A misconception. A misunderstanding. A belief that she held— firmly, completely, unshakeably— and that no one corrected. Because there was no one to correct it. Raven did not correct it. Latina did not correct it. The princess did not correct it. Because the misconception was useful. Because a woman who believes she serves a dragon will serve with a fervor that no human loyalty can match.
She hovered.
Above the palace. Above the courtyard. Her white hair streaming. Her yellow eyes— slitted, dragon— looking down. At the courtyard. At the knights. At the sorcerer. At the dragon woman below— the other dragon woman, the one who had come through the rift, the one who served the same master.
She rushed down.
The descent was not slow. Not gradual. Not the gentle lowering of a woman floating on air. It was a dive. A plummet. A fall. Her body dropped— from fifty feet, from a hundred— the air screaming past her, her hair whipping, her scales gleaming, her eyes locked on the target.
