Standing straight, her laughter dying in her throat, Brannie asked, “Weapons? Where?” she asked, looking around. “Where are the weapons?”

“In the caravan crates.”

Excited beyond anything, Brannie ran over and quickly shifted back to her human self. Naked—her crappy chain mail and surcoat ruined when she’d become dragon—she climbed into the back of one of the carts and tore open the first crate she saw.

“You are so easily distracted,” Aidan remarked, leaning over the cart wall and smiling.

“Personally,” Uther added, “I like seeing you naked when we’re not running from Zealots and Caswyn isn’t dying. You should be naked more.”

Brannie pulled out a two-handed sword nearly the length of her body and easily held it in front of her.

Uther stepped back, hands up, and added, “I was just joking. You don’t have to get naked for me. I like you dressed. You should be covered from head to toe in full armor at all times.”

Using a finger to pick something out of his teeth, Caswyn said, “I like naked Branwen.”

Branwen stared down at Caswyn. “Why do you have blood on your face?”

“I don’t believe you!” Uther suddenly yelled at his friend before stomping off.

Branwen looked at Aidan. “What was that about?”

“Your beauty confuses them.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Rhona walked up to the cart with a red-faced Keita.

Brannie placed the point of the weapon into the cart floor, hand on the pummel, legs braced apart, and she knew she was smirking. She couldn’t help it.

Aidan cleared his throat. “You do know you’re still naked, don’t you?”

“Oh, I know.”

He dropped his head but she could still hear his laughter.

Standing in front of her, Rhona bumped Keita’s arm. “Do it,” she ordered their royal cousin.

“Sorry,” Keita muttered.

“Couldn’t hear you,” Brannie taunted. “What was that?”

Now glaring at her, Keita snarled, “Sorry I was being such a right prat.”

Smiling, her back straight, her human tits out and proud, Brannie nodded. “Apology accepted.”

“Now you,” Rhona said.

Brannie pointed at herself. “Me?”

“Aye. You.”

“I didn’t do anything! It was the prat,” Brannie accused.

“You can apologize,” Rhona said smoothly, “and the two of you can act like the mighty warrior and deceitful spy—”

“Oy!” Keita snapped.

“—that you are. Or you can not apologize and I can take all my wonderful weapons and go.”

Brannie snorted. “You would never leave me without weapons. Defenseless.”

“True. But, my cousin, there are weapons”—Rhona’s grin was slow and wide—“and there are weapons.”

Brannie took in a sudden breath, pointed at Rhona. “You . . . you made weapons with your father, didn’t you?”

Rhona and her father were brilliant blacksmiths. Her father, Sulien, was a Volcano dragon who’d taught his daughter the art of alchemy and creating weapons and armor that could change with a mere thought. He’d been sent away when the war started to work in a safe location where the Zealots could not get to him. Rhona had been working with him off and on over the years—she loved being a blacksmith much more than being a soldier, but she was great at both—and would bring newly created weapons back and forth to the front as needed.