Popilia smelled the imperial palace before she saw it. Sifting through the closer scents of horses, spice and street food came the aromatic strains of the flowers cultivated solely in the palace gardens. It mingled with chapel sandalwood, with lake-borne serpent musk, potent even over this distance. She breathed in deep, but after weeks out in the open breathing dragon musk and Anshar’s herbs, it all felt as artificial as the automata in the inner gardens.

A small crowd had gathered around them on their journey from the city gate, drawn by the sight of Popilia. If they wouldn’t have recognised her before her kidnapping, they certainly did now that her face plastered adverts across the city. Some called out to her. Popilia waved back sometimes, just to show she was okay.

Others whispered amongst themselves. She caught the odd snippet or two over the hoofbeats of the guards – either talking of her or of the strange rumbling noises coming from beneath the lake. The latter was hardly a new topic of conversation. The infrequent rumbling made a small local legend backed by its share of conspiracy theories and earthquake fears.

Beside her, Anshar examined the skies. A patrol of dragon guard had been circling them for the past half an hour.

‘How many dragons are held here?’ Anshar asked, her voice pitched so only Popilia could hear.

‘I don’t know.’ Popilia wished she had paid more attention to small details like that. The exact numbers had never been important in her education. That they had more than their enemies was information enough. Her brothers, no doubt, got fuller accounts. The older ones, at least. Anshar must have been thinking of the battle over Kimah-Kur, of how many dragons there had been there and how many might have remained behind. Even Popilia had thought that might be all of them. Apparently, she had been wrong.

As the lakeside park came into sight over the heads of her guards, Popilia said, ‘I know they’ve been breeding them for decades.’ The word ‘breeding’ stuck in her throat as she said it, now she knew the dragons weren’t just like horses, that the guards might as well be forcibly breeding humans. ‘That’s probably why there are so many.’

Anshar made a noise in the back of her throat that might have been a humming rumble in dragon form. ‘That would explain why many of those attacking Kimah-Kur were of similar ages. It is rare for multiple eggs to be stolen close together. Ages don’t tend to overlap.’

Though the old woman hadn’t mentioned the breeding programme directly, distaste had twisted her features. A stronger sense of distaste radiated from Nazagin. Popilia’s skin crawled in sympathy.

Then Nazagin pushed a further unwelcome thought into Popilia’s head: It wasn’t so far different, after all, to breed dragon with dragon against their will and to breed princesses with princes.

At least I have a chance to object. Though Popilia wondered how much she was fooling herself.

Another set of guards had formed a cordon at the water’s edge, and their convoy slid into their midst before coming to a halt. Three long, orange-canopied boats awaited them. By habit, Popilia scanned the rippling lake for serpents.

‘If you could dismount, your grace,’ said the captain of the guard on his red-dyed horse. ‘Your parents have been informed of your arrival. I’m sure you’re eager to reunite with them.’

She tried to imagine her parents’ joy, couldn’t. ‘My friend gets to come with me, doesn’t she?’

The captain cast a dubious glance at Anshar, but said, ‘Of course. And naturally, your dragon also.’

Popilia suppressed a nervous giggle. Both her companions were dragons. Neither was hers. Maybe some day soon, people would realise that. For now though, she hopped down from the cart seat and followed the captain to one of the boats. Through the bond, she sensed Nazagin slide out from the back of the cart, eliciting panicked gasps from the nearby crowd.

Anshar walked close by Popilia’s shoulder, but the captain directed her to a different boat. Before Popilia could protest, the old woman had already graciously accepted the offer, smiling at the captain with genuine warmth.

If Anshar wasn’t worried about it, then Popilia certainly shouldn’t be. And yet, as she stepped onto her own boat, that small separation between them twisted her gut. Her memory weighed in, dredging up all those times she had seen or heard prisoners fed to the lake serpents. How easy it would be, to push the old woman overboard. How fast could she turn back into a dragon?

Stop worrying, Nazagin told her from a different boat again. Anshar knows what she’s doing.

Despite Nazagin’s reassurance, Popilia’s unease remained. She felt none at all over Nazagin’s separation – whether because she was more obviously a dragon or because their bond made her more an extension of herself, she had no idea.

The boatmen pushed off from the lakeshore, their long punts rippling the water as they moved. A serpent slithered alongside them for a few yards, one eye regarding them with interest, before it slipped away. Before them, the wall of arches that marked the edge of the palace inched closer. A few soldiers stood unmoving by the guard posts that flanked the main entrance. Somewhere inside, someone was playing the harp.

Popilia glanced across to Anshar. Her face had frozen, her gaze locked somewhere in the middle distance, her posture as rigid as the columns of the arches ahead. Popilia tried to ask Nazagin what had happened, but she had no idea. The bond was something they shared. Dragons still had to physically talk to each other to communicate. Anything else was magic, and that was a world neither of them had any insight into.

Putting it out of her mind for now, Popilia focussed on the main entrance and the short marble platform where their boats would dock. Her tutor and two handmaidens stood in the shade of the great arch. She couldn’t see her parents. Not long ago, she might have hoped to see them waiting further inside, but now she had more reasonable expectations. They didn’t care. Not beyond saving face, shirking off the embarrassment of a successful royal kidnap.

As soon as her boat knocked against the edge of the platform, Popilia stood and jumped across. The captain hurriedly moved to join her, a flash of surprise crossing his features, and was almost bowled over by Nazagin jumping from the other boat.

‘Careful!’ she said, and grabbed his hand before he could fall into the water.

The captain reddened and snatched his hand back in fright. ‘Sorry, your grace.’

Behind him, Anshar stepped out of her boat, flanked by two guards. They were eyeing her curiously – she still bore that dazed expression, though she seemed more aware of her surroundings, at least. Popilia caught her eye, and Anshar mouthed one word. Though the shapes were indistinct, the meaning somehow came to her: Critobulus.

Fear iced through Popilia’s veins. She looked back to the arch, but besides guards, it still only held the familiar forms of her tutor and handmaidens. They emerged from the arch now and bowed. To Popilia’s surprise, a softness lurked behind her tutor’s usually stern eyes.

‘It is good to see you returned from your ordeal, your grace,’ she said. She even made another, deeper bow. ‘I can only offer my sincerest apologies for failing to prevent your kidnap. If you wish it, I will resign in favour of another tutor.’

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Popilia blinked. Did my parents put her up to this to save face somehow? Then, shaking her head, she said, ‘If none of the guards could stop them, then you certainly couldn’t be expected to. You don’t need to resign.’ Realising she might get away with a touch of cheek, she added, ‘Has Critobulus offered his resignation? He was the only person present with magic, after all. You’d think he could stop anyone.’

A glint appeared in her tutor’s eye. ‘That would be High Sorcerer Critobulus, your grace. And no, he has made no such offer.’

Ah, so all was back to normal, then. As normal as things could be. For Anshar’s sake, Popilia wanted to ask more of Critobulus’ whereabouts, but she refrained from doing so in case anyone became suspicious. She had never expressed much interest in the sorcerer before, after all. Not beyond a usual childish fascination with magic – but Critobulus had always been too intimidating to pester about that.

‘Are my parents waiting for me?’ she asked, more out of politeness than hope, and gestured at Anshar. ‘Or at least, someone who can reward the woman who found me and brought me home?’

Her tutor didn’t even glance at Anshar. She just said, ‘Of course. They’re waiting for you in the throne room.’

Popilia blinked and almost said ‘Really?’, but nodded for her tutor to lead the way instead. Not that Popilia needed directions to the throne room, of course. Anshar needed a nudge, though, still half lost in some other world of hers.

They passed through the guarded arch without incident, past all the plants and sculptures of the outer gardens, between the four tall columns that flanked the side paths to the library and gallery. If circumstances had been different, perhaps she could have shown Anshar around them, but looking at her face... Something was very wrong. Popilia clasped her hands in front of her to keep her nerves from fidgeting them.

Ahead lay the inner walls, its two main reception rooms jutting out to either side of the entrance. A figure walked towards them there, backed by the decorated outer wall of the throne room, framed by the arch and the throne room’s two tall minarets. The figure was tall, and walked with confidence – and carried a golden staff.

Critobulus.

Fury curdled his features. He raised his staff, not slowing his stride.

‘Step away from the old woman!’ His voice lashed like a whip. ‘Away!’

Popilia’s tutor and handmaidens stopped mid stride, uncertain. Even the guards blinked in confusion, but only for a moment.

‘You have brought the enemy into the palace!’ he continued, still holding his staff aloft like a threat.

Her escort scattered. Before any of the guards could come after her, Popilia threw herself towards Anshar and clung onto her arm, desperate to put herself between the old woman and the sorcerer if she had to. Nazagin leapt in front of the both of them and bared her teeth.

Step aside. The words appeared in Popilia’s head, not as if felt through the bond, but spoken between her ears by Anshar’s true voice. The old woman smiled at her, her eyes kind. The less they realise you know about me, the better. The game was up before I stepped foot in the palace. This is the only way it must be, I am afraid.

With those words, she slipped Popilia’s hand from her arm and stepped forwards to confront Critobulus.

Popilia stood there, slack jawed, only moving when the guard captain pulled her from the path onto some garden gravel.

Critobulus began chanting, making her skin crawl with the magic of his words, bringing back memories of the bonding ritual and that stormy night of her kidnapping. Bits of gravel flew up to swirl around his staff.

Anshar simply stood before him, saying nothing, her face calm and impassive.

‘What have you done to Izimendalla?’ she said.

With a thrust of his staff, Critobulus flung a stream of gravel at Anshar’s head. She reflected it with a casual wave of her hand and took a step forwards.

Her voice hardened. ‘I have touched his mind, sorcerer. Crazed. Senseless. The shadow of my former student. What have you done to him?’

The high sorcerer’s eyes widened a fraction, but no more, and he bared his teeth against Anshar’s determination. ‘His power serves me now. And the empire.’ He added the last as more of an afterthought.

Another lash of his staff sent gravel whipping at the old woman. This time she sidestepped with one hand raised, and the gravel bounced off with a puff of air. Some of it flew out across the crowd. Popilia had to duck to avoid one hitting her between the eyes.

When she stood again, streams of water had begun to arc over the walls of the palace, streaming in ribbons towards Critobulus’ staff. There they began to twist and swirl and shimmer with ice.

He tapped the base of his staff against the floor and snapped his fingers at the guards. ‘Take the princess and her staff away. Then assist me in removing this... interloper.’

‘She’s just an old woman,’ Popilia said as the captain began to usher her along. ‘What help do you need?’

Critobulus’ lip curled and he shot her a dark glance, his pride stung, before turning back to his opponent. Popilia’s view was momentarily blocked by her tutor and handmaidens hurrying along behind her.

One of her handmaidens quietly asked, ‘Who is she?’

Popilia didn’t answer. She looked back over her shoulder as she walked, craning to see around her staff, around the guards that rushed to form a cordon. In the brief snatches of uninterrupted view, Anshar held her gaze.

Get clear away, said the voice in her head. Find the thieves if you can. They found more trouble than they expected.

What about you? Popilia asked in the same way she might of Nazagin, but Anshar neither answered nor displayed any sign she had heard.

In the next moment, Anshar’s gaze broke away, drawn to the shimmering mass of ice shards accumulating over Critobulus’ staff. She spoke one word in the dragon tongue. Every shard exploded outwards. They scattered over the guards, slashing exposed skin and rattling from armour. Critobulus flinched back and redirected some with a short incantation, but blood dripped from the top of his left ear.

‘Keep going to the throne room,’ the captain said to her tutor, then drew his sword and walked back to his guards. They drew their swords as well, forming a bright ring of thorns around Anshar and Critobulus.

Anshar glanced at Popilia again, just briefly, as if measuring something. Then she locked eyes with Critobulus. Her form shimmered like a heat mirage, there one moment, misshapen the next. Popilia’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped mid stride.

In the blink of an eye, a towering dragon replaced the wrinkled old woman. Anshar reared on his hind feet. His spiked tail lashed out and flung a whole row of guards back into the flowers and trees of the palace gardens. The other guards scrambled back, crying out in alarm.

Only Critobulus remained where he stood, his staff held aloft in both hands now, his voice booming. Ice lashed around him in a miniature whirlwind. It slashed out at Anshar, pushing his fronds out sideways, cutting into the front of his chest. But Anshar began to sing, and with each bar of song the ice danced away in its own patterns.

Then, with an uncharacteristic snarl, Anshar lunged for Critobulus, his clawed forelegs outstretched.

‘Get along, your grace!’ Her tutor tugged at her arm and hauled her around.

Popilia was too surprised to protest – she just staggered forwards for a few steps, through the arch of the inner palace. Her handmaidens looked on with pale faces, light on their feet as if the moment Popilia caught up they would be free to run.

Something thudded behind her, and a pained roar briefly interrupted Anshar’s song. Every instinct in Popilia told her to turn around again, but Nazagin saw everything, and she saw through her eyes. An arrow had embedded itself in Anshar’s thigh. Up on the palace walls, guards hurried into place and knocked arrows. Someone had blown the horn for the dragon guard. Its cry juddered through the air.

Anshar will beat them. Nazagin’s pride and confidence battled a near-paralysing fear.

They weren’t far from the giant throne-room doors when Anshar’s song increased in volume. The sky overhead darkened in an instant, then turned blinding white with a crash of lightning. It exploded into the wall of one of the reception rooms, cracking the brick. One of her handmaidens screamed.

‘Into the throne room. Hurry!’ Her tutor tried to push her through the door, but Popilia set her feet and turned back.

She couldn’t make out the whole picture through the arch. Anshar’s head and wings weaved this way and that, alternately with the song or with some attack against his assailants. As she watched, he threw himself into the air and pounced upon the archer-lined battlements. Some archers went flying just from the gust of his wings. Others he cast aside with tooth and claw. A few loosed arrows and had them strike home, though, and a chunk of rock came hurtling up to strike one wing.

Far in the distance, beyond the boundaries of the localised storm, the shadows of other dragons approached.

With an exasperated sigh, her tutor grabbed her and pulled her into the throne room. Nazagin paced after her with some reluctance. The door slammed shut behind her. All that noise, all that thunder, shut away in an instant.

Popilia tried to slow her racing heart, to push back tears, but all she saw in that moment was her two parents, standing small against the backdrop of their thrones. They held hands, and some faux concern held court in their eyes.

A burning anger took hold of Popilia at the sight. She clenched her fists, opened her mouth to demand they let Anshar free, then remembered the dragon’s own words to her: The less they realise you know about me, the better.

She couldn’t betray Anshar. Not now, even when it could cost him his life. She just had to hope he could hold his own against Critobulus and all of the palace’s guards.