Iron Flame (The Empyrean, #2)

by Rebecca Yarros

“Get out of there!” Tairn orders as Baide lowers her head, and I get a single glimpse of her eyes—opaque instead of golden—before Mom charges toward her nose, lifting her sword to swing.

At its core, magic demands balance. Whatever you take will be recouped, and it is not the wielder who determines the price. —Magic: a Universal Study for Riders

We can still feed from the ground, still channel enough to survive. Enough to fool them. We might not be at full strength, capable of wielding greater magic under your protections, but make no mistake: we are already among you, and now we’re free.”

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.

“Rain?” Xaden looks up. “In December?” Warmth. Rain. The charge in the air. “It’s my mother.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “It’s her way of imbuing her favorite weapon.” Me.

This isn’t the melee of Resson. This is a coordinated defense, and I need to focus so I can do my part.

“You will turn for something much more dangerous…” Wasn’t that what he said in the nightmare?

A boulder with slivers of golden eyes. It springs forward from the cliff like a projectile, expanding, changing colors, sprouting wings and claws and black scales.

“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 strike. I block. You throw. I dodge.” He sighs, dragging his staff in the dirt behind him. Just like my fucking nightmares.