Iron Flame (The Empyrean, #2)

by Rebecca Yarros

is the valley above Riorson House, heated by natural thermal energy, that is its greatest asset. For there lie the original hatching grounds of the Dubhmadinn Line, from which two of the greatest dragons of our time—Codagh and Tairn—descend.

Her scales are so deeply black they glimmer almost purple—iridescent, really—in the flickering sunlight that filters through the leaves above. The color of a dragon’s scales is hereditary— “Wait

dragons ferociously guard both their young and any information regarding their development, only four facts are known about the Dreamless Sleep. First, it is a critical time of rapid growth and development. Second, the duration varies from breed to breed. Third, as the name suggests, it is dreamless, and fourth, they wake up hungry.

in the mountains of the Steelridge range, the green dragons of the Uaineloidsig line, known for their keen intellect and rational countenance, offered their ancestral hatching grounds for the good of dragonkind, and the wards of Navarre were woven by the First Six at what is now Basgiath War College. —United

“Need a refresher?” I ask, suddenly grateful I left my copy of The Gift of the First Six in my room, not that it’s taught me anything besides the fact that the First Six weren’t the first riders—they were simply the first to survive. Varrish

“And I can wipe short-term memory if we’re seen,” Imogen

“Bodhi!”

“He can counter signets,” Xaden tells me.

It was only in the last fifty years that we realized they were no longer solely coming from the Barrens. They’d begun to take recruits, teaching those who never bonded a gryphon to channel what was not theirs to take, to upset the balance of magic by stealing it from the very source. The problem with mankind is we too often find our souls to be a fair price for power.

Defeating a dark wielder begins with knowing where they rank in age and experience. Initiates have reddish rings to their eyes that come and go depending on how often they drain. Asims’ eyes fluctuate in degrees of red, and their veins distend when riled. Sages’—those responsible for initiates—eyes are permanently red, their veins perpetually distended toward their temples, expanding with age. Mavens—their generals—have never been captured for examination.

The breath of life of the six and the one combined and set the stone ablaze in an iron flame.

The art of imbuing comes naturally to only a handful of signets, and automatically only to one: the siphon.

“No. They smell of stolen magic when you get close enough.” She lifts her head, taking up three-quarters of the tunnel. “This smells of…dragons.”

my eyes widen with recognition. “If you don’t, they’ll decline over time to nothing. Your father told me once that his research showed that Warrick never wanted anyone else to hold the power of the wards. He wanted Navarre to eternally hold the upper hand. But Lyra thought the knowledge should be shared.” “Warrick

A half hour—and some creative knife work on Mira’s part—after locating the pair of wyvern bodies, Mira draws back a polished

chunk of what appears to be onyx marked with a complex rune I couldn’t even begin to replicate. And the damned thing is humming. Oh

opaque instead of golden—before Mom charges toward her nose, lifting her sword to swing.

Though there is some debate, it is greatly believed that turning venin heightens one of the dark wielder’s senses. It is this scholar’s belief that the one responsible for the death of King Grethwild developed keener eyesight. For not even the best of His Majesty’s royal fliers could see through the darkness the venin hid within to slay our beloved

The dark wielder turns, but he isn’t fast enough. Andarna lands directly in front of him, then opens her mouth and breathes fire down upon him, roasting the dark wielder before she snaps her jaws down and rips his head straight off his body. I fall into the melting slush at the same time his corpse does, and she spits out the decapitated, smoking head, then huffs a hot breath of sulfur-laced steam. What.

“If you didn’t figure it out, you weren’t worthy of knowing.” She huffs. “I waited six hundred and fifty years to hatch. Waited until your eighteenth summer, when I heard our elders talk of the weakling daughter of their general, the girl forecasted to become the head of the scribes, and I knew. You would have the mind of a scribe and the heart of a rider. You would be mine.” She leans into my hand. “You are as unique as I am. We want the same things.” “You couldn’t have known I would be a rider.” “And yet, here we are.” A thousand