* * *
Moran was right.
As Kaylin approached the office space designated for the Hawks and their much-hated paperwork, she could practically hear Leontine growling. Marcus was seated at what remained of his desk.
He did, however, have paperwork, and it seemed to be more or less in stable piles.
His eyes were orange, his bristling fur made his face look 50 percent larger, and his fangs were prominent. Clearly, he’d already gotten the news.
“Private!”
She scurried over to the safe side of his desk, which at this point meant the side that was farthest from his unsheathed claws.
“Where’s the Dragon?”
“...In the infirmary.” Marcus’s eyes went from orange to near red. Bellusdeo was the only female Dragon in existence. Her survival and safety meant more than almost anything else to the Emperor; having her tangled up in magical assassination attempts—even if they weren’t aimed at her—was going to cause what was politely referred to as “politics.”
“Bellusdeo wasn’t injured. At all. She’s there to help Moran.” This reassurance smoothed some of the Leontine’s fur. Marcus’s eyes remained orange, however.
“What happened?”
“I’m not entirely certain.” This was apparently the wrong answer, but Marcus held on to patience. Barely. “Someone attempted to kill Sergeant Carafel. With magic. While we were on the way to the Halls.”
“They failed.”
Kaylin nodded.
“You entered the building through the stable yards.”
Kaylin nodded again. When Marcus glared at her, she confessed that Bellusdeo had flown Moran to the Halls.
“Marcus, what’s going on? Why is someone trying to kill Moran?”
“Did you see the assassin?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No. I felt it before it hit. I would have stayed to investigate, but Teela wasn’t certain they’d finished yet, and we wanted to get Moran to safety. If the assassin was actually an Aerian, we had Bellusdeo. In aerial combat against Dragons, the Aerians are kind of mortal.”
“You are going to make me lose most of my fur,” he growled. His eyes were probably as gold as they were going to get for the rest of the day. “Corporal Handred is waiting for you. Get to work.” The mirror at his desk demanded attention. Loudly.
Kaylin almost escaped it, heading for Severn, who was leaning against the wall beside the duty roster’s board. If she’d run, she might have.
“Private!”
Severn met her gaze, raising one brow in question.
She mouthed the Hawklord, her back turned to Marcus. There was no point in whispering; Leontine hearing would pick it all up anyway. She turned back to the sergeant.
“The Hawklord would like to see you. Now.”
* * *
Severn accompanied Kaylin up the Tower stairs. While they walked, she told him about her morning. Unlike Marcus, he seemed to take the information in stride. No one had been injured, except for the would-be assassin. Teela and Tain hadn’t arrived at the Halls yet, so it was possible they were still in pursuit.
“I asked Clint what was going on with the Aerians,” Kaylin added. “He won’t say a damn thing. But he definitely didn’t want Moran to be living with me.”
“Probably for your sake,” Severn pointed out. “And given the start of your morning, he’s not wrong to worry.”
“I’m going to have to invite him for dinner one day. He’ll change his mind.”
Severn glanced at her and shrugged, which was his polite way of disagreeing.
“No assassin is going to get anywhere near her while she’s with me.”
“She doesn’t spend every hour of her waking day in your house. She spends some on the way to the Halls, in the Halls, and on the way to your home.”
Kaylin glared at him.
“I’m not disagreeing with your decision. I think Helen is the safest for Moran—and given the sergeant’s general expression these days, Helen might be offering more than just safety. But Clint’s right. You’re in danger while you’re with her. You accept that danger. Don’t look at me like that—I accept it. I also acknowledge it.”
“What do you think the Hawklord’s going to say?”
“I don’t know. Even odds he’s going to tell you to ask Moran to move out.”
“He can get stuffed.”
“I didn’t say he’d expect you to agree.”
* * *
Kaylin hated politics. Hated them. She hated the stupid decisions, the game playing, the grandstanding. She hated political decisions made by people who never had to do any of the law’s actual work. She hated the pervasive sense of superiority and smugness that underlay all of the rules.
She was going to try very, very hard not to hate the Hawklord. He wasn’t the source of the bureaucratic rules that were often handed down; he was simply the mediator, and their only shield against the worst of them. She told herself that grimly as she faced his closed doors—and the door ward that girded them.
“Let me,” Severn said quietly.
She shook her head. “I don’t know if he knows you’re here.”
“He knows.”
“Fine. I don’t think he summoned you. He’ll probably tolerate your presence. You are my partner, after all.” Gritting her teeth, she lifted her left hand and placed it against the ward. As usual, the magic required to open the door shot through her palm, numbing it instantly; all of her skin screeched in protest. The small dragon squawked.
She was tempted to let her familiar melt the damn door ward. She just didn’t trust him to melt only that. And her meager pay wouldn’t stretch to cover the cost of doors specifically prepared to carry magical wards.
The doors rolled open. The Hawklord was standing in the circle at the center of the Tower, his eyes a dismal shade of blue. Kaylin was heartily sick of blue eyes, and the working day had barely started. Unfortunately, she didn’t expect to see many colors that weren’t blue or orange today. Severn, being human, had eyes that didn’t change, for which she was grateful.
“Private,” the Hawklord said.
She executed a very precise salute. Severn, by her side, did the same, and did it better.
“Corporal.” There was a question in the word; it bounced off Severn’s completely shuttered expression. “Very well.” The Hawklord gestured; the doors closed. Only when they were completely shut did he speak again. “Private, you’ve had a very eventful morning.”
“Sir.”
His brows rose very slightly. “Is that a ‘yes, sir,’ or a ‘no, sir’?”
“It’s a sir.”
“I see. You are no doubt aware,” he continued, turning away from Kaylin and toward the Tower’s central mirror, “that my morning has become vastly more eventful as a result of yours?” He gestured the mirror to life, and its silver, reflective surface absorbed his reflection, scattering it to the edges of the frame. What remained was a kind of pale, ash-gray sheen. Or at least that’s what Kaylin could see.
“How