And just when Talaith assumed her daughter was committing some sort of ritual suicide, she crashed onto another dragon that had come up under the first. Unfortunately, she lost her seat and slid right off. Grabbing hold of his mane, she held on while he zigged and zagged through the sky.

All of this on its own was nightmarish enough. Truly, it was. But the fact that Izzy was laughing and goading the dragon on did nothing but make it all that more terrifying. Well, terrifying at least for Talaith.

Because who, in their right minds, enjoyed this? As it was, Briec still had to find ways to trick Talaith onto his back for a simple ride to his den.

Another dragon flew under the one Izzy held on to, and that’s when Izzy released her grip on the mane. Her body fell toward the next dragon, but one of them must have miscalculated because she slammed against his side and went flipping off. Her body spiraled and plummeted to earth until a black-haired dragon raced forward and caught hold of Izzy in her talons.

That’s when Izzy screamed. Not in fear or panic—as Talaith would have truly appreciated at this moment to prove her daughter had an ounce of common sense—but in unabashed joy. Pure, unadulterated enjoyment of what she was doing.

“Talaith?” She felt Briec’s hand on her back. “Talaith, love, you’ve stopped breathing. I need you to breathe.”

“I—” She motioned to his kin. “You—”

“I’ll deal with them.”

She nodded, still unable to speak or form a coherent thought. Then she turned and stumbled back to the castle, trying the whole time not to throw up.

Dagmar wandered through the castle since she found herself in no mood to wait for Gwenvael’s appearance. Especially since part of her worried that he wouldn’t appear at all, and the thought of him with those women did nothing but annoy her.

She noticed right away that nothing about this place seemed royal. There were expensive tapestries here and there and marble flooring in certain hallways. But otherwise … It reminded Dagmar of her father’s house. There were weapons at the ready in nearly every room, in nearly every corner. And a few weapons adorned the walls, but Dagmar had to smile when she saw that some still had dried blood on them. A slightly less frightening way to threaten one’s enemies when the heads you have outside your walls had become nothing more than crumbling bone.

She also noticed that everyone seemed rather … casual. Dagmar had expected a lot more pomp and circumstance from the Queen of Dark Plains and her royal court. A lot more scurrying servants and whispered court drama. There didn’t seem to be any of that.

In fact, the more she wandered, the more Dagmar wanted to meet the infamous Blood Queen. But first, she’d have to track down Gwenvael. She’d have to tidy up before she could be presented to a queen. She was covered in traveler dirt, and her poor cloak and dress needed a good scrubbing. Grinning, she wondered if her recently earned five coppers could get her an already-made gown. Nothing fancy, of course, but a less heavy material that would be presentable for her first court appearance.

Dagmar walked past a room and then stopped. She immediately walked back and glanced in. The library. A very nice one, too, although a bit small. She wandered in and began to study the books on the shelves. Lots of fictional work here. Not really to Dagmar’s tastes, but she usually read everything she could get her hands on. She turned a corner and found books on history and philosophy. This was definitely more along the lines of what she enjoyed reading, especially when she found a rare copy of The Battle Strategies of Dubnogartos. He was one of the greatest warlords of the long-dead Western armies. And although some of his methods were outdated, to know how the man thought and strategized was a boon she simply couldn’t pass up.

Grabbing the book, Dagmar began to carefully skim through the pages. Finding it old but beautifully maintained, she immediately began to look for a chair to sit in so she could read a few pages … or chapters. Just a few. She went deeper into the library, surprised to find that it wasn’t very wide but awfully deep. Near the back, where daylight from the front windows no longer crept in, Dagmar followed the candlelight. As she came around the corner, she saw her. A woman sitting at a table, her elbows resting on the wood, her face, chest, and arms all that could be seen in the dim candlelight. She had a book open at midpoint in front of her and several lit candles on the table. But she wasn’t reading … she was crying.

Not wanting to interrupt—or be forced to comfort anyone—Dagmar began a quiet retreat. But she hit a loose floorboard and the woman’s head snapped up.

Dagmar winced. The poor woman had been crying for a while. “I’m sorry. I was just—”

“It’s all right.” The woman wiped her face with her hands. “Just having a moment.” Rubbing the back of her hand against her dripping nose, she asked, “What are you reading?”

“Oh. Uh … The Battle Strategies of Dubnogartos.”

Her face lit up and Dagmar suddenly saw all the scars that the dim lighting had been hiding. “Great book,” she enthused. “His battle against the Centaurs at Hicca … bloody amazing read.”

She motioned to a chair. “You can sit down if you like. I’m done with my crying fit, I think.”

Dagmar slowly walked over to the table. “Rough morning?”

“You could say that.”

Dagmar pulled out the chair across from the woman and sat down, placing the book on the table.

She watched as the woman let out a sigh and stretched her neck. But it was when she again raised her hands to wipe her face that Dagmar saw them—from her wrist to her forearm, on both arms.