than anything. The golden head piece came up to form sharp spikes, twining metal that was red in color formed thorny brambles around the bottom of it. A thin gold base that came down and formed her face on either side kept the brambles from piercing her skin.
It was beautiful and terrifying.
Quinn loved it.
“My husband,” Lorraine answered softly.
Quinn looked over at her, noticing then how she toyed with the edge of her dress, picking at nothing in particular. Her pulse fluttered. Her skin was clammy. Quinn knew the signs of fear and anxiety well.
“I didn’t know you were married,” Quinn said slowly.
“Once,” Lorraine replied. “It was a long time ago.”
“Is he who you were seeking asylum from?” Quinn asked, her eyes narrowing. She couldn’t make sense of why Lorraine was nervous. Was it the battle? Perhaps . . .
“I was,” she answered. “My husband . . . he was a very powerful man. No one would take me in and risk his ire. No one but Lazarus, that is.”
“That’s why you’re so loyal to him,” Quinn said slowly.
“It is,” Lorraine nodded. “Listen—”
A horn sounded. The single note hung in the air. Long and low and forlorn.
It was time.
She and Lorraine exchanged a look. She was hiding something. Or rather, wanted to reveal something. Quinn could tell, but battle was calling.
“Afterwards,” Lorraine said, dropping it. “Come find me afterwards when you’ve won. Then we’ll talk.”
Quinn scanned her features. If it were anyone else, she might have been wary. She might have started to question them. To wonder.
But not Lorraine.
“Afterwards,” Quinn agreed. Lorraine tucked a stray lavender hair under the metal headpiece and smiled.
“Now you’re ready.”
She turned to look in the mirror, and the woman that looked back didn’t look like a slave, or a hand, or even a queen—though Lazarus clearly modeled her head piece after a crown.
She looked like a god.
A deity so great that men would quake in fear as she walked.
Immortal and inhuman.
Powerful.
Then she smiled because Lorraine was right. She was ready.
Quinn strapped on her sword and donned her daggers. When she stepped out of Lazarus’ quarters, the vassals stopped in their tracks and stared. Their heads bowed without her saying a word as she passed by. The sounds of fighting echoed in the distance, and Quinn picked up her pace. Her boots slapped against the hard marble as she stormed down the steps of Shallowyn and stopped before the line of horses waiting to be used to carry messengers back and forth swiftly.
She approached the first of them, extending her hand as Risk taught her.
But in dying, the fear that wafted off her very being had become all the more potent, and the creature wouldn’t be calmed. She cast a frustrating look at the stable boy who jumped forward in an attempt to help her rein it in, but the stallion broke free and moved back, kicking up dust with its front legs.
“Myori’s Wrath,” Quinn coughed, waving it off. She stepped away, and the horse soothed immediately, much to her annoyance.
She needed to get to the front lines . . .
“Quinn!” a young voice called out. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. Kairick stood at the top of the steps. The firedrake he’d consumed beside him. “Ride Tarien,” he said.
Quinn ran an appraising eye over the great bird. It could easily hold her weight, but she’d need to take care to avoid the deadly sharp feathers and their poisonous edges. The beast turned its head, one yellow eye staring straight at her.
Quinn found herself intrigued. Emboldened even. Death did that to her sometimes.
“Alright,” she said, ascending the steps. The firedrake lowered itself, allowing her to walk over the top of its wing as she’d seen Kairick do a hundred times. It waited patiently for her to seat herself, placing her legs on either side of its neck.
He lifted his head and looked at Kairick.
But the N’skaran boy only had eyes for Quinn.
“Be safe,” he said solemnly, slipping back into their home language even though he’d come a good way in learning Norcastan.
“The only ones who should be afraid are those who seek to hurt me,” she said.
He swallowed and nodded once, and the firedrake lifted its wings.
In a single flap, they were airborne. The cold winds of winter’s edge beat at her face as they rose over the treetops. Quinn fisted her hands in the softer, non-lethal down feathers where Tarien’s neck met his sternum.
The battle came into sight.
The firedrake let out a screech