Then Brigida cackled at her own joke and followed Annwyl into the Great Hall.

In silence, they all watched as Elina looked down at the small bag in her hands. She glanced at her sister, who replied with nothing but a shrug. A gesture that any sibling would read as, “It’s up to you.”

That’s when Elina tossed the bag—without opening it—to the ground. She pointed at it and said to Celyn, “Burn it.”

“Elina,” Brannie cut in. “Are you sure? I know it’s hard, but . . . if Brigida can fix—”

Her one eye still on Celyn, Elina said again, “Burn. It.”

Celyn blasted the small bag with nearly a minute of dragon flame until there was nothing left but ash.

Elina let out a breath, and Gwenvael realized it was not of regret . . . but relief.

Together, they all made their way back into the Great Hall. There they found Annwyl sitting on her throne. Her wounded leg was up on one arm of the throne and her head was bowed.

Celyn looked at Izzy and saw the deep concern on her face. He understood that. How could she not be concerned?

Dagmar slowly moved closer to the queen. “Annwyl?”

“They think I’m insane, you know?” Annwyl suddenly announced. “The Riders. But they have such a low opinion of Southland politics that I don’t think it really mattered to them. I’m just one more mad Southland monarch.” She took in a deep breath. Let it out. “But better me than zealots who try to turn them away from the life they’ve always lived on the Steppes.”

Dagmar reached out, placing her hand over Annwyl’s.

“I lost another tooth,” Annwyl felt the need to share. “One of the back ones. I hate that.”

“Annwyl?” Dagmar said, her voice very soft.

That’s when Annwyl lifted her head and looked right at Dagmar. “I can’t be the queen you need me to be,” she told her. “I can only be the queen my people need. You do understand that . . . don’t you?”

Dagmar gave a small nod. “Yes. I think I do.”

“Good.” Annwyl patted Dagmar’s cheek. “Very good. Because I’d hate to rip the eyes from your head.”

Then the queen leaned forward, kissed the shocked Dagmar on the forehead, and stood. She headed toward the stairs, where Fearghus caught up to her. He lifted her into his arms and carried her up to their rooms.

“For imperialist dog,” Kachka stated, “she makes very good ruler.”

Dagmar started to stalk over to the Rider, but Gwenvael quickly caught her around the waist and carried her out of the hall.

“I will hunt for dinner,” Kachka said. “So we will not starve like dogs in street.”

“I want to nap,” Elina stated quietly.

But not quietly enough because her sister yelled from outside, “You are becoming lazy and decadent like these Southlanders!”

Elina shrugged. “I still want nap.”

Dagmar wildly swung her arms until Gwenvael placed her on the ground in a small room off the kitchens. She didn’t appreciate the laughter.

“How can you laugh about this?” she wanted to know.

“About your less than graceful ways?” Gwenvael asked with a grin. “I laugh about them all the time.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She began to pace around him in a circle. “Do you see what’s happening here? That old hag has come in and made Annwyl crazier.”

“Dagmar, really. Annwyl has always been crazy. All you’ve been doing the last few years is muffling it. You’ve never shut it off. Not completely.”

“And did Annwyl just threaten me? Me?”

“She threatens me and Briec all the time. I wouldn’t take it too personally.”

“That, in no way, makes me feel better!” She stopped in front of him, stamping her foot. “Why are you being so bloody calm about this? Annwyl took out that woman’s eyes.”

“I’m sure she took them only after she took her head. You know Annwyl does her dismembering in a very orderly way.”

Beyond frustrated, Dagmar started wildly slapping at Gwenvael’s arms and chest.

And again . . . she did not appreciate the laughter.

Fearghus took care when he removed Annwyl’s chain mail. He had to. She’d been punched so hard in some places that the metal links were embedded in her skin.

Once he got the shirt and leggings off, he stepped back and into his ancestor.

Considering his back was to the window that overlooked a sheer drop . . . he found her sudden presence a tad off-putting.

“I need you not to creep around my mate’s home.”

“Is this not your home, too, boy?”

“Our home is in Dark Glen. But this is the place my mate was raised, and where her kingdom sits. So I stay.”

“To be close to her.”

“I love her.”

“You do know she’s”—Brigida tapped the side of her head—“tetched. In the head, I mean.”

“There’s nothing I don’t know about Annwyl.” He stepped up to the old She-dragon, staring right into that somewhat horrifying human face of hers. “But there is much I don’t know about you.”

“I’m sure you know enough about me not to cross me, boy. Just because you pretend not to be afraid of this human, don’t think you can—”

Fearghus chuckled, cutting her off. “Do you think Annwyl and I are ill-matched? That I am merely here to calm her? To soothe her restless heart? That in some way, in any way, she frightens me?”