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To me, human clothing is divided into two categories—shiny and not shiny. I prefer shiny things.
We’re taken to a small room at the back of the building… “a prison cell,” Hinarax whispers, with all the delight of a hatchling seeing a waterfall for the first time.
The man in the front room is humming, and I’m immediately reminded of Serylla. I wonder if she’s singing her annoying song for her new captor. At the thought, my body heats with possessive jealousy. That horrible, repetitive tune is our song, and she had better not be sharing it with the King of Vohrain.
“If you’re coming with us, you’ll have to ride Hinarax. The Princess is the only one who rides me.” “I’ll bet she does,” murmurs the rogue.
This is the game, the task, the strategy—my tragic masterpiece. Just as I played the arrogant, demanding princess for Kyreagan, so I will play the defeated, spiritless doll for Rahzien. Until the day the doll rises up, and stabs him to death with a splinter of her own broken heart.
Grasping my fragile hope, clutching my vengeance, clinging to the love of my people, I recite the lies. And I fight against the part of me that wants to believe them.
“Even if she hated me, I would save her,” I say quietly. “Even if she had sworn to crack my ribs open and claw out my heart upon our next meeting, still I would traverse oceans and mountain ranges for her, fly through a forest of voratrice tongues, brave the Mordvorren itself if I could spare her from pain.”
“One more thing,” I say softly. “Just so we’re both very clear on this point. You love me. And I love you back.”
“From this day on, your only title is ‘Queen,’ and I am your captive. My place is wherever you are. My will, my future, and my body are yours.”
The second hatchling surveys all of us warily before sinking back inside. The top piece of shell fits neatly back in place on the egg, and all is still. I stare at the egg, then at Serylla. She covers her mouth with her hand, stifling a giggle. “I think we’ve been deemed insufficient as a family,” she says.
