Page 87 of Dynasty of the Wicked

“Princess Ying Yue.”

A jolt ran up her spine and she turned slowly toward the voice. The wind ripped through her hair, freezing her down to her core. Several feet away from her, Wyer stood with a ghoulish grin spread over his grayish-colored face. His eyes, which had been a bright sapphire color, cruel and lively, had dulled to a pale, arctic blue. Giant scars rippled over his face, like something had shredded him to ribbons, and yet the scars appeared old and healed, like he hadn’t been mauled by ghouls merely a week ago.

His armor was swathed in black. Wisps of shadows ebbed from his figure, which kept being disrupted by the powerful winds blowing against them. His grin sharpened as the color drained from her face.

“My bride,” he purred, raising his dark sword in her direction. “I’ve come to claim what is mine.”

Her whole body shook with tremors and she wanted to vomit. From the corner of her sight, Feng Mian was still fighting off the dozen or so soldiers and the dragon was doing the same. She was alone in this fight, she realized with mounting horror.

Lifting her sword with numb arms, she stood her ground. “Even in death you were not satisfied,” she said, hating the tremble of fear reverberating from her chest and into her voice. “It infuriates you that you cannot steal everything you want, doesn’t it? My lands. My body. My soul. A thief will never be satisfied.”

His smile fell and he narrowed those depraved, cursed eyes at her. “I am no thief. All of this that you see …” He motioned to everything around them—the snowy hills, the burning tents, the soldiers fighting. “All of this belongs to me and my people. I will claim it through war, and you are my prize. How is it that you still don’t understand? You people are unworthy of all of this.”

“Even in death?—”

“Even in death, you are mine,” he said with a sinister grin, pointing the sword at her. “It would be best that I kill you and bring you back as my willing bride.”

She swallowed down the bile rising up her throat. “Are you saying that you brought these … these men back? That you turned them into half-ghouls?”

His grin was answer enough.

It made sense these soldiers had been turned against their will, but she had no clue how Wyer—as ordinary as he seemed—had the power to do that.

“But how?” she demanded. The sword suddenly weighed more than it had minutes ago, and she shivered in the cold.

“While we were being devoured by ghouls,” he said, circling her, “the realization came to me that I owned this army. Thattheir very souls belonged to me when they enlisted. And that I was their leader,even in death.” His smile grew wider and the scars across his face warped with the gesture, creating ugly fissures over his pale face. “The ghouls seemed to enjoy our promise of death, so they joined with our corpses and turned us into them. And now you, my bride, Princess Ying Yue, will become mine as well. In death. Forever.”

“My name isn’t Ying Yue,” Zhi Ruo spat. “You know nothing of me.”

Wyer’s eyes narrowed. “But you are royalty. I saw your mark.”

“Did you now?” She grinned herself, hoping to anger him—it was the only way she could think to catch him off guard. To give herself a chance.

His lips pursed together and he tightened his grip on his sword. The shadows around him waved violently like black ribbons. “You … Who are you?”

“Who knows?”

He leaped toward her with a roar, and she barely stumbled away from him, eyes wide and heart racing. Her own magic flared in front of her while he turned, his sword slicing through the thickening shadows engulfing her protectively. She jumped back, breathing heavy and raising her own blade.

His sword clashed with hers and she gritted her teeth together at the impact. Her magic twirled over her arms, strengthening them, leveling herself, as he sent a torrent of attacks at her. She backed away with each strike, her elbows numbing.

Zhi Ruo swung at him, and he deflected with his own sword. His magic came to life and sprang at her. She screamed as she was flung backward, her blade ripped from her hand, and her body rolling over the packed snow and dead bodies. His shadows attacked her, scraping at her skin and scratching her face. Sheflailed her hands, her own darkness blazing out of her violently. But it was no use; she had no idea what she was doing.

Wyer was in front of her in seconds. He yanked her up to her feet by the collar of her dress. In one fluid motion, he ripped her sleeve with his free hand. It tore loudly as he tossed it to the ground, his pale eyes narrowing at the tattoo on her shoulder.

“Youarea princess, after all,” he said with a slow grin. He lifted his sword. “Now die and join me.”

27

Right when Wyerwas about to stab her, a wave of fire shot in his direction. He released her and raised his hands, a shield of shadows protecting him. Zhi Ruo stumbled back as the dragon continued breathing flames at Wyer. She scrambled backward, putting more distance between them, as the relentless heat slammed into him. It singed the hair on her arms, and her face grew hot and cold at the same time. Her heart pounded, the blood rushing to her ears.

He’d almost killed her.

She willed her magic forward, but she couldn’t remember how to use it outside of rageful moments; it was only instinctively that she used it, and now that panic was rising, she couldn’t even remember how to call it.

Wyer growled, and shadow whips rose from the ground and wrapped around the dragon. Zhi Ruo raised her hands, trying to send her own magic to seize Wyer, but she was too slow. The dragon screamed as the shadows threw him to the side. He rolled on the ground several times before slamming into a heap of cargo, where he lay motionless.

“No!” Zhi Ruo screamed, taking a step toward him, but Wyer shifted his attention back to her in that same second. A blackribbon smashed right into her, sending her hurtling back. Pain exploded in her abdomen and her vision darkened as she spun on the ground rapidly. She blinked back, tasting blood in her mouth. She had rolled onto the packed snow, her face inches away from a hunk of charcoal that had likely been a body at some point, before the dragon had incinerated it, and a fresh, pulpy stain on the snow.

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