been a mighty fight. It stole Kalai’s breath. He’d steered clear of the square on his way to the guard grounds, hadn’t seen the destruction. A dragon fight? Kalai’s eyes tracked farther, to the platform in front of the council building and the four people standing there with ropes around their necks. Four? Kalai’s heart skipped when he recognized the fourth person, looking so small beside Tauran. Sparrow, the messenger boy.
Gasps and shouts of alarm erupted from the crowd as Arrow aimed for the top of the fountain in the center of the square. He perched on the head and outstretched arm of Valreus, the founder of the city, claws digging into the marble.
Arrow’s roar tore the air, bouncing between buildings and drowning out the sound of two dozen guards cocking their rifles.
Then everything stilled.
Tauran’s shout of fear and despair was a painful fist around Kalai’s heart.
Kalai tightened his grip on the knife. Bullets couldn’t kill a dragon unless they struck through the eyes, but Kalai was exposed and vulnerable on Arrow’s back. He couldn’t look at Tauran, but focused his hard gaze on Falka ascending the platform. From somewhere beyond the council building, the quiet rumbles of a titan filled the air with primal fear.
A part of Kalai knew he stood no chance, but there was no way he could do nothing while Falka executed the man who’d handed Kalai the sky and the stars.
Falka hardly looked alarmed. The click of his heels against wood was audible as he came to stand at the front, arms folded behind his back. “How many times are we going to have justice disrupted in this same tired fashion?” He spoke as if berating a child, letting his gaze rake over Arrow to Kalai. “You should know Mister Darrica already attempted this style of rescue mission on the back of a titan, and all he managed to do was kill yet another dragon.”
A shiver rolled through Kalai to Arrow, who released a quiet coo, shifting on the fountain. For the first time, Kalai’s eyes darted to Tauran, but Tauran no longer looked at him. His head was bowed, messy hair covering most of his face, shoulders hunched and curled in so he looked twice as small as he was.
So it was true. Ibi-shao was dead.
“Tauran didn’t kill that dragon, you did!” The volume of Kalai’s voice surprised even himself. It carried over the crowd, dragging whispers and murmurs in its wake. “You enslave these poor dragons, strap in their wings and force them to serve you so you can start a war against a country that has done nothing to deserve your tyranny.” He huffed, glancing at the people around him. They looked at him with a mix of anger and surprise.
“Are you surprised to see me here?” Kalai continued. “You no doubt thought I’d be dead by now. Succumbed to the deadly drugs you tricked me into taking. Do the good people of Valreus know about that? About the people you enslave with fake medicine, just like you enslave your dragons?” Fury and anger colored his voice and turned it rough. Arrow spread his wings and growled. “Did you tell them about the fledglings you stole from their parents’ nests? About the innocent man you slaughtered in the archive you stocked with sacred texts stolen from my people’s temples? The Archivist tried to keep the secrets of my people out of the hands of tyrants like you, using those secrets to hunt and hurt dragons. You’re about to hang a child, for skies’ sake!” Kalai’s eyes darted to Sparrow, whose face was streaked with tears.
Falka barked a laugh that drowned Kalai’s last words and spread his arms to the people. “Do you hear the lies these rebels keep spewing?” He looked at Kalai. “You have no evidence against me.”
“Because you keep executing everyone who dares speak against you!” Kalai shouted. His heart raced, and for a moment, stars danced at the corners of his eyes and he blinked to clear his vision. Took a breath. He couldn’t lose control, not now.
“I will not argue Valrean law with a foreign dog,” Falka growled. “Scurry back where you came from before I order my men to shoot.”
Kalai looked around. It was impossible to gauge the mood of the crowd. If they were on his side, he might have had a chance. But Falka was right. To them, he was a foreigner. And people loved a spectacle. They weren’t here to pick sides; they were