The Rebels of Gold (Loom Saga #3)(41)
Without warning, the glider sparked back to life, magic flashing through the air with an array of colors. The Rider took to the sky once more, quickly ascending to where the other two gliders continued their wide, slow loops overtop the guild hall. Florence looked back at the men and women stuck on the ground.
A Dragon could fight against three, four Fenthri without the help of anything. Enabled by a glider, protected by corona, and bolstered by any weaponry pilfered or given from the Revolvers, and Florence suddenly knew why Loom had fallen so quickly—why it took so little for the Dragons to keep them under their thumb.
“Coming back . . .” Gregory muttered.
Sure enough, all three gliders were descending now. The main road was only wide enough for two to land side by side, so the third touched down just behind.
To the right of the Dragon Florence had just been speaking to was possibly the largest Dragon she’d ever seen. Easily twice her height, he was made of pure muscle—if muscle was sculpted from rocks. The Dragon King—or so she assumed—wore next to nothing, so Florence and every other Fenthri could see every stretch of skin across the bulging curves of his arms and legs. His flesh was the color of fire, his eyes molten steel, and his shoulder-length hair as red as Fenthri blood. She hadn’t been a Chimera for very long, but he radiated ten times the power she had ever felt, easily double the most powerful person she’d ever known—Arianna.
“Yveun . . .” Arianna whispered.
“Good to see you again, Arianna.” The Dragon King pulled his lips back into a smile that was half-snarl. “I have come to offer peace to Loom.”
“Peace?” Florence repeated. “You?” She’d never known an anger so vicious. “You who destroyed our world is offering peace?”
His head shifted to look at her. A piercing pang shot right between Florence’s eyes the second his met hers. It was a dull ache in the back of her mind that spread like venom. Her whole body felt stiff, succumbing to the pressure. Her jaw locked.
“You are Florence, yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“You lead this rebellion, yes or no?”
“Yes,” she spoke on command like a trained animal, the word drawn out by force from the well of truth deep within her.
“What?” She barely heard Gregory whisper at her audacity, even though he stood right beside her.
Florence tried to peel her eyes away from the Dragon King, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything unless he told her to first. Even breathing without his blessing was currently laborious.
“Of course,” the king chuckled, sending sparks of magic off his corona like raindrops that dissipated before they hit the ground. “It would be a child who would have no memory of the last time Loom fell.” Yveun shifted his attention to Gregory. “But you, you’re old enough to remember.”
The vicar was afflicted with the same sort of rigor mortis that had overcome Florence. She saw the panicked look in his eyes, the stiffness in his limbs. Florence knew the sensation was like taking a visit into a nightmare, but she made no motion to release him from it. Her relief at the Dragon King’s attention being off her was too great.
“Tell me true: as Loom is now, can you stand against us in another war?” the king continued.
“As we are now?” The words were forced between tight lips. “No.”
The whispering she heard on the wind was the sound of Loom’s resolve wavering. She saw Fenthri look to each other in confusion.
“What happened the last time a resistance stood against me, Arianna?” The king turned his attention off Gregory.
Arianna looked off to the horizon. She remained still and easy, her breathing even. Eyes, Florence realized. Yveun had magic in his eyes—mind control as long as eye contact was maintained. She put it together faster than Gregory, who was once more under the king’s thrall.
“You tell us, then. What happened the last time a resistance stood against me?”
“They were destroyed completely,” the vicar responded automatically.
Gun barrels began to waver. A man stood to get a better view, giving up his vantage and his fighting position. Florence looked over the field of lost Fenthri, desperate for a home, longing for the logical order they all craved. They had been broken by the man before them, and, for some reason, they looked to that same hand now to fix their world.
“How many perished?” the king pressed.
“Countless. Loom was never the same,” Gregory responded.
Eye contact—she had to break the eye contact or the vicar would undo the threads of Loom’s resolve himself. Without warning, she gave the vicar a strong shove. The man was much larger than her in all directions, but he was unbraced and stumbled before falling.
“Don’t look him in the eye,” she offered by way of explanation at the vicar’s scowl.
“Foolish girl, the truth should be heard.” The king drew her attention again, but Florence made it a point to look just above his head. His magic kept out of her mind and off her skin as a result. “Every man and woman standing here, brandishing their pathetic weapons at my greatness, should know only death awaits.”
“It does not!” Florence took a bold step forward. “Arianna is proof of that.”
“Florence, I am not the example to use,” Arianna hissed.