“But, Strange Lady, why don’t you use the sword?” Vemar said, lying on his side with his head propped up on his elbow. He hadn’t stepped into the fight, but he hadn’t been able to escape my command to kneel, either.
I lifted my hands and then dropped them in defeat. “The sword was a gift. I was dealing with some trouble—from Jedrek, actually—and Nyfain was trying to help. He gave me a bunch of weapons, most of which I could use. The sword never worked for me. I can work a pocketknife like a motherfucker, but a sword? No. We didn’t have enough time to train with it. I wear it now because the demons apparently think it’s a great joke that I can’t use it.”
“No,” Tamara said softly, pain in her eyes. “You aren’t wearing it as a joke. You are wearing it to remind us of what we lost. You are wearing it because the demon king knew the effect it would have. He’s not taunting you—he is taunting us.”
Her words hit me like a sack of bricks. I sagged a little, digesting them. Faces fell around me. Tamara’s pain was shared.
I took a deep breath. Part of being a hero was building people up. Probably. It was about all I could do right now, at any rate.
“Well then,” I said with determination. “Fuck them. They don’t get to decide how we feel. Let it serve as a symbol for a future we will regain.”
Fire sparked in their eyes—all of them, hearing the call for any sort of future, not just for the Wyvern kingdom. Heads nodded. Backs straightened.
“And, hell, maybe someone can show me how to use it!”
A few people smiled, and even more chuckled. They might not have realized I was serious.
Tamara climbed to her feet, that fire still raging in her eyes.
“A villager.” She huffed out a laugh and offered me her hand. “The golden prince’s true mate is a villager.”
I could hear the irony singing through her words.
“A really poor one, too,” I replied with a grin. “The mad king is probably turning over in his grave.”
Tamara laughed. “Probably.”
“There is nothing wrong with growing up in a village,” Vemar said, and many nodded.
Tamara sobered a little. “The queen was from a village in the Flamma Kingdom. A village in a different kingdom, with a lot more status, but a village nonetheless. I wonder if she would’ve been pleased. She also wanted humility for her son. She wanted him grounded. A poor villager who unabashedly kills officers and comes in front of guards must surely keep him on his toes.”
I pinched my face without meaning to, my cheeks flaming red again. She laughed.
“So, I have a few questions,” I said to quickly change the subject.
Mr. Baritone rose, walking closer. His gaze flicked to Nyfain’s mark, and hunger flitted through his eyes. A push of his power made me bristle.
“Ooh-wee,” Vemar said, sitting up and rubbing his knees. “Micah’s dragon smells another alpha and wants to accept the challenge.”
Mr. Baritone was clearly Micah. Nyfain had told me there would be shifters who saw his mark as a challenge rather than a threat. He’d told me one of them could give me a future—something he thought he could not.
Don’t you even think about it, my dragon warned me, and I rolled my eyes.
“It won’t be a problem,” Micah told me. “I can already feel the tug of the suppression magic yanking on my dragon. I’m not from Wyvern. I haven’t been freed. When my dragon is suppressed, he won’t thrash at me to take the challenge and work to claim you.”
I wanted to ask how his dragon intended to meet a challenge from another dragon who wasn’t even here, or stake his claim on a woman who wasn’t interested, but it was irrelevant right now. There were larger issues at hand.
“If you can get out of your cells, why aren’t we leaving?” I asked.
“They have a magical lock at the top of the stairs.” Micah glanced behind him at the stairs. “Try to go through it and get something cut off.”
“Ah,” I said, having forgotten that in all the commotion. “And the lock-picking tools?”
“Stolen, obviously,” Vemar said, scratching his head. “When we are…treated to their fancy parties, we grab anything we can. Sometimes there are useful things, but most times not. They watch us closely, so there’s very little we can sneak out, especially given the state of mind we usually leave in.”
“I hate to say it, but the wolves are our saving grace,” Micah said. “They are generally thought to be more compliant than we are—”
“Because they are more compliant than we are,” said a woman with light brown hair soiled with oil and grime. “They show their lack of worth where it counts the most.”
“They don’t raise such a ruckus.” Vemar winked at me.