“Don’t act like an innocent with me, cousin. I’ve been on campaign with you, and seen more than one battle-weary soldier tossed from your tent when you were done with him . . . or them.” Izzy cringed at that, ready to step in if the fight between cousins turned physical. Gods, she hated when it turned physical while she was still recovering from the prior evening’s drink. “So don’t pretend with me. Ever.”

“I’ll have you know, Éibhear the Idiotic, that I—”

Brannie’s words stopped when Fearghus walked into the hall. “Morning, Izzy. Brannie. Have either of you seen Annwyl?”

“You can’t even be bothered to greet me? I’m your brother.”

Fearghus looked Éibhear over, said nothing, and focused again on Izzy, his eyebrows raised in question.

Izzy shook her head, trying not to giggle at the torture of her mate. His brothers were so mean to him. Still! After all these years!

“No,” she replied. “Haven’t seen Annwyl. Why?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t been able to find her and—”

“So she’s gone?” Izzy asked as she curled her fingers into her hand and dug her short, battered nails into her palm to help keep herself calm.

“I’m sure she’s around some—”

“I’m sure she’s around somewhere, too. Why don’t you go outside and look for her?”

“I should probably go check the library fir—”

“Great idea. Go check the library.”

Fearghus frowned at that, but then shrugged and walked off. When he had disappeared deep into the bowels of the house . . .

“Dammit!” Brannie slammed her hand against the table as Izzy jumped off Éibhear’s lap and began to pace. “I told you, Izzy. I told you she was not going to let that thing with the Rider go. Not in a million years.”

“All right, all right.” Izzy put her hands to her head. “Let’s not panic.”

“I don’t know why you two are worried,” Éibhear calmly reasoned. “I’m sure Annwyl is just—”

“I said not to panic!” Izzy yelled into Éibhear’s face.

The dragon leaned away from her, his hands raised. “I wasn’t.”

“We have to go get her.” Brannie stood. “Now. Before anyone realizes she’s gone.”

“Éibhear, get Gwenvael and Daddy. Have them meet us outside the gates in fifteen minutes. Do not tell Dagmar or Mum. Morfyd either. They’ll just get upset. We especially don’t need for the Iron dragons to hear of this either.”

“She couldn’t have gotten far,” Brannie desperately reasoned. “It takes days to travel to that part of the Steppes. She’s on horseback. If we fly, we’ll catch up and bring her back before it’s even late afternoon.”

“Honestly,” Éibhear insisted, “I can go by myself and bring her back if she’s really on the road to—”

“Are you insane?” Izzy barked. “When she gets like this, she won’t stop. Ever.”

“Ever,” Brannie echoed.

“Just do what we say, Éibhear. Get Daddy and Gwenvael, but keep this from Fearghus. It’ll just upset him.”

“With good reason,” Brannie agreed.

“And meet us outside the gates.”

“All right,” Éibhear stated as he got out of his chair.

“And remember . . . quiet. Very quiet. We don’t need panic.”

“Okay, but—”

“No panic!”

Éibhear reared back. “I’ll go find Gwenvael and Briec.”

“You do that.”

Izzy watched Éibhear walk out of the hall, then focused on Brannie. “We should have seen this coming, Bran.”

“Don’t worry, Iz. We’ll find her.”

“You better hope so. We all better hope so. . . .”

“Come now. Don’t sound so worried. Annwyl’s on horseback and she just left. How far do you really think she could get?”

Andreeva Fyodorov practiced with the new bow one of her daddies had given her. Her mother said that since she wasn’t sure which of them was Andreeva Fyodorov’s father, Andreeva would call all of her mother’s husbands, “Daddy.”

It didn’t matter to Andreeva. They made her bows. They healed her wounds. They trained her to ride and hunt, but it would be Andreeva’s mother and aunts who taught her how to fight. How to be a warrior. What else mattered for the Daughters of the Steppes?

Andreeva raised her bow and pointed it at the back of her little brother’s head. But her older sister slapped the bow from her hand.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You only aim your bow when you plan to shoot. And we don’t shoot those born of the Steppes. Ever. Remember, we are the . . . the . . .”

Andreeva’s sister looked around, as did the others nearby. The cold, bracing winds of the Steppes had suddenly begun to rise. But not from the north or south, east or west. But from the ground . . . up.

The land beneath their feet pitched and rolled. Andreeva’s sister picked her up in her arms and held her close to her chest as the winds whipped their hair and clothes around, their tents shaking as if they might blow away.

Then, just as quickly as all that wind whipping and ground shaking began . . . it stopped.