Last Dragon Standing (Dragon Kin #4)(140)

“Too bad for you, eh, cousin?” Keita asked, unable to stop her smile.

“Kill her, Athol,” Franseza ordered, dropping to her knees.

Keita snorted, swiped a dismissive hand through the air. “He can barely move after what he’s been drinking.” Keita glanced back at Athol.

“Did I mention your assistant hates you? Plus…he wants this place. All I had to do was promise him we’d fix the walls we’re about to destroy and he happily slipped that Banallan root right into your wine.” Keita clapped her hands together. “Isn’t this fun?”

The building around them rumbled, and the wall behind Franseza ripped away.

Athol stretched his arm out, terrifically weakened Magick flickering back and forth between his hands before he crashed to the floor. Ragnar and Ren made their way into the room through the space they’d created where that wall used to be.

Knowing that once they were inside Athol’s palace, their Magicks would be greatly diminished, they’d decided to tear the building apart from the other side of the gate first and left Morfyd outside to work on the next part of Keita’s plan.

With Ragnar and Ren managing Athol, Keita walked toward Franseza.

“So sorry there’s no one to rescue you,” Keita said, using the same tone Franseza had when discussing what she’d done to Esyld. “The guards who’d been with you are busy getting gutted by my brothers.”

“All you’re doing,” Franseza gasped out, “is bringing war to your weak queens, war that will tear this territory apart.”

“Perhaps,” Keita said. “And I must admit, I was fighting so hard to stop this war—even ready to come to your territory to try to work something out.” She crouched down and looked into Franseza’s bloating face as the poison took hold inside her human form. “But then I was told my aunt had been captured. And my friend, Ren, told me he sensed she was in some pain.

After that, cousin, there was no going back. Not for anyone. Not for you.” Keita stood again. “Although it has been said that sometimes war just can’t be avoided.” She smiled, making sure to use her prettiest one. “But don’t you worry, cousin. With the help of my friends and kin, I have come up with the loveliest idea to get everything started just right!”

The crowd roared as the two gladiators circled each other. It was the last day of the games, and now Vateria, eldest daughter of Overlord Thracius, was officially bored beyond anything she could remember. In fact, when she felt that slight earthquake under her feet, she hoped it might get bigger and open a chasm to swallow up all these boring beings tainting her and her father’s world. Anything to end the tedium.

Then she heard the gasps and saw her noble father lean forward in his chair. She focused again on the battle, but the gladiators had stumbled back.

Not from each other’s blows, but from whatever had suddenly formed in the middle of the field.

A mystical doorway. She’d heard of this kind of Magick but had never met anyone who could actually perform it.

It was a small dragoness in human form who stepped out. A Southlander, from the look of her. She gazed up at the now-silent crowd until her eyes locked on Vateria’s father.

“Overlord Thracius,” she called out. “A gift from my queen, in honor of her father, my grandfather.”

Then she tossed something away from her, and it rolled and bumped along, until it came to an abrupt stop on the field.

Vateria’s father shot to his feet, but by then what had been thrown had changed from human to dragoness. Vateria recognized her mother even from this height.

Thracius gripped the railing, his gaze moving back to the Southlander.

“And this is a little something from me.”

She reached back into that doorway and yanked three males out. Two old dragons and an elf.

“If it’s war you want, Overlord,” the Southlander shouted up to him,

“then war you shall have!”

Then she was gone. Leaving Vateria’s raging father, who’d just lost his mate, and three quaking foreigners in the middle of his gladiator ring.

Well, if nothing else, everything had just gotten a lot more interesting.

Annwyl waited in the war room, her rear resting against the table filled with maps and correspondence from her commanders, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Behind her stood Dagmar and Talaith.

Brastias opened the door and let in the two women.

“General Ásta and her second in command, Bryndís,” he announced.

Once they were inside, he closed the door and came to stand close by Annwyl, big arms folded over his chest, his steady gaze on the ones who’d challenged his queen.

The second in command, Bryndís, dropped to one knee, her ax slamming into the floor, her head bowed. Ásta, however, merely bowed her head. But she kept it bowed, waiting for Annwyl to acknowledge her.

Before she did, Annwyl motioned Dagmar over and whispered in her ear, “Why can’t I get this kind of bowing and scraping from you lot?”

“Because you’d force us to kill you in your sleep if you tried,” her battle chief whispered back; then she winked.

Annwyl grinned, but cut it short, getting a good scowl in place before focusing her attention on the two women.

“So you’re here”—Ásta raised her head as Annwyl spoke—“to protect my twins.”