Part 1: The Execution
The first thing Freya Vex noticed about her execution was that nobody had bothered to clean the blood off the floor.
The second was that the Dragon King was considerably more attractive than a man responsible for several thousand deaths had any right to be.
Which was irritating.
She had always hoped her final thoughts would be profound. Something about the meaning of life, perhaps. Or whether her mother had been right about marrying the cooper’s son.
Instead, she was wondering whether the king’s black armour was uncomfortable around the thighs.
“Freya Vex.”
His voice rolled through the throne room like distant thunder.
She looked up.
King Tairn Draven sat upon a throne carved from the bones of the last dragon to challenge him. Black scales shimmered beneath the skin of his throat, and his eyes glowed with the dull amber of banked coals.
He was enormous. Not simply tall, but built with the sort of deliberate menace that suggested the gods had designed him during a particularly unpleasant mood.
“Do you understand why you have been brought before me?”
Freya considered this.
“Because someone finally discovered what happened to the royal wine cellar?”
A guard struck her across the back of the knees.
She hit the marble with a grunt.
“Silence!”
“Right. Not the wine cellar, then.”
A ripple of shocked whispers moved through the gathered nobles.
Tairn did not smile.
“Three nights ago, Lord Chancellor Varrick was poisoned during the Feast of Ashes. You served his wine.”
“I served everyone’s wine.”
“He died.”
“Yes. I gathered that from the screaming.”
“His cup contained nightshade.”
“So did the kitchen rat poison. Perhaps you should question the rats.”
The guard raised his hand again.
“Touch her,” Tairn said quietly, “and you will lose that hand.”
The guard froze.
Freya looked between them.
Well.
That was unexpected.
The king rose from his throne.
The temperature in the room climbed immediately. Candles bent towards him. The marble beneath his boots darkened, tiny cracks spreading across its polished surface.
Every noble took an instinctive step backwards.
Everyone knew about the Dragon King’s fire.
It was not ordinary flame. It was ancient, living magic, and when Tairn lost control of it, stone melted and flesh became ash.
Freya had heard he once reduced an entire battalion to cinders without drawing his sword.
She had also heard he had eaten his first wife.
But palace gossip was notoriously unreliable.
For one thing, nobody could agree whether he’d used a knife and fork.
“Stand,” he commanded.
Freya climbed awkwardly to her feet.
“You have been found guilty of murdering a member of my council.”
“Without a trial.”
“The evidence is sufficient.”
“Convenient. I was hoping for a lawyer, but apparently we’ve skipped straight to the barbecue.”
A few nobles gasped.
Tairn descended the steps.
Up close, he was worse.
Beautiful in the way a winter storm was beautiful, provided you were safely indoors and it was destroying someone else’s house.
His dark hair fell across his forehead. A jagged scar cut through his left eyebrow. Heat shimmered around him, distorting the air.
“Do you fear death, Freya Vex?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then why are your hands shaking?”
“Because I’m standing three feet from a man who could roast me without getting out of his chair.”
His gaze dropped to her trembling fingers.
Something unreadable passed across his face.
“At least you are honest.”
“Occasionally. It’s a terrible habit.”
He lifted his hand.
Golden flames curled around his fingers.
The entire court fell silent.
Freya’s stomach dropped.
Oh.
So this was how it ended.
No last meal. No dramatic rescue. Not even the satisfaction of knowing whether the cooper’s son had grown into that unfortunate nose.
The king reached for her throat.
And something inside Freya snapped.
Not courage.
Not desperation.
Something older.
Something that had been sleeping beneath her ribs for twenty-seven years.
She seized his wrist.
The court screamed.
The flames should have consumed her.
Instead, they vanished.
Not extinguished.
Not weakened.
Stolen.
Golden fire rushed from Tairn’s body into hers.
The king staggered.
His eyes widened.
And suddenly Freya was no longer standing in the throne room.
She was somewhere else.
A memory.
Rain hammered against the windows of a small stone cottage.
A woman lay dying on a blood-soaked bed.
A newborn baby cried in her arms.
And beside them stood a younger Tairn Draven.
He was holding a black silk blanket.
His expression was one Freya had never imagined seeing on the face of the Dragon King.
Fear.
The woman gripped his sleeve.
“Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise you’ll keep her safe.”
Tairn looked down at the baby.
Then he spoke six words.
“Never let her discover she’s mine.”
The memory shattered.
Freya stumbled backwards.
The throne room returned in a rush of noise and heat.
Tairn caught her before she fell.
His bare hand closed around hers.
Nothing burned.
He stared at their joined fingers.
Then at her face.
For the first time, the Dragon King looked genuinely terrified.
“What,” he whispered, “have you done?”
Freya could barely breathe.
Because the baby in that memory had been wrapped in the same black silk blanket her mother had kept hidden beneath her bed.
The blanket Freya still owned.
And the king had been standing beside her mother on the night she was born.
She looked into his burning eyes.
“I think,” she said slowly, “you have some explaining to do.”
Behind the throne, an elderly councillor dropped his ceremonial staff.
And whispered a name nobody in the palace had spoken for twenty-seven years.
“The Ash Daughter.”
