Page 118 of The Artist and the Dragon

With a swipe of massive claws, the dragon hefted the broken man’s body into the air and flung it across the room. Griffith hit the wall with a sickening crunch before falling, lifeless, to the floor.

Chapter 50

Bronwyn

Bronwynshivered,clutchingather chest with her good arm—if she could call it that. Both her palms were ripped up, now, from grasping the broken frame while Griffith impaled himself upon it.

A low growl left the dragon’s maw as he stared her down. His chest rose and fell, blood leaked from his wounds and the particularly nasty gashes on his stomach. His skin was lighter there. It was easier to make out the scales that fit together to form a hide like that of a snake, or rather, a dragon.

“Malik.”

Could he hear her in there? Did he even know who she was?

Unexpected tears formed at the corners of her eyes and slipped down her face.

On shaking legs, Bronwyn got to her feet. Her eyes never left the dragon’s, even as he took a heavy step forward, the impact rumbling the boards beneath her. This close, he could reach her with its deadly claws. One swipe and she would be another corpse in the destroyed room.

Is that how they would end? Her dead at Malik’s hands and him bleeding out after her? He would if not treated. There was so much blood. Too much.

But how did one heal a dragon, or even approach it?

When Drystan became a monster, Ceridwen sang to him. It was her song that soothed the beast, that brought him back to himself. Bronwyn was no singer. No musician at all. She’d never been one. And she couldn’t very well paint the dragon a picture.

“Malik, it’s me. Bronwyn. Do you remember me?” She reached out a hand.

The dragon pushed air through his nose and reared back.

She dropped her hand. “I love you. You’re the only man I have ever loved. Please remember me. Please come back.”

“Bronwyn!”

She gasped, her head whipping to the side. A figure appeared in the gloom of the shattered window.

“Drystan?” Her heart gave a disbelieving leap. He was dressed for battle, sword in hand. Though some blood appeared to be splattered on him, he moved without hindrance other than the limp that had plagued him since his uncle’s defeat.

The dragon roared in fury, turning his bulk toward the windows and the newly perceived threat.

Oh, Goddess.

The king raised his blade, features set. The royal guards had advanced behind him, their swords at the ready as well. “Get back!” Drystan called to Bronwyn. “We’ll deal with this!”

“No!” She raced toward him, stumbling over debris and nearly slipping on the bloody floor. “Don’t! It’s Malik!”

Drystan’s eyes went wide. “Malik?”

Sharp claws swiped at the men. Several tried to jump in front of their king, but he waved them back. “Hold!”

Bronwyn skidded to a stop in front of Drystan and turned toward Malik, arms outstretched. “Stop! You don’t want to hurt them!”

“Bronwyn, get back!” Drystan laid a hand on her arm, trying to guide her behind him, but she held steady.

The dragon seemed to take note of the king’s touch, inclining his head, snarling through his snout and flexing his injured wings.

“Let me go,” Bronwyn ordered, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible. It wasn’t a reprimand. Not really. More a hunch that was starting to take shape. Either that, or some last burst of courage filled with hopeful delusion.

Thankfully, Drystan listened.

She took a tentative step forward, then another. “Malik, it’s me. You have to remember, to come back.”

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