“I’m a dragon,” Celyn shot back. “Flame should never hurt me. I should bathe in it. Like lava. Her flame, though, was unholy.”

“King Gaius,” Dagmar explained, “is returning to Garbhán Isle as we speak to see his not-even-wounded sister. He is extremely upset about everything that’s transpired since he left, so I’d appreciate it if, when he gets here, you lot avoid discussing his sister’s unholy flame!”

Keita and Ragnar walked into the hall.

“Hello, family!” his sister greeted. When no one answered, she stopped and stared at them. Then she shrugged and headed up the stairs to her room.

Ragnar frowned. “Keita, shouldn’t we ask—”

“I have needs, Northlander! And no sons to interrupt us.”

“Good luck to you all,” Ragnar announced before following his mate up the stairs.

Morfyd, who’d been tearing tiny pieces off a loaf of bread she held and rolling them into balls, suddenly lifted her head, her eyes blinking wide.

“What is it?” Talaith asked.

“I . . . I think they’re back.”

And, with that pronouncement, no one moved. No one spoke. They just sat there, terrified at what they might find out.

Finally, it was the two Rider sisters who broke the silent panic.

“Are you all going to sit there like statue?” Kachka asked.

When no one replied, both sisters curled their lips in disgust, slammed their hands against the table, and stood. They were out the front door by the time everyone else got to their feet and ran after them.

As they all came down the stairs, Annwyl and Brigida appeared in the middle of the courtyard. One second they weren’t there. . . . The next second, they were.

And while Brigida looked as horrifying as Gwenvael had always heard from his older kin . . . now, so did Annwyl.

The trip by magickal means didn’t seem to bother her much, although Gwenvael had always heard those trips could be hard on a body. But perhaps it had not bothered Annwyl because she’d clearly already been beaten within an inch of her life.

Most of her face was swollen, one eye unable to even open—gods, I hope she didn’t lose an eye, too—she could barely walk on her right leg, instead putting all her weight on her left and using only the toes of her right foot to maintain her balance as she limped forward. There were bruises and cuts all down her arms and across her throat. Blood matted her hair. Actually, blood covered most of her, soaked deep into her clothes and staining her hands and boots.

She looked like a waking nightmare, and yet . . . no one ran to her side. No one offered her assistance. They were simply too afraid to find out what had happened to do anything.

The old witch, moving even more slowly than Annwyl, followed behind the queen. She was smiling, but who the hells knew what that unholy sign meant. But Gwenvael now understood what frightened his mother and aunts and uncles. Even his father. There was just something about this She-dragon that made him feel . . . uncomfortable. An emotion Gwenvael rarely, if ever, had.

Annwyl finally reached the steps of the Great Hall and, with a sigh, she made her slow, painful way up, walking past all of them without a word. Even to Fearghus.

Finally, it was his Dagmar who couldn’t stand any more.

As she stood by the Great Hall doorway, she asked, “Annwyl, what did you do?”

Annwyl stopped and turned her head to focus on her steward and battle lord.

“I did what I had to do.” Annwyl’s voice sounded so raw, as if even her throat had been through hell.

Dagmar’s sigh was deep, long, and painful. She’d had a very hard day, and all Gwenvael wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and carry her out of here. But that wouldn’t do for now. He’d have to wait until later.

“Annwyl . . .” Dagmar shook her head. “You may have destroyed us. We needed that alliance. More than we may have realized.”

Annwyl nodded. “Aye. I know.” She reached down and pulled a piece of parchment from her boot. There was blood on that too. She shoved it into Dagmar’s hand. Not out of anger, Gwenvael guessed, but because she was too tired to be gentle.

“What’s this?” Dagmar asked.

“The alliance. With the Daughters of the Steppes.”

Dagmar held the scroll tighter. “Wh . . . what?”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good.” Annwyl took another step toward the Great Hall doors but stopped again. “Oh. Here.” She pulled a very small bag off her belt and tossed it to Elina. “This is for you.”

The bag hit the Rider in the face since it had been aimed more to her left than her right, but her sister caught it and placed it in Elina’s hand.

“What is this?” Elina asked.

Annwyl looked back at the Rider. “Your mother’s eyes. Do with them as you will. They’re yours now.”

Shocked into silence, everyone focused on poor Elina as Annwyl finally made her way into the Great Hall.

As for the Riders, for once, they were frozen, unable to speak or move. Not that Gwenvael blamed them. How could he?

Brigida walked slowly up the stairs, but stopped to inform Elina, “If you want, Rider, I can put one of those eyes in your head. But you can’t take too long to decide. Them eyes dry up real quick and that eye socket of yours won’t be much better in another day or two. Can’t promise the new eye will look all that pretty, but it should work. But you’re a Rider. Your lot don’t care about pretty, do ya?”