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He’s tall, with windblown black hair and dark brows. The line of his jaw is strong and covered by warm tawny skin and dark stubble, and when he folds his arms across his torso, the muscles in his chest and arms ripple, moving in a way that makes me swallow. And his eyes… His eyes are the shade of gold-flecked onyx. The contrast is startling, jaw-dropping even—everything about him is. His features are so harsh that they look carved, and yet they’re astonishingly perfect, like an artist worked a lifetime sculpting him, and at least a year of that was spent on his mouth. He’s the most exquisite
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“I know exactly who and what you are, Violet Sorrengail.”
“Violet?” the roll-keeper repeats. “Do you need a mender?” I turn back to the woman and clear my throat. “And Andarnaurram,” I whisper. Her eyes fly wide. “Both dragons?” she squawks.
“DEIGH.” Tairn’s grief blasts through my body as he streams fire at the wyvern’s retreating back, and Andarna’s cry fills my head. No. If Deigh… “Is he—” I can’t bring myself to finish. “He’s gone.” Tairn reverses course, barreling for the hillside outside the city walls where Deigh has fallen. No. No. No. That means…