CHAPTER TWO

FARON

FARON VINCENT HAD BEEN A SURVIVOR SINCE THE MOMENT SHE’D gone to war.

On the battlefield, it had been easy to justify death. People had to die so that she, and her island, could live. It wasn’t until afterward that she’d been forced to reckon with what she’d done to keep breathing. All the lives she had destroyed. All the lives she was still destroying.

Faron survived, and others suffered for it.

The bodies she had left behind in San Irie hadn’t died by her hands—not like the many Langlish soldiers and Riders she had cut down during the San Irie Revolution—but her hands were still slick with their blood. Awake, she saw their charred bodies every time she blinked, brown skin burned red, then black, muscle and organs and bones reduced to putrid remains. Asleep, she woke screaming from nightmares in which the scorched husks of the Queenshield, of her neighbors’ children, of Iryan civilians, reached for her with furious hands, their hollow mouths accusing her with cauterized tongues: Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Once, San Irie had worshipped her as a saint. Once, she had been the voice of the gods themselves.

But now she knew she was nothing but a harbinger of death—and she had brought that death on a dragon to her island for her own selfish purposes.

By the time Lightbringer began descending toward an unfamiliar strip of land, Faron had cried for so long that her eyes felt swollen and crusted. During the journey across the Ember Sea, that infinite blue ocean that stretched between San Irie and the northern continent of Nova, Faron had remembered the look on her sister’s face as Faron had taken Iya’s hand and flown away from the smoking capital of Port Sol. There had been no time to apologize or explain. There had been only the sound of two hearts breaking, a sound oddly similar to that of powerful dragon wings beating on the wind.

Faron had lost Reeve. Her gods. Her people. She couldn’t stand to lose Elara, too.

But maybe she already had.

The greenery below resolved itself into an archipelago of seven islands of varying sizes. It was the Hestan Archipelago, where Elara had spent two months enrolled in Langley’s dragon-riding academy, Hearthstone. Faron had seen it on a map in Pearl Bay Palace, this inverted V off the coast of the hooked Langlish land that formed the bottom of Nova. She couldn’t remember now if Iya had placed a clay crown atop the archipelago, marking it as a target in his upcoming conquest, but her stomach tightened all the same.

Lightbringer’s forces now consisted of three dragons—Goldeye, Ignatz, and Irontooth—as well as their Riders—Marius Lynwood and Nichol Thompson, Estella Ballard and Briar Noble, and Commander Gavriel Warwick and Director Mireya Warwick—but most of the other dragons and Riders had fought for San Irie during Iya’s attempt to claim it. Eventually, they would return here, and surely another battle would break out.

Faron was too tired for another battle.

“Your mental tears are being wasted unless their purpose is to irritate me,” Lightbringer said through the bond he had forced upon her. “There is only one dragon here, and he has no interest in battle.”

She hated the growl of that voice in her mind. This was the second time the dragon had spoken to her directly, and his voice was like claws slicing poisonous lines under her skin. It left behind a miasma that was hard to shake off.

They landed smoothly in a wide field on the first island, the name of which Faron had never bothered to learn. Iya jumped from the saddle onto flattened grass cupped by the golden sand of a long beach. Low tide lapped at the shoreline in peaceful waves, retreating periodically back into Serpentia Bay. Faron dropped behind Iya with a wince, her thighs unused to long flights on dragonback—or even short ones. It felt as if her skin had been scraped raw by Lightbringer’s diamond-hard scales.

Then the boy before her turned, and Faron’s breath caught.

Reeve Warwick gazed steadily at her, his eyes the clear blue of the Ember Sea, his red-brown curls haloed by the sun, his candle-white skin pinkened from overexposure, his dragon-eye necklace resting over his chest. But it wasn’t Reeve Warwick, she reminded herself. It was Iya with his cutting smile who watched her, his appearance little more than a trap to weaken her resolve.

She couldn’t forget that there were four beings staring back at her from those cold eyes: Reeve Warwick, whose body had been possessed and whose soul was caged too deep for her to reach; Gael Soto, whose soul had been corrupted and whose flashes of humanity had seduced her into dooming the world; Lightbringer, the dragon they were bonded to, whose innate malice made him a danger to two realms; and Iya, the parts of Gael that were Lightbringer and the parts of Lightbringer that were Gael, the singular godlike creature who was determined to get her to believe he was all that remained of the boys she knew.

The boys she was here to save.

Faron swallowed and forced herself to breathe. To remember why she had taken his hand, climbed on his dragon, and set fire to her reputation.

Iya may have declared himself a god, but Faron was his undoing. You are nothing but the heart I can’t seem to destroy, he had said to her hours ago, his eyes wild and his hands tight around her throat. He could not destroy her, but she could destroy him—starting with his hold on Reeve and Gael.

Or so she hoped.

Iya’s smile deepened, as if he could hear what she was thinking—and maybe he could—but before either of them could speak, there was a shouted welcome from above. Ahead of them was a hill with a plateau, and atop that hill was a white girl perhaps a couple years older than Faron. Her red hair was styled into a chin-length bob, and she wore a Hearthstone uniform: a marigold blouse with a standing collar, a black blazer with marigold cuffs, fitted breeches, and leather boots.

As they crested the hill, Faron realized there was a medallion dragon stretching in the grass behind her, golden with a barbed tail and belly scales the pale yellow of an old sponge. His eyes, like Lightbringer’s, were green, but that was their only similarity. Lightbringer was the only imperial dragon in existence, the white of a newborn and massive enough to overshadow even a carmine, and his bulk and spikes made him a dangerous weapon. By comparison, the yellow dragon suspiciously narrowing its gaze looked like a child.

“Cruz, Margot,” Iya said, greeting the dragon and then the girl. “Where’s your father?”

“He’s waiting in the courtyard,” said Margot. “We saw you arrive while we were flying, and I thought I should walk you there.”

There was a calculating edge to the way Margot looked at Iya, as though she was judging him against some silent set of expectations. Faron couldn’t tell whether he fell short, however. Her expression gave little else away.

Iya nodded his agreement, and Margot paused to whisper something to her dragon—to Cruz—that sent him back into the air. Lightbringer sat unmoving in the field, now joined by Irontooth, Goldeye, and Ignatz. The Riders made their way up the hill, the Warwicks leading the throng. Had Elara felt this continual pulse of fear while surrounded by enemies and dragons? Had she lifted her chin, as Faron was doing now, and armored herself with the lie that everything would be fine if she stuck to the plan?

It was a silent walk through a verdant valley surrounding a fortress of obsidian. Walls as tall as a dragon flew Langlish flags from towers in every corner, each flag the color of one of the four breeds: red for carmine, yellow for medallion, blue for ultramarine, and green for sage. On the other side of the walls was a courtyard and a keep, and in front of the keep’s raised portcullis was another white man. His complexion was ruddy, his blond and silver hair retreating from his wide forehead, and he wore a black suit with the Langlish starburst on the right breast. He and Margot had the same narrow noses, the same brown eyes, the same round cheeks.

Faron realized this must be Margot’s father seconds before Gavriel Warwick muscled past her to say, warmly, “Headmaster Luxton. Always a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” said the headmaster of Hearthstone Academy, his thick mustache twitching over his thin mouth. He and the commander shook hands like old friends before Luxton dropped into a deep bow before Iya. “It is an incredible honor to meet and host you, Gray Saint. I am Oscar Luxton, Wingleader for my daughter, Margot, and our dragon, Cruz. We’ve cleared the second floor for your forces.”

Elara had explained Wingleaders and Firstriders to Faron during one of her fire calls from Langley, a connection of voices that required only an open flame to allow them to hear and respond to each other, but Faron hadn’t bothered to retain the information. Her sister aside, a Rider was a Rider to Faron; it didn’t matter their precise role in the colonization of her island.

“And when,” Iya asked, “will you grapple with your role in it? Five years ago, your home was in shambles because of the Langlish. Now your home is in shambles because of you.”

Guilt settled in Faron’s chest, squeezing her lungs to make it impossible to breathe. Iya sounded slightly different from Lightbringer alone—it was like the buzzing of a beehive, several voices speaking at once, a war of souls within the single body of a boy. But it was his words rather than just his voice that struck her like daggers across the unwanted bond. Because he was right. Port Sol had been reduced to ashes twice in her lifetime, and the second time, it had been her fault.

“Say what you will about these people, but they are the only allies you have left,” Iya continued. His tone softened with pity, and somehow that hurt worse. “You forget that we are the same, Faron. I was once the Empyrean. I know how easy it is to fall from the very pedestal they forced you onto. And I know you hope to regain their love by stopping me. It makes me sad to see you smother your potential to protect people who want you dead.”

“You don’t know anything about me and my potential,” Faron shot back, sounding weak to her own ears.

“We are connected, whether you like it or not. I know you. And part of you knows this simple truth: We were meant to rule, not to be ruled.” While he spoke in her mind, Iya gestured for Margot to lead his people into the gray stone keep. The Warwicks and Headmaster Luxton followed, their heads bent in conversation. Soon, Iya and Faron were the only two remaining in the courtyard, and he faced her with an intense fervor in his—in Reeve’s—light blue eyes. He studied her the way Reeve once did, as if he were looking for something she wasn’t sure he would find. “Your island sees a saint. Your parents see a rebel. Your queen sees a nuisance. Your gods see an enemy. But I see you. I have always seen you. You are all of that and so much more.”

He reached for her, but Faron twisted away before his fingers could make contact with her cheek.

“Except,” she said aloud, “you said I was nothing. ‘You are nothing without me,’ remember?” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she stared just over his shoulder, refusing to be taken in by the lure of his appearance. She hadn’t truly realized how much time Reeve had spent watching her until now, when Iya doing the same made her skin crawl. Reeve had made her feel exposed, awkward, but Iya made her feel violated. “I told you once that you’re lying to the best. I know what you really think of me.”

“No,” Iya murmured, his tone unreadable, “you really don’t.”

By the time she lowered her gaze, he was already heading into the keep, the embroidered KNIGHT OF THE EMPIRE on the back of his uniform bleeding gold in the afternoon sun.

A week passed in a blur of preparations, converting the academy from a school back to its origins as a military stronghold.

The Warwicks took Irontooth around the other six islands, conscripting civilians into Iya’s army and murdering anyone who refused or rebelled. Iya established a schedule of dragons and Riders to form a perpetual perimeter guard, one group remaining around Hearthstone, the other circling the entire archipelago. The second floor—which Faron discovered had once been dormitories—was repurposed into barracks. She was given her own room, but a thorough search showed that every dragon relic, a harvested part of a dead dragon that still contained some of its magic, had been removed and every fireplace had been boarded up—just to keep her from attempting to contact San Irie in any way. Faron had expected a Rider to be assigned to her at all times, but Iya thought that unnecessary, when he could watch her every move through the bond.

Luckily, Faron could understand everything happening around her. She spoke only patois, and they spoke only Langlish, but Lightbringer’s ancient knowledge included all human tongues, and his magic translated their speech accordingly. She could read written reports and understand the snide remarks the Riders—especially Marius Lynwood, Goldeye’s Firstrider—made about her presence. Even if she couldn’t call home, this was a weapon in her arsenal, an opportunity for espionage that she wouldn’t take for granted.

At night, she would look through her window, which overlooked the bay, and see Lightbringer sitting on the beach, limned in silver moonlight. His mind was always closed to her, but there was something wistful in the lines of his body. If she hadn’t witnessed his atrocities firsthand, she might have been moved.

Instead, she waited until the moon was high on the seventh night and sneaked out of her room.

It was dramatic to call it sneaking since no one stopped her, but nights were made for quiet steps and secret movements. Stars twinkled outside Hearthstone’s high windows, and the only sign of life within was intermittent snoring from the off-duty Riders. It had been long enough that Faron had gotten used to the casual opulence of the so-called school, the gorgeous tapestries and carpets, the decorative suits of armor and the massive gymnasium. At this point, all it did was remind her that Langley had all this wealth and all these resources, and still they’d wanted San Irie, too.

That kind of insatiable hunger never led anywhere good.

Goldeye circled the air on night watch, but Lightbringer was right where Faron expected him to be. The closer she got to the massive war beast, the more her heart pounded. Spikes like curved teeth trailed down his back, and his tail alone was longer than she was tall. Regardless of Iya’s twisted affection for her, if Lightbringer wanted to kill Faron, no one could stop him. The dragon’s opinion of her had never matched that of his Rider.

Faron let that bolster her determination to at least try to resolve this peacefully.

“Lightbringer,” she said, and only a prickle of awareness in her mind made it clear the stationary dragon was listening. “You’ve done this all before. You must realize that your conquest will end only one way. I released you from the Empty. You’re free for the first time in centuries. The gods are welcoming you home. Wouldn’t you rather be living there than fighting here?”

“What do you know of my home?” Lightbringer asked, baring his teeth in a wordless snarl. “In the divine plane, we are little more than beasts for them to shepherd and ignore. We are not and have never been equal, even though we, too, are gods.” His tail shifted through the sand, making the ground beneath her feet shake. Faron stumbled forward until she was near his legs, out of range of his spikes. “You see my conquest as fruitless, but I see it as righteous. Inevitable. Where you see destruction, I see limitless potential I did not have obeying the gods. Now I am the one served. Now I am the one obeyed. And I would rather rule over the ashes of this realm than serve in the majesty of theirs.”

Faron could barely hear him over the sudden ringing in her ears. The gods had never told her that, though she didn’t know why she was so surprised. While Gael Soto had trained her to manipulate living souls, a skill he had claimed would help her break Elara’s dragon bond, the gods had done nothing but prove they would always lie to her to protect their interests. Gael may have twisted or omitted some truths, but he had been more honest with her than the gods ever had—which made her more inclined to believe that Lightbringer was being honest, too.

She remembered the raw horror that had swallowed her through the bond when Elara had opened a door between realms beneath Iya’s feet. Lightbringer and Gael hadn’t wanted to go back there, and, at the time, she had assumed there was the Empty. But maybe it had been the divine plane.

“Still, it doesn’t have to be this way,” Faron tried, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt. “Maybe if we negotiate with the gods, they’ll let you all stay—”

“How swiftly they damned you for making your own choices, and yet you still believe your gods can be reasoned with.” A chuckle as low and deep as a smoker’s echoed through her head. “I have known Irie, Mala, and Obie far longer than you have, child, and they will never fold. Neither will I.”

Faron swallowed, trying to ignore the soft heart that had gotten her into this mess in the first place. What did she care if Lightbringer feared his return to the divine realm? He had twisted Gael’s mind. He had stolen Reeve’s body. He had razed her island, and he planned to burn so much more before he was done.

In Faron’s experience, this was how wars began: A stubborn, if not malevolent, world power claimed to see no way forward but destruction.

“You’ll lose,” she warned him. Her mind was open for him to pick through, so she made a point of thinking of the Iryan drakes; of her sister, the Maiden Empyrean; of the Langlish dragons that had not sided with him; and of the countries worldwide that could—and would—rise up against him. “If you don’t end this now, you will lose everything. And all dragons will suffer.”

“Let them suffer,” said Lightbringer, tipping his triangular head toward the full moon. “At least then I will no longer suffer alone.”