the giant wyvern’s neck, a cloaked figure let out an ear-ringing howl. The goblins retreated, and Fitzroy followed, descending quickly toward the stone fortress.

Greyclaw folded his wings, angling his talons toward the wall walk. His claws scraped along the weathered parapet, creating sparks as he secured himself a perch.

The forceful downdraft from the giant wyvern nearly knocked me off Greyclaw’s neck. Masonry crumbled under the weight of the beast as it landed beside us. It released a feral screech, showing its lethal fangs as fire burned at the back of its throat.

Fitzroy aided my dismount just as the cloaked figure approached.

“Name yourselves,” the stranger growled, his voice as coarse as sand.

Towering over us, the hooded figure gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword with his hairy hand, waiting warily for our introductions.

Fitzroy stepped forward, puffing his chest with self-assurance. “I’m Fitzroy Belfour, seeking an alliance with my aunt, Regina.” His tone was firm, yet amicable.

The man lowered his hood, revealing a startling face. His long, doglike snout sat beneath pointed ears that crowned his head. Standing upright on two legs, he was a haunting blend of man and wolf—unlike anything I’d ever seen.

“Wolver,” the wolfman introduced himself, his sharp fangs flashing as he extended a clawed hand toward Fitzroy. They shook briefly before he turned his open palm toward me.

“Niamh Smith,” I said, taking his hybrid hand politely. His textured, paw-like grip reminded me of Dog.

“We mistook you for invaders,” Wolver explained. “The Queen recognized your silver wyvern as one she had gifted many moons ago and assumed it was her nephew, though I remained cautious.”

Before I could question Regina’s intentions, Wolver prowled toward the gatehouse.

“Follow me,” he said. “Let’s take shelter from the rain.”

Wolver ducked beneath the rusting portcullis, and I wondered if his floor-length cloak hid a bushy tail. As we entered the castle, Fitzroy marched confidently beside the wolfman while I trailed nervously behind. He led us down a narrow, winding staircase that opened into a broad hallway. Flickering torches cast an orange hue across the stone walls and lit our path.

“Excuse me!” a diminutive figure exclaimed as she almost headbutted my hip.