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child without a con­science.
    A prince without a moral com­pass.
    A dragon with a tain­ted soul.
    Two years later, the king had forced Kalani to con­ceive once again, and Drake was the res­ult of the pair­ing. Not long after Drake’s birth, she had died in her sleep. Ac­cord­ing to the king, her im­mor­tal­ity had not com­pletely taken—her con­ver­sion had not been prop­erly sealed—and the preg­nancy had weakened her bey­ond re­cov­ery.
    Dante winced at the pathetic story.
    Im­mor­tal be­ings didn’t pass away in their sleep.
    In fact, it took a grave act of vi­ol­ence to kill them.
    Either way, Drake had been the last child the em­bittered couple had ever pro­duced.
    “Dante… Dante !” Drake’s voice pierced the si­lence, jolt­ing Dante out of his trance. “Are you alert, brother?”
    Dante shook his head, as if he could phys­ic­ally dis­lodge the memor­ies, be­fore turn­ing his at­ten­tion to Drake. Drake was an­other re­spons­ib­il­ity al­to­gether—rather than be­ing born too wicked, he may have been born too kind. While he could cer­tainly hold his own as a prince and a dragon, he was hardly a tac­ti­cian of war. His Court would re­quire con­stant mil­it­ary sup­port and in­ter­ven­tion, even if it was only com­prised of hu­mans, and the Malo Clan might prove to be his un­do­ing if he didn’t re­main on his toes. “Yes, I can hear you,” he called in re­sponse. “What is it?”
    Drake in­clined his head in a nod, ges­tur­ing to­ward the up­com­ing vil­lage. “We are ap­proach­ing War­lo­chia…and the pris­on­ers.”
    “You need to stay alert, brother,” Damian snarled, rein­ing in his horse. “This should be done swiftly and with au­thor­ity.”
    “Do not coun­sel me on how to rule my fu­ture province,” Dante re­tor­ted, avoid­ing eye con­tact with the surly dragon. “I know what needs to be done.”
    “Yay, in­deed you do,” Damian replied, tak­ing no of­fense at the banter. Strength , he un­der­stood.
    Dante scanned the ap­proach­ing piazza be­fore them—the townspeople were gathered in fear­ful clusters; the pris­on­ers were already man­acled to a pair of wooden posts; and at the cen­ter of a wide semi­circle, the local sher­iff awaited the prince’s ap­proach.
    Sum­mon­ing his dragon’s fire, Dante kicked his horse into a run and gal­loped into the cen­ter of the plaza with au­thor­ity.
    *
    The War­lo­chi­ans par­ted to make way for the char­ging horse and the dragon prince, who sat so proudly erect on the stal­lion’s back. No doubt, Dante looked like a knight of old, summoned to a field of battle, only this bat­tle­field was a vil­lage square, sur­roun­ded by tall, spindly trees; bounded by a smooth earthen floor; and dot­ted with dilap­id­ated old struc­tures: an outly­ing stable, vari­ous rick­ety benches, and an aged stone well.
    Dante dis­moun­ted in one lithe leap, land­ing dir­ectly be­fore the pris­on­ers, his thick raven hair blow­ing softly in the wind. “Sher­iff,” he called, wait­ing for the ap­pro­pri­ate sub­ject to an­swer.
    A short, stout mage, nearly fifty years old, shuffled over quickly, all the while rein­ing in his pet gar­goyle on a short leather leash.
    Dante ig­nored the ob­nox­ious little or­na­ment, re­fus­ing to ac­know­ledge a three-foot-tall mon­ster as a sub­ject. “See to my horse and bring me the de­cree.”
    The mage bowed low, his obeis­ant eyes re­flect­ing the fear that al­ways shone in the pres­ence of a dragon. “As you com­mand, my prince.” He turned to a nearby er­rand boy—the child ap­peared no more than eight years old—and ges­tured to­ward the stal­lion’s reins. “Feed and wa­ter your prince’s horse,” he com­manded, and then he turned back to Dante; re­trieved a rolled-up scroll from a purse strung over his tu­nic; and placed it gently in the palm of Dante’s