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to turn a dragon’s heart?
That
is why you won’t kill it?”
    Briefly, a vision of the painting flashed behind her eyes—those long legs and long arms, those sharp feet digging into the pile of dragon hearts. And the eyes of the dragons—awful, empty, and blank, blank, blank. She shook the image away.
    The King smiled slightly and sat next to his daughter on the sofa, leaning as he did so toward the fire. “In a manner of speaking,” he said, “yes.” He stretched his feet as close to the flames as he dared, trying to warm them through.Spring had come early that year—a blessing, of course—but the nights were still windy and cold and damp. Still, the King was undeterred. “Many of the stories you’ve heard about dragons come from the days when their will was not their own. When they were enslaved. Worse than enslaved. Controlled.”
    Violet snorted. “So, they’re forgiven? Just like that? Their nature is still their nature. The stories—” Her voice caught, and she stopped.
Those eyes.
She tried not to think about it.
Those blank, blank eyes.
    “Indeed,” the King said, not noticing the catch in his daughter’s voice. “Simply stories. There are risks to irresponsible storytelling.” He paused, then folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes at his only child. “And you, my dear, ought to be going to bed.”
    Now Violet, like many children, had her own ideas of when she should sleep, wake, eat, read, and pursue her own plans. But after several minutes of negotiations, offers, and pleading, Violet agreed with her father. Besides, she had several stacks of books squirreled under her bed that she had stolen from the library, her father’s study, and my room. Violet had not yet found any more mentions of a thirteenth god, nor had she found any of its stories, but she had notstopped trying. It was there somewhere. She just knew it. Violet threw her arms around her father, kissed each cheek, and wished him pleasant dreaming.
    But when she reached the door, she paused.
    “Father,” said she, “do you know the story of a creature called the Nybbas?”
    The room was lit with the rich light of beeswax candles and the bright coals in the fireplace. Even still, it appeared to Violet that her father’s face began to darken, then pale. But she blinked and he looked quite himself, and she wondered if she had only imagined it.
    “Now where would you have heard such a name, child?” her father asked, a curious hoarseness grating the edges of his voice.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Violet said casually. “A book or a painting or something. Or perhaps I just dreamed it. But I haven’t been able to come up with a reference no matter how hard I look.”
    “I don’t believe I can help you, my dear,” her father said. “I simply haven’t heard of it. And if Cassian doesn’t know it either, I daresay no one does.”
    And Violet went to bed wondering.
    That night, she was troubled by strange dreams. Shedreamed that the castle foundation became, quite suddenly, beset by cracks—fine as spider silk. And like spiderwebs, each filament intersected with countless others, making an intricate and infinite pattern that stretched from the ground to the midpoint of the castle walls. The cracks began to widen, then crumble, then yawn open, and they gave way to an army of golden-skinned lizards, each with hard, glittering jeweled eyes. They were beautiful, quick, and without mercy.
    Violet woke just as the castle fell.
    Her father, on the other hand, did not sleep at all. He remained seated by the fire, his brooding heart troubled by worry. Exhausted and distracted, the King, along with Demetrius and the rest of the party, left the next morning into the fresh, damp world as the early sun lit their way with a thin, cool light. Before the castle disappeared from view, he stopped, turned, and looked at his home, the place of all he held dear.
    Instinct made him raise his hand and wave, though he couldn’t see