"The gatekeeper." Malphas nodded. "The guardian who decides whether the heir is worthy. And she has decided—apparently—that you are. Which is why she took the egg. To force your hand. To make you choose."
"Choose what?"
He smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. "Whether you want to be a princess who drinks tea and negotiates trade disputes. Or a dragon rider who burns her enemies to ash and rebuilds the Thornwood from its bones."
We stood there in the ruined hall, the stars cold above us, the dragons patient in the distance, and I felt the weight of every choice I'd ever made pressing down on my shoulders.
"I don't want to burn my enemies to ash," I said.
"Liar."
"I don't!"
"You set fire to Lord Hemlock's orchards because he looked at you wrong during the spring festival."
How the hell did he even know that? The orchards were curse, according to Raya. So yeah, I burned it.
"That was a misunderstanding."
