The Heretic Royal

Book 3: Scarred Earth Saga

by G.A. Aiken

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Humorous Fantasy

Synopsis

In the G.A. Aiken’s fantasy follow up to the USA Today bestselling Scarred Earth Saga’s The Princess Knight and The Blacksmith Queen, two sisters battle for a single throne, warring factions take up arms, a land is divided, and uncertain allies become very certain lovers …
With subtle commentary on today’s political polarization, this riveting epic celebrates strong female characters and champions the underdog within a diverse, high fantasy framework.
As two sisters battle for a single throne in G.A. Aiken’s newest fantasy, warring factions take up arms, a land is divided, and uncertain allies become very certain lovers …
GODS SAVE THE QUEEN!
Ainsley Farmerson has always planned to break free of the family business—and the family drama. But what was once farming, smithworking, and bickering over the dinner table has turned into open warfare between sisters. Sides have been taken, lives are on the line, and Ainsley
has no doubt which sister must be queen. She’ll do whatever is necessary to take down the soulless Beatrix. Even if that means joining forces with angry battle nuns, irritating monks, and overbearing centaurs.
Gruffyn of the Torn Moon Clan has no time for human beings. And yet … there is something about the uncontrollable princess that he can’t ignore. Maybe it’s the way her eldest sisters underestimate her. Or her bravery facing down dragons and mad queens from distant lands. Whatever the
reason, Gruff is willing to fight by this human’s side. Not only for the entertainment value, but because she’s right. Beatrix must never be queen. So whatever he has to do, whoever he has to destroy, Gruff will battle beside Ainsley. Fast. Hard. And with absolutely no mercy …

Release date: December 27, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“Deal with them.”

He could not actually hear those words over the sound of all the thundering hooves crashing against the ground—his queen’s battalion charging into the town the false ruler had built for herself and her friends—but he could hear the unknown woman’s words whispering through the wind, could see her in his mind, standing tall and gesturing toward their riders with a toss of her hand.

He tried to yell a warning to the soldiers he was forced to ride with. He himself was no soldier, of course. He shouldn’t even be here! But King Marius, the Wielder of Hate, had ordered him to go, and his master had not opposed the command. He was there, apparently, to “help” the soldiers in this attack, and then bring back news of what he’d witnessed. He knew his king didn’t expect most of these soldiers to survive; what he really wanted was an idea of how many troops the false queen had left after her battle with the king’s half brother. Cyrus the Honored had a powerful and hateful god on his side, but this false queen had still defeated him.

As the battalion had approached early that morning, racing toward the massive gates surrounding the false queen’s tower, he truly thought this would not be much of a battle. More like a slaughter. Something the soldiers’ true queen, Beatrix, loved to indulge in. But then the chattering wind around them had picked up and, suddenly, the ground beneath their feet shook. Again and again and again. Like something heavy hitting the earth. He tried to stop the soldiers. He warned the commander that they must turn back, but he was summarily dismissed. Ignored. These soldiers had no time for magicks or those who wielded them, when bloodshed and undefended females were on the horizon. So the battalion rode on toward the gates of the false queen’s kingdom. They rode on, even as he screamed at them to stop. His caution was no longer due to the moving ground but to what he saw on the other side of those massive gates. Or, rather, looming above them.

Heads and shoulders. Giant heads and shoulders that were encased in armor with openings that allowed scaled wings to freely unfurl from their backs.

He screamed and screamed to the soldiers, but either they continued to ignore him or they couldn’t hear him over the sounds of all those hooves. Or maybe their lust for destruction was simply too high for them to see the danger right in front of them. They rode on and he was by their side even after they took the gate down. But then an enormous head—wearing a helm so large a small family could happily live in it with a few pet dogs—appeared in the space between the now-open gates. It drew in breath and almost all the soldiers’ horses came to a crashing halt. Prey always knew predators, so the horses that hadn’t crashed into each other and fallen to the ground, attempted to turn and run away, despite their riders’ snarling demands to keep going forward.

He didn’t wait for his horse to react; he turned it away and was charging off when flames, powerful and unforgiving, ripped apart the battalion he’d just left behind. He heard the screams of the men and their horses. At least the ones who weren’t immediately disintegrated by the inferno, like the commander and those he’d handpicked to ride by his side as they led the charge. They were wiped out before they even knew what was happening. But the rest of the battalion . . . they screamed. And screamed. He knew some would try to roll on the ground to put out the flames, but it would be of no use. These weren’t the flames of an out-of-control wildfire burning in a forest. No buckets of water or helpful animal skins thrown over writhing bodies were going to help.

He kept riding, even as he used his mind and magicks to call out to his master to warn him. To beg his master to use his strong powers to open a doorway and yank him back to the safety of the true queen’s palace.

But as he felt his master respond to his panicked call, asking him what was wrong, the horse he rode abruptly stopped at the sound of a low whistle.

A calm, low whistle he didn’t have time to think about before the horse went up on its hind legs, tossing him off in the same moment. He wasn’t much of a rider, and the horse had been given to him by one of the soldiers. Meaning the beast had no loyalty to him whatsoever. So when called to stop . . . it stopped.

He fell hard, barely able to wrap himself in a protection spell before he hit the ground. He’d saved himself a broken spine, which was the most he could ask. It still took him time to get back to his feet because the wind was knocked out of him. But, to his triumph, he did get up. He did stand on his shaky legs.

Then a voice behind him asked, “And what are you doing, wizard?”

He froze, piss running down his leg even before he looked behind him. That’s how great was the fear their kind caused. Just knowing they were around made a man or wizard soil himself.

Even the fact that it sounded like a female voice gave him no comfort. The females were known to be more ferocious than any of the males.

He forced himself to face the thing that had spoken to him. Like the others he’d seen, this one was covered in armor and weapons. A helm on its head; chainmail and plate protecting the important parts of its body. It stood over him like the false queen’s tower, but he’d felt no dread looking at that tower. It was just something to be brought down, hopefully with the false queen’s family inside. That would bring the true queen great joy!

But his chance to prove himself to his queen and master were now gone.

The creature gazed at him for what felt like forever until the tall, ancient forest trees behind it began to move and another one of those things appeared.

“What are you doing?” the new one asked, its voice male.

“Found this one trying to escape the fate of that army over there,” the other replied, gesturing with a black talon.

“Ooooh,” the male said. “Breakfast.”

“You can eat later. Should we take this one back to Annwyl?”

Even though the dragon was not speaking to him, he opened his mouth to insist that, “Yes, you should take me back to whomever you want,” in the hopes of garnering a few more seconds of life. But something tore through his chest with such force, he felt his heart tear from its moorings. With only a few seconds of life left, he looked down to see that it wasn’t a spear that had gone through his body but a . . . tail?

A tail covered in scales with a sharp point at the end. A point that now held his still-beating heart. The attack had been that swift.

“Keep the horse,” the owner of the tail ordered. “He’s good stock. But no mercy for anyone who would abandon their own army to run away.”

He felt his body floating away from the ground and assumed his god had come for him. But as his sight dimmed and the last of his breath and blood left his body, he realized that it was the tail still stuck in his chest that was lifting him.

“And,” the male said from the enveloping darkness, “if you’re hungry, have this one’s heart. It seems quite juicy.”

“Kill all of them!”

Ainsley closed her eyes and waited to be wiped out by flames just as the attacking army had been wiped out a few moments before. But after nearly a minute of waiting . . . she realized she was still alive. Maybe.

She forced herself to open one eye to see if she was still alive or on the next plane of existence. Maybe with her ancestors waiting for her. Or maybe she would be floating in space, waiting for her soul to be called back to earth for a newborn.

But no, none of that was happening. Instead, she was still in the middle of the fortress training ring, behind her sisters, with a crazed warrior woman standing in front of them . . . and dragons. She was surrounded by gargantuan dragons.

Dragons that could speak. Just like she spoke. They could also smile, laugh, and appear annoyed. All the things that Ainsley considered uniquely human, they could do.

Of course, they could also fly, breathe fire, and crush any human merely by stepping on them.

And yet, despite the many things they could do to destroy all life around them, it wasn’t the dragons that made Ainsley the most afraid.

Although terrifying, the dragons seemed restrained in their immaculate armor and polite conversation. She could almost imagine some of them offering a “beg your pardon” before treating a defenseless human like a pastry treat shoved into one of those horrifying maws.

No. Her fear and, she was guessing, the fear of her sisters, was centered on the woman. The human woman standing before them in a sleeveless chainmail shirt and leather leggings and boots. She had big, strong arms covered in scars; two short swords strapped to her back; and long, loose, dark brown hair with golden streaks that looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb in years. But even with that hair covering most of her face, Ainsley could still see multiple scars going from one side to the other. Some were long and jagged, going from her forehead down to her jaw. Other scars were short but deep. All proving that the woman had been in more than one battle and had survived.

It was her eyes, though. Those dark, gray-green eyes that made Ainsley shudder.

Because they were the eyes of a madwoman.

A madwoman with control of dragons. A lot of dragons that could talk and use weapons beyond their ability to breathe fire.

The suns weren’t even up, and it was already a shitty day!

The madwoman pointed at her eldest sister, Keeley, and demanded, “Is it you? Are you the enslaver?”

Keeley opened her mouth to speak, but only an odd squeak came out. Ainsley leaned around her to see her face, and Keeley cleared her throat before trying once more. She didn’t even manage a squeak on her second try. All that came out was a weird grunt.

Eyes wide, Ainsley’s second oldest sister, Gemma, looked back and up at Keeley.

“What are you doing?” she hissed between gritted teeth.

But all Keeley could manage was a panicked fluttering of her hands and a shake of her head.

Gemma crossed her eyes and looked back at the madwoman. “I—” was all she got out before the madwoman pointed at the rune embroidered on Gemma’s surcoat and snarled, “Are you a monk?”

“Uh . . .” Maybe it was the way the question was asked that disturbed Gemma. Or the crazed look in the madwoman’s eyes. But whatever it was, “uh” was the only thing Ainsley’s sister, a war monk who had destroyed enemies without even a moment of regret or fear, could manage at the moment.

Putting all of them in a precarious position. Since their silence seemed to enrage the madwoman.

“Well?” the madwoman pushed. “ANSWER ME!”

He sensed her fear through the wind; the breeze touching the tips of his ears. He sat up and let his gaze examine the lands around him. He saw nothing, but knew something was wrong. Not just from her fear but . . .

The wind. It was the wind that told him something was wrong. There should be no wind on this early morning. It should be still. Calm. But there was a strong wind, making the trees sway wildly back and forth. The younger, weaker trunks appeared ready to snap from the force.

He stood and his pack stood with him. She needed him. He could feel it through the ground beneath his paws. Could smell it in the wild wind that whipped around him. Could hear it in the silence of the early-morning birds and the crows that didn’t caw and croak and complain.

Wasting no more time, he ran. He ran with everything he had. Ran as if the demons of his hell spurred him on with their whips of chain and fire. Because she needed him and nothing, absolutely nothing would stop him from going to her and protecting the human female who had protected him as a pup and cared for him until he was old enough and strong enough to care for himself.

He charged over hills and through villages, past lakes and through rivers, into forests and out of caves until he reached her territory. He and his pack dashed through the destroyed gates, spotting warrior monks and witches and priests standing outside the town walls with their weapons at the ready but none of them making a decisive move to protect the queen who had protected them. He sneered at their weakness, leaping over the burned bodies of soldiers and guards.

He noticed the dragons in the training ring, standing tall and proud in their battle armor, but that didn’t stop him or his pack. Every hell had its own dragons, and they were more terrifying than these mortal ones with their long, shiny hair and rules of etiquette. Hells’ dragons had no etiquette.

He jumped over the clawed feet and charged around the threatening tails so he could reach the human woman he adored. He saw her, standing with two of her sisters. Before them all stood a woman. She yelled at the one he protected and her sisters. He picked up speed, preparing to leap onto the female intruder’s back and take her down to the ground, where he could destroy her before any harm came to his human.

But as he readied his body to leap the last few feet, the woman turned her head. When he saw her profile, he braced all four paws in front of himself to stop his full-speed run. The rest of his pack tumbled over one another in their attempt to stop as well, for they’d recognized the woman too, even though they’d never seen her in person. Had never stood before her. Had never heard her voice. They all still knew her. Everyone in every hell knew her.

Finally spotting the pack, the woman turned to face them fully, and that’s when he spun around and sprinted out the way he’d come.

The children, he realized. He should sneak up to the high tower floors and protect the children. That’s what his human would want him to do. Right? At least that’s what he convinced himself of as he led his pack as far away from the crazed female as he could get.

Ainsley watched the demon wolf that her eldest sister adored—and that adored her back—awkwardly spin around with his entire demon wolf pack and run away.

She blinked. Stunned.

Every one of those beasts had looked right at the dragons and continued to charge in to help Ainsley’s sister, but as soon as this madwoman turned to look at them . . . they ran away?

Over the years, Ainsley had seen those wolves and the lead wolf in particular, put themselves in the most dangerous of situations simply to protect Keeley. But one look at this woman and . . .

They ran away.

Even more frightening than the demon wolves running away was the realization that Ainsley had yet to see any of the centaurs. They had a whole army’s worth of centaurs roaming these lands to help Queen Keeley keep the crown from her sister. Meaning that Keeley couldn’t burp without a centaur rushing to her side to make sure she was safe. And yet the queen and her two royal sisters were surrounded by dragons and not one centaur had shown up?

Had they truly heard nothing? Seen nothing of the many dragons flying overhead? Had they not even smelled the burning flesh?

How was that possible . . . ?

Unless the mighty centaurs were already dead.

Gods, if that was true . . .

It was time to go. With the centaurs burned to ash—most likely—and the demon wolves making a mad escape, Ainsley was not about to stand here and wait to be torn apart by the claws and fangs of dragons. Did this madwoman have claws and fangs, too? She might! There was nothing Ainsley wouldn’t believe at this moment.

So she would remove herself and get to higher ground. She just needed a bow and arrow to pierce this female through the heart and, hopefully, be done with her. Or, at the very least, weaken her so that all the fanatic monks and priests waiting on the other side of the town wall could attack.

What Ainsley was not going to do, however, was stand here, waiting to die.

Ainsley took one small step back but, without turning, Gemma reached around their eldest sister and grabbed hold of Ainsley’s hand.

She yanked her close so that Ainsley now stood in front of Keeley as well. A position she did not enjoy. Then Gemma pressed her booted foot against Ainsley’s to hold her in place.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Gemma whispered, ignoring her sister’s pained whimper.

“Aren’t I the baby?” Ainsley demanded. “You two have always insisted on protecting me.”

“Your baby days are officially over, and that means we protect the queen. And that’s not you!”

“After you two are killed by that crazy woman and eaten by the dragons, I’ll be queen and—oww! You cow!” she gasped after Gemma rammed that foot down onto hers.

“You will stay here with us and we will all die together!” Gemma angrily hissed. “Like a family.”

“Stop muttering!” the madwoman barked out.

“Sorry,” Gemma quickly replied, her foot again pinning Ainsley’s to the ground.

The madwoman waved Gemma away and replied, “I’m not talking to you.”

Ainsley glanced back at Keeley, but her eldest sister could do nothing but shrug. Because if the madwoman wasn’t talking to Ainsley and Gemma, then who was she . . . ?

“Who the hells are you talking to?” a dragon asked, removing its helm to reveal shiny black hair tied into a braid that went down its back. But a short lock of that hair fell across its dark eyes, somehow making it appear much less monstrous.

The madwoman faced the dragon, boldly staring at it.

“Does who I’m talking to matter right now?” the madwoman asked.

Frowning, the dragon simply replied, “Yes. Yes, it does matter.”

He hated this.

Hated it with everything in him.

And because of the treacherous behavior of blood kin more than seven thousand years ago . . . he was now forced to endure it, had been enduring it every week for more than a year now.

This predawn meeting was particularly bad because there was nothing to discuss. One large battle had ended not too long ago, but there were more battles to come. Something they were all prepared and trained for. Why they were here in the first place to go over and over things they already knew, he had no idea.

He looked around at all the centaurs in the apple grove, forced to waste their time, while Her Royal Highness—Princess Laila of the Scarred Earth Clan and future Ruling Mare of the Amichai—rambled on about the most mundane things on this good earth.

If it were any other day, he would grunt and stomp his hind legs until he annoyed the two brothers of Her Royal Highness so much, she told him and his tribe to leave in order to keep her kin from starting a fight they could never possibly win. Like her mother, Princess Laila wisely avoided any fights with his tribe. Her ancestors may have won the throne seven thousand years ago, but they’d never win it now. So she permitted no opening that would allow such a thing. See? Wise.

But today, he did nothing to force Her Royal Highness to end this ridiculous meeting of centaurs. Because today something was actually happening.

It had started just minutes before this waste-of-time event, when Gruffyn of the Torn Moon Clan had felt the power of ancient magicks flow over him like a warm blanket. He’d immediately snapped awake and looked around him, expecting to find some master wizard standing directly before him. But he’d only found Sarff, the female who had trained him in the way of magicks and mystical powers and beheadings. She gazed up at the sky but Gruff saw nothing. That, of course, only meant that whoever wielded this power was much stronger than he could ever dream.

“Good,” Sarff had muttered when he’d come to stand beside her; her gaze still locked on the sky. “I was worried you’d sleep through all this like the rest of our pitiful tribe.” She’d gestured to his sleeping sister and the team members handpicked by his father. Their orders a year ago had been simple: join the other centaur warrior clans chosen to protect and assist the new human queen. Something that made none of the clans happy. Why were they protecting a human queen? The humans had never done anything to protect them. But the ruling mare would hear no dissent. So Gruff and the others had followed orders, as they’d been trained to do.

It wasn’t easy, though. Being around all these humans. The new royals—Queen Keeley and her lot—had no problem with Gruff’s kind, accepting them easily and without concern. But the others, from peasants to those of royal blood who could trace their lineage back centuries, were much less comfortable with those born with two arms and four legs. Some centaurs attempted to ease the concerns of these people by spending most days in their human form. But that had become less effective now that everyone understood centaurs wore chainmail kilts. The kilts, created by their best centaur blacksmiths and enhanced by their strongest shamans, allowed their kind to shift between their natural and human forms as often as necessary because the mail changed with them. As humans, the kilts hid their nakedness. But as centaurs, the chainmail protected their flanks during battle, adjusting to the size of the wearer as needed. It was ingenious armor and, for millennia, had successfully hidden Gruff’s kind from human eyes. Centaurs could walk around the humans of this land and be thought of as nothing more than “those strange Amichai folk.” But now it seemed that everyone knew most of the Amichai folk were centaurs. Not all of them, of course. There were a few tribes that lived at the base of the Amichai Mountains that were humans whose families had been part of those lands for eons.

Unfortunately, everything had changed because of a fight for power between two sisters: Queen Keeley and Queen Beatrix. It was believed that if Queen Keeley won this war, the Amichai could go back to their mountains and live a mostly peaceful life. But if Queen Beatrix and her massive armies won, there would be no peace for anyone. When the war started, Gruff thought the ruling mare and her mate were being overdramatic about it all, but after two years of Beatrix’s rule, he’d come to realize that her reign would be a nightmare from which no one would ever wake.

So here they all were, attempting to help, even though many of them really didn’t want to.

Nor did their common purpose make them a close, friendly bunch. In fact, the other centaur tribes found Gruff’s kin “a lot to take,” as a fellow centaur had put it less than two days after they’d set off for Queen Keeley’s lands. There were several reasons for that general opinion.

First, it was the Torn Moon Clan’s attitude. They were known for being difficult, terse, and extremely unfriendly. Not one or two members of their clan but all of them. From the oldest stallion to the youngest foal. Most of Gruff’s kin found mates who were unfriendly and difficult simply to ensure they kept their bloodline strong.

Then, of course, there was the clan’s insatiable lust for vengeance. But if vengeance could not be quickly obtained, that wasn’t a problem, because the Torn Moon Clan loved holding a grudge.

That wasn’t all that set Gruff’s clan apart from his fellow Amichai. It was their warrior centaur form—the form they shifted into during battle—that disturbed the others most. Their battle antlers were different. Their eyes. Even their size was considered unnatural. But whether centaur or warrior centaur, the Torn Moon Clan’s hooves always set them apart from the others. For while most centaurs roamed the lower and mid-levels of the Amichai Mountain range, Gruff’s people made the highest mountaintops their home. Close to snow and ice, with the big-horned sheep and goats nearby. Those born directly into the Torn Moon bloodline not only tolerated—and thrived in—the brutal cold of those high-up terrains but they also had hooves that allowed them to climb hills and mountainsides the way other centaurs could race across open fields. It was a skill many complained was “strange” or “disturbing,” but Gruff knew they were simply jealous of the Torn Moon’s agility. Especially during brutal battles when the high ground gave them such a massive advantage.

Gruff enjoyed being up high. It gave him a clear view of all his enemies, which was good, because as his clan’s appointed Grudge Holder, it was important to know his enemies’ locations in case any grudge-debts had to be paid.

Turning his head this way and that, Gruff hoped to hear something that would give him an idea of what was going on. No one unleashed such powerful magicks without reason. But he’d heard nothing. Something that bothered him more than if he’d heard the sounds of a brutal battle.

“Yes,” Sarff had agreed, noting his movements. “You’re right. No snow wolves slinking back to their dens for day-sleep. No birds. No ice sheep. Everything is quiet.” She’d closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky. “And the magicks are so strong. I haven’t felt anything like this before.”

That was truly something, because there wasn’t much Sarff had not “felt” before; the battle witch was renowned for her brutal skills with a spell or a mace.

Like Sarff, Gruff had a way with the steel and a kinship to the gods that allowed him to call on the powers of air, earth, and fire during battle. He doubted he’d ever have Sarff’s powers, but he was not sure he’d want them. Communicating with gods directly didn’t sound like something he’d enjoy at all.

“This could be bad, ya know.” Sarff had briefly glanced at him before turning her gaze back to the sky. “Magicks like that ain’t here by accident. We should prepare ourselves for battle.”

The Torn Moon Clan was always prepared for battle. They slept standing up with their weapons strapped to their bodies. And when they chose their mates, they didn’t give a piece of jewelry as a sign of lifelong commitment but a small, sharpened blade with a jewel-encrusted handle.

Gruff let his senses reach out and they immediately hit a mystical wall that was so strong it might as well be physical. It might as well be made of steel or the mountain he stood on. His gaze had searched the horizon before him while he’d let his senses feel along the mystical wall.

To untrained eyes nothing would look wrong or out of place, but that wall that hid something mighty from his and Sarff’s view.

Now, that was real power. A power he could only dream of possessing.

What truly concerned him, though, was that he didn’t understand what was being hidden. The prey inside him sensed danger nearby, but he sensed that every moment he was awake. What he didn’t feel, however, was a need to run. When he wanted to run, he knew something truly terrifying was coming; his prey animal told him to escape before it was too late. It was a need that, as a warrior, he had been trained since birth to control and manage so he never brought shame on his clan.

“I don’t understand,” Sarff had said softly, echoing his thoughts. “What are we not supposed to see?”

That’s what worried Gruff then and now, during this ridiculous meeting. It took an immense amount of power to hide the true world from the view of many. A power that would drain the one who unleashed it and leave the earth they stood upon, bleeding. Why would any magickal being risk so much?

“Are you hearing voices again?” a silver dragon barked.

“I don’t hear voices,” the madwoman snapped back before adding, “Anymore.”

“Is that supposed to make us feel better?” the silver demanded. “Because it does not.”

“If you don’t hear voices, then who are you speaking to?” the black dragon softly asked.

She pointed to a spot behind a gold dragon. “Them.”

“Oh, gods,” Ainsley heard Gemma breathe out. “Those idiots.”

It was a unit of war monks. Gemma was the leader of her order, but some of the other orders had yet to accept her control of their armies. For instance, the small unit moving slowly across the courtyard had refused to have anything to do with Gemma because they believed their primary war god hated the one her order followed. Just remembering that had Ainsley rolling her eyes.

And it was this same, ridiculous order that was heading toward the madwoman, not for any logical reason, she was sure, but because of some religious rule that no one with sense would understand or obey. Especially since these particular war monks were known for being a fanatical order that wore all black and abstained from any sex. Even with each other. Ainsley found them endlessly fascinating because she couldn’t imagine anyone willingly taking on such a restriction. Even for a god.

Gemma motioned the monks away with a wide wave of her arm, but she was ignored. Ainsley hoped that Gemma would start waving with both arms because that would finally force her to release Ainsley’s hand, but no.

A gold dragon watched the monks move around him but didn’t make any defensive moves.

Once the group was mostly in front of the dragon, the monk leading the way aimed a damning finger at the madwoman and announced, “We know who you are, vile female! We know what you’ve done!”

Ainsley gawked, fascinated by the unfolding drama, while the dragons did nothing more than roll their eyes or toss their front claws up in obvious frustration and disbelief.

The madwoman’s eyes narrowed on the monks, and Ainsley cringed a little. Because she looked even more terrifying when she seemed to lock onto a target. And right now, all those strident monks were the madwoman’s target.

“We will not let you do your deadly work here, Annwyl the Bloody!” the monk yelled.

Ainsley saw Gemma’s ent