Page 94 of Burning Heir

I spent the last hour with a quill and paper, trying to phrase a letter to Mother that only she would understand.

How did Thaw go? Have Father’s shakes gotten worse? I tried to be everything I wasn’t. I spent a week in the Winter realm, only to be called to Summer and bonded to a dragon. I won Skyfall and had dinner with the king. I’ve bonded with a Gemini dragon whose other rider is a Serpent. Academy life is nothing like I expected. I could use your guidance.

Love,

Severyn Blanche.

I’d written this out a dozen times—crumpled paper strewn at my feet. I’d probably never send it. The chaos that would ensue when Father saw my flame and knew his title was doomed kept the words in my hand instead of the mail.

Ciaran rumbled behind me, raising her wings as Archer approached. He tossed dried chicken heads toward Naraic and Ciaran. Naraic roared, snapping one mid-air.

Archer nodded as he mounted Ciaran, his speckled blue eyes meeting mine as he adjusted a bag strap. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“Somewhere I’m not surrounded by children,” he replied, raising a brow. “If you insist on specifics, I’m going to see my brother Kian in Ravensla.”

I scoffed. “We are all adults here, in case you forgot. You’re only two years older.” Dark clouds gathered above, cloaking the field in shadow.

I realized then that I always felt him when he left—the pull of the tether snapping along the borders of each country. I didn’t have it in me for him to go again, for those nights to suck me intotheir silence, for anxious thoughts to rattle my bones as I waited for him to return—injured or worse.

“I must have forgotten.” He grinned, his tone playful. “You seem to disobey every one of my commands like a child.”

“Can I come with you?” The words escaped before I could stop them, and I wished I could immediately pull them back. “Naraic doesn’t like being away from Ciaran for too long. I should also visit the country I’m supposedly up to rule…”

“Naraic is seventy-one years old. He can manage three days without his sister. And besides, who will keep Damien occupied?”

“Damien is twenty-two years old. He can keep himself occupied,” I shot back. “Besides, I need air. And before you point out that I’m standing in a field, I mean I need to get off this damn island for a few days.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and I braced for the refusal. What I was asking bordered on inappropriate. “Fine,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “But I won’t stop for you. It’s a six-hour flight to Ravensla. I hope you understand that.”

I forced myself to suppress the grin threatening to rise. “I understand.” My fingers laced behind my back as I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “I mean, I did win Skyfall. Perhaps it’s you I’ll be stopping for.”

I left with nothing but the clothes on my back.

Chapter Twenty

Naraic had a rough start, tilting left as we glided over the grey ocean of silken waves. Starlight guided us north along the coast, and I saw how far the academy stretched, how those ice peaks never melted, and how daylight shattered only in one quadrant.

Riding with Ciaran and Naraic was something of a dream—their wings were in sync, each breath timed, nose to nose. Our veins became one as each pound of his chest matched mine, along with that much softer beat I thought might have been Archer.

Evening twilight held high, consuming that last bit of orange-hued sunset until we rode through the pitch-black night. I kept my eyes on the sea above, masking the oiled waters below, even as sleep groaned in my dry eyes, the salt stinging with every blink. I dragged my arm along Naraic’s neck as hours passed. Itwas unbelievable that Archer made this trek every other week to attend to his Serpent duties.

If I won Serpent, what would become of us? If we were worlds apart? The Night districts were on the other end of Verdonia, near the capital… near Malvoria.

If I won the Serpent title… those callous dreams never reached beyond my whirred thoughts, never touched the light, even more so now as my life was strung with withered cords as the bid approached.

Heat blew against my face as we entered Ravensla. I wasn’t tired anymore, but my legs throbbed from tightly gripping Naraic as the wind picked up and the claw-like waves ripped through the greyed sea. The dragons’ wings tucked low as the city bloomed before us. Rows and rows of villas traced along the shoreline. Castles jutted through the sand dunes. Summer’s air was hot and heavy, sucking through my clenched throat as we landed.

Ravensla. My mother’s hometown.

A dozen other dragons lounged lazily along the sandy shore. Archer casually tossed the last bits of dried chicken at Ciaran and Naraic, the dragons’ tails coiled around his waist. With voracious delight, they devoured the treat.

“Stay close, right by my side,” Archer commanded abruptly, seizing my hand and yanking me beside him. “The city is dangerous this time of year.”

All those hours of fighting sleep faded. “My mother was raised here,” I said in awe, gazing at sculptures of sand carved into humans and dragons—almost frozen in time as snarled snouts gaped along the cobblestone path how each wrinkle on those feared faces was captured art that only years of sculpting could create. Each scale was different, detailed to precision.

“I know,” he said. “Klaus told me your mother was born here. Seems like your family hid a lot from you.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes off the sculptures. “Are they—” I couldn’t say the word. That art had to be real at one point, breathing and living years before.

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