'He ordered this,' she thought. 'A dragon ordered this. The godfather — if that word means anything — of the black dragon my team died fighting — ordered me to train these women.'
Her hand found the sword hilt out of reflex.
'I don't know what they need. I don't know their levels. I don't know their bloodlines — wait, no, he said they failed to inherit the Dragon's Heart. Which means he tested them. Which means they have some—'
She stopped that line of thought.
She looked at them more carefully.
They were watching her with composed, patient, exhausted faces. Not afraid. Not challenging. Not performing deference in the theatrical way of people who did not actually intend to defer.
They were genuinely waiting.
The one at the front — the compact Indian woman with the military-straight posture and the Iron Flesh density visible in her forearms — gave a small, precise inclination of her head.
