“Empathy?”

“I was going to say humility, but now that I think on it . . . both would probably apply.”

Annwyl sat on the outside steps leading into the Great Hall and gulped down more water from the chalice one of the servants had brought her. Her training had not gone well today. She hadn’t done her best, leaving herself open to easy hits and sloppy technique. Now her muscles were fairly screaming and she had a few new cuts that hadn’t been there this morning. They were also still bleeding, but she knew that Morfyd could tend them. Besides, it wasn’t like she was bleeding to death on the steps. Then she would have sent for a healer. Although many didn’t believe it, she did have common sense.

Gwenvael’s eldest daughter ran out of the Great Hall and down the steps.

“What is it, Arlais?” Annwyl asked the pompous child. Gods, she’d thought her Talwyn had been difficult. She’d take a thousand Talwyns over this one pain-in-the-ass brat.

Arlais didn’t answer Annwyl’s question, but her gaze was fixed on the sky above. That meant one of two things. Either Rhiannon was coming for a visit or—

“I will not have this argument again!” the red She-dragon snapped as her claws landed hard on the ground, her thick, long hair settling around her in all its shiny, perfect red glory.

“All I’m saying,” the purple dragon calmly explained when he landed next to her, his cousin not far behind, “is that you could have handled that better. Now I have to fix it.”

“Then fix it!” She sat back on her haunches and pointed a sharp black talon at him. “She started this, if you’d bother to remember. And I was kind enough to do nothing more than add a little something to her food that didn’t kill her. It merely made her scales fall off. I could have come up with something that would have made her head explode. But I didn’t do that, now did I?”

“That was so big of you,” the purple dragon replied drily, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Of course it was.” And Keita said those words with so much sincerity that Annwyl had to take a quick moment to close her eyes and bite back her laughter. “I didn’t want her dead, my love. I just wanted to make it clear who’s in charge.”

“In the Northlands, I’m in charge, Keita.”

The redhead leaned over and patted his forearm. “Of course you are, dear. And you just keep thinking that if it gives you ease.”

“Auntie Keita!” Arlais shouted—sounding, for once, like an actual child and not a defiant hell spawn.

“Arlais!” Keita quickly shifted to human just as her young niece threw herself at her.

Hugging the laughing child tight, Keita lifted Arlais up and spun her around while covering her face in kisses. “My dear, dear, niece!”

Keita placed her laughing niece on the ground but held her hand. “Let us go inside and find me a divine gown to put on that will put all these worthless humans to shame with my astounding beauty.”

“I have the perfect one for you!” Arlais happily crowed while she dragged Keita toward the stairs.

“Excellent! You have such a fine eye, my dear Arlais.”

When Keita was close, Annwyl smiled at her and said, “Hello, sister.”

“Good day, dearest Annwyl.”

“What brings you all this way?”

“My mother tormented my poor Ragnar about coming home until he couldn’t stand it anymore.”

“She sings to me inside my head,” he complained while getting dressed. “She knows I hate that. She knows!”

“My mother probably just wants information.”

“And you are the queen’s spy.”

“I’m the Protector of the Throne. There’s a difference.” Keita pointed at Annwyl. “Are you aware you’re bleeding onto the steps?”

Annwyl looked down and saw that a small puddle had formed beneath her. “Oh. I didn’t think the cuts were that bad.” She returned her gaze to Keita. “That explains why I’ve suddenly begun to feel light-headed.”

“You’d best get that stitched up before Fearghus finds you dead where you sit.”

Aunt and niece then disappeared into the Great Hall, and Annwyl gave them a wave. “Thank you for your concern,” she said after them.

Ragnar of the Northland dragons and his cousin Meinhard, both now in their human forms and in dark grey leggings and black leather boots, stood in front of her.

“Hello, Ragnar,” she said.

“Queen Annwyl. Need some help?”

“Normally I’d tell you to piss off, but . . . I probably do.” Since she was sure that if she stood, she’d most likely pass out where she was.

The males looked around, and Ragnar asked, “Before I do this, is Fearghus nearby? I don’t relish the fight I’ll have if he sees me carrying you.”

“Oh . . . I don’t know.” Annwyl studied the purple-haired male and asked, “Aren’t you Fearghus?”

“All right then.” The dragon quickly came to her and lifted Annwyl up into his arms. “Go find Morfyd or another healer,” he ordered his cousin. “I’ll get her inside and try to stop the bleeding.”

“You’re very kind,” Annwyl said.

“Thank you.”

“For a purple-haired barbarian who was once the sworn enemy of my mate’s people.”

“We have come a long way.”