"Gods," Petrovil said quietly. His face froze at the sight of the creature.
It was the first unguarded thing he had said since they left the road.
"The young lord's dragon," Beltar said.
There was something complicated in his voice. Not fear, Beltar Miraqen didn't perform fear, on principle, but something adjacent to it. Respect, maybe. Or its calculating cousin.
"She flies when he's restless. Or when she is. I've stopped working out which drives which."
"She is one hell of a dragon."
"They say she can speak, and she does in his mind."
Beltar watched Elivira complete her circle, effortless and massive, the wingbeats barely visible at that height, just a slow, sovereign rhythm.
"That part," he said, "I believe."
