His legs trembled as he walked, block by block until he was on the edge of town, past the short wall that split the city from the small field before the mangroves. They’d stationed soldiers along the wall over the past week, but now there was no one. Any soldier on active duty was in the city cleaning up the mess or searching for the supposed Dragonborn who had done this.
And when Ian found the perfect place between two small flowering bushes, he dug. First with the stone he’d grabbed from the wall and then with his hands—until his fingers ached and mud caked under his nails. He couldn’t dig her a proper grave—not as deep as it should be. But once he’d laid her to rest, he began piling stones over it.
He stole them from the wall. It was easy to grab them from the crumbling structure. It was fitting to steal something the king had made to bury the sister he’d stolen from him.
Ian’s hands were bleeding by the time he was done, his own blood indistinguishable from hers. He’d always had Dragonborn blood on his hands. He’d thought it would be worth it to save a thousand by killing a few.
The sun beamed down on him, hot against his skin. It was almost quiet here, the only sound the buzz of the insects. He screamed his rage at the trees, throat scraping against his grief. His eyes were dry. He didn’t deserve to be sad. In the end, wasn’t this all his own doing? Because he hadn’t fought better. He hadn’t killed the chief commander when he’d had a chance.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Ian’sbody shook where he stood, legs uneasy with his own weight, but he took a deep breath and then moved. The city was in upheaval, though the king’s men had commanded control over the crowds and the Dragonborn were tucked away in their homes, staring out of doorways and windows as the guards swept through the city. Some were being interrogated, but Ian knew the king’s men would learn nothing new. The Dragonborn knew nothing.
The barracks were nearly empty, and no one stopped him as he stormed through the halls, turning over his own room until he found what he needed—sword strapped to his side, dagger tucked on his other—and left once more.
Fox had explained briefly where the dragon was being kept, and Ian knew the city well enough that he had an idea of which building it was. Harlow would be there. He’d be with his precious dragon.
Ian didn’t give himself room to think. He didn’t want to talk himself down. He’d spent too long playing politics from the back rooms.
Past the inner wall of the city, the citizens were uneasy, whispering to each other in doorways and peeking out from behind curtains as if being seen might draw the chaos to them.
“High Sergeant Martín.” His name brought him up short, and he turned to see Tomlo walking toward him. He wore his full armor, but it was pristine, untouched by the ash of the slums. “Sir, I was just heading down to the wall to see if I could help. You were near the bomb.”
It wasn’t a question. Ian knew what he looked like, bloody and soot-stained.
“Yes, I was searching for the chief commander.” His jaw ached under the words.
“He is down by the barracks,” he said. “He left an hour ago.”
“Of course,” Ian said. “I probably passed him on the way here.” The rage that had fueled him churned, but now his brain threatened to press back in on him, thoughts he tried to quell prickling. Harlow was down by the explosion. He’d be surrounded by others—by soldiers that Ian had trained and fought beside. He’d never get close to him. Never get a dagger through his neck. Not today.
He needed a new plan. The conviction was sharp in his chest. Heneeded to do something. He could learn more about what was happening. If he had an in.
“Sir?” Tomlo stared at him, his eyebrows furrowed as if he were trying to read the thoughts flitting across Ian’s face.
“You were with him an hour ago?”
“Or so, sir.”
Ian studied the man’s face. Fox had mentioned him only briefly. One of the men who was working with Harlow and the dragons.
They were on the edge of an alley, the street around them empty—with only a few stables and storage houses in the vicinity.
The high specialist stepped back, as if reading something in Ian’s face. It didn’t matter. Ian whipped forward, unsheathed his dagger even as he moved, and slashed the sharpened blade across Tomlo’s throat.
The man’s scream came out as a gurgle, and he collapsed. Ian didn’t bother stepping back from the carnage. The splatter only added another layer to the painting across his clothes. He snatched Tomlo’s dagger from his sheath, turning it on himself. He didn’t stop to think, letting the blade cut into his side and bringing with it a burst of pain.
“Fuck,” he spat the word out as he dropped the weapon, clutching his side. He tore Tomlo’s tunic, using the fabric to wrap his own side tightly until the blood that leaked from the self-inflicted wound slowed to a trickle.
He didn’t move the body, grabbing the man’s signet ring before he left. It wasn’t something a soldier should wear. It was pure arrogance.
But Ian was lucky. It would make what he was about to do easier.
Chief Commander Harlowwasn’t difficult to find. As Ian suspected, he was in the center of the chaos, standing on the roof of an intact building, surveying the rubble—surveying the fruits of his labor. Ian halted a few blocks away, when the tall man was just a silhouette against the horizon. His stomach burned with acid, hands sweating even as they gripped their prize with desperation. He could turn back now—change his mind. But to what end? He couldn’t go back to the waythings were before. He couldn’t run to the resistance with his tail between his legs.
His feet took him down the block and up the stairs to the roof where he’d seen the chief commander. Resolve straightened his spine.
“Sir, I have information for you. Privileged information that I can’t discuss in front of others.”