A chill went through me, joining the dizziness. I lifted my gaze and looked over the huddle of people in front of me to where a still form in white lay crumpled in the salt a few yards away. Like the soldier, he was covered in blood, the back of his once-pristine uniform spattered with red from where the series of bullets had torn through his body. The Patriarch of the Order of St. George lay dead where he had fallen, the final look on his face one of disbelief and rage.

I guessed I’d be surprised, too, if I’d been shot several times in the back by one of my own soldiers. And not the one I had challenged in a fight to the death.

“Tristan St. Anthony.” The new voice echoed behind us, low and frigid. I saw the human briefly close his eyes before raising his head.

“Sir.”

“Get up. Step away from the dragons, now.”

St. Anthony complied immediately, though his movements were stiff as he rose and stepped away from Ember and myself. His face was carefully neutral as he turned to face the man standing behind us. Martin, I remembered the Patriarch had called him—Lieutenant Martin. He wasn’t a large man, or tall; he was older and had that commanding presence I’d seen in unit leaders and veteran slayers. St. Anthony stood rigid at attention, his gaze fixed straight ahead as the other regarded him with stony black eyes.

I watched intently, wondering if he was going to shoot the younger soldier right here. Execute him for killing the Patriarch, perhaps. Even though, in my mind, St. Anthony had done exactly what he was supposed to. The seconds were there to ensure the duel was fair, that no one interfered, cheated or swayed the fight in any way. Sebastian had won; the Patriarch had yielded and the duel was clearly over. Shooting Sebastian in the back wasn’t just extreme cowardice; it marked the Patriarch, beyond any doubt, as guilty, and St. Anthony had responded as he should have. Maybe it was a knee-jerk reaction, and the realization of what he’d done was just now hitting home, but his response had probably saved both their lives from two vengeful dragons blasting them to cinders.

But I didn’t know St. George policies or politics, only that they were severe to the point of being fanatical. Maybe it didn’t matter what the Patriarch had done. Maybe killing the revered leader of St. George was an immediate death sentence, no matter the intent behind it. It wouldn’t surprise me.

By the look on St. Anthony’s face, it wouldn’t surprise him, either.