Empire of Dragons Box Set
Page 1
Empire of Dragons Chronicles
K.N. Lee
Dragon Roots Emporium
Contents
Acknowledgments
Empire of Dragons Playlist
Fallen Empire
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Reign of Magic
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Fire and Fury
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
An Exclusive Excerpt from Throne of Deceit
An Exclusive Excerpt from The Blood Lottery
About the Author
Also by K.N. Lee
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank all of my fans and readers for being so supportive in my writing journey. This series was born from my love and obsession of Norse mythology. You’ll see some references from Viking lore in this series; such as fenrirs, the giant wolves from the legends.
Special thanks to my best friend and fairy godmother, Colleen Albert, also known as CM Albert. Thank you to my cover designer Amalia Chitulescu for my amazing dragon covers. She truly is a magician.
Also, thank you to my mother for being there for me and encouraging me to follow my dreams.
XOXO,
K.N. Lee
Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door.
Emily Dickenson
Empire of Dragons Playlist
Gone- Ioanna Gika
Breath of Life- Florence and the Machine
The Downed Dragon- John Powell
Snow White- James Newton Howard
Pax Deorum- Enya
If I Had a Heart- Fever Ray
Devil and the Huntsman- King Arthur Soundtrack
The Foggy Dew- Sinead O’Conner & The Chieftans
Of This Land- Clannad
Samain Night- Loreena Mckennitt
The Misty Mountains Cold- The Hobbit
Gollum’s Song- Emiliana Torrini
Midnight- Coldplay
Canvas- Imogen Heap
The Whyle- Qntal
Sarajevo- Max Richter
Kells Opening Theme- Iona
The Maid of Culmore- Cara Dillon
World of Stone- Blackmore’s Night
Copyright © 2017 by K.N. Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
1
Killing a person was such messy business. There was the begging, pleading, and ultimately, the screaming. Then, there was the blood.
Father Marduk left the ceremony room before the chanting even ended. His hands were reddened from the bathing of spirits and lost souls. But, on this day, he’d rather wait outside. Though he made the sacrifice. He knew it wouldn’t work.
It never did.
He clenched his jaw as he pushed the heavy wooden doors outward and let in the bright sun.
Outside the double doors, bodies hung along the stone-paved road that led down from the Temple of the Sky Brotherhood. They’d been bled, in the old tradition, and left out to the elements. Still, none had proved to be of use.
Mages.
The last source of true magic.
Blood stained the hundreds of steps leading to the top of the temple. It was five tiers tall, built at the beginning of time by slaves conquered during the first Reign of Fire. Comprised of mud brick, wood, and stone, the temple would stand until the end of time.
Ahead lay Tir, a desert wasteland that stretched for miles until meeting the red mountains. The temple stood at the edge of a rocky cliff, with an enchanted sea gently rolling behind and on either side.
Father Marduk stood outside on the top of the stairs just outside the temple. He turned to his right at the green Tigiri Sea, whose waters were so clear that one could see to the bottom where pure white sand lay undisturbed. The waves were calming, creating a white mist as they gently crashed along the gray stone. Serene. Such a stark contrast to the gruesome—yet necessary display of the bodies they’d left out to rot.
If they were going to save the world, they would need to sacrifice every Mage until they found the right one.
“Father Marduk,” a soft voice called from behind him. “I have a request for the next territory we shall search,” Brother Dagan said.
Marduk looked over his shoulder at the aging man who had shuffled out of the temple while he was contemplating his next move. Brother Dagan’s long white hair nearly reached his knees, yet his frail body was hidden by his heavy purple robes, made even heavier by the golden crest of their sect.
“And, where would that be?” Marduk asked. “Say Skal one more time and I will have your head on a pike.”
Dagan's mouth opened and snapped shut. He swallowed and redness spread across his hollow cheeks.
Marduk rolled his eyes and looked back at the darkening sky. “Just as I expected. As I said every time before, we will not risk angering the gods by invading neutral territory. Don't you think we've lost enough favor with them that we should at least honor their wishes to leave peaceful lands at peace?” Though he spoke those words, he yearned for the opportunity to enter untouched lands—lands kept safe by old rules made by dead deities and forgotten gods.
“Of course, great leader. As you wish,” Dagan said and Marduk listened as he turned and headed toward the door.
“But, you had something else you wanted to say.”
He always did. Brother Dagan was a devout monk, one of the best in the sect. While he trained most of the new recruits in the mystical arts of battle and sorcery, he tended to have a knack for exerting his opinion upon Marduk. But, Marduk was a master manipulator, and had an idea to make Brother Dagan’s opinion work in his favor.
“Well,” Brother Dagan murmured.
“Go on.”
Better to let the old fool take credit for the idea to invade Skal. Better to let it fall on his head if things turned out disastrous. Marduk didn't become head of the sect by taking unnecessary risks. That's what his minions were for.
He summoned his inner rune spirit and a blue orb materialized and floated above his head, showering him with rejuvenating light. It was all he could do to keep himself from falling over in exhaustion. Marduk didn’t sleep.
He couldn’t.
Not after all of the things he’d done.
Not until he put the world back the way it should be.
“I would, but I fear you'll have my head for that as well.”
A chuckle vibrated within Marduk's chest. “Speak freely.”
“Thank you, Father,” he said, bowing his head. “The Stones of Tarth all point to Skal. The Stones do not lie.”
Marduk closed his eyes. “If you think I am going to follow some stones, you have lost more than your mind. But all of your senses.”
“But, Father. The Stones were left in this world to guide us.”
Marduk turned to him. “They’re rocks—rocks with etchings made by blind children back when the world was cast into darkness.”
“That may be, Father. But, the Cleric has had a vision.”
That was interesting. Marduk lifted a thick black brow. He slid his arms into his sleeves and folded his arms under his chest. Then, he took a step forward. “Go on.”
Hope filled Dagan’s eyes.
Yes, they might have a valid excuse to do what Marduk wanted all this time. He knew his patience would be rewarded.
“She says the Mage we need has been seen between the two red rivers. A true descendant of the Erani clan.”
Go on.
“In Skal, Father. I’m sure if the Holy Cleric dreams of this place, it cannot be against the will of the gods. Do you not agree?”
Feigning annoyance, Marduk let out a heavy sigh. He stretched the uncomfortable silence long enough to make Dagan squirm. The Holy Cleric was nothing more than a dark elf girl who would say anything to avoid be sacrificed herself. He allowed it. The chaste monks liked to look at her, and actually believed her prophetic babblings.
Then, he headed to the door, his rune spirit following from above his head. “Very well. Let’s go find this Mage.”
2
A first kiss was supposed to be special. Memorable. As Tomas pulled away from Amalia, her eyes opened with confusion.
Is that it?
Her silver-gray eyes filled with disappointment.
Was that what she'd been waiting for all of her life?
The taste of onion was on his tongue, and the coarse feel of chapped lips didn't help the experience.
He gave her a grin—a gap-toothed one she had hoped she'd grow to appreciate, maybe even love one day.
Amalia couldn't afford to be picky. Though Tomas wasn't the most handsome, or even the smartest lad in the village, he had proclaimed his love for her. He knew a trade and was kind.
She licked her lips and forced a tight smile.
He'd have to do.
It was a fact that not many would even consider marrying a Mage. Especially one like Amalia—one marked by the gods. Not when Mages were being hunted down by Wolves, or even worse, the Brotherhood.
Skal was neutral territory. But, invisible borders meant nothing when the people within them held the same prejudice as those outside.
“So,” he said, his cheeks reddening. “What do you think?
“It was lovely,” she lied, blinking.
The look of relief on his face was reassuring. Within a month's time, Amalia would be fifteen and of age. She'd be Tomas' wife.
“Good,” he said. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this moment. Seems like all of my life. For as long as I could remember. At night, all I can think of are the way your eyes remind me of the night sky, and how I’d give anything to look into your eyes every day until the day I die.”
Her smile turned genuine. She should set aside her selfish vanity and desire for a handsome boy, one who would make her heart sing. The time for silly childish ideas about what life would hold was coming to an end. It was time for her to accept her fate and prepare for a simple life with a simple man.
“I had no idea,” she said, reaching out for his hand.
“Of course, you didn’t. You barely looked at me until our parents made the arrangement.”
She ran her fingers through the tangles of her hair. Somehow the long, black strands always seemed to knot around one another. “That’s not true. You are a very nice young man. Any girl would be happy to have you.”
“That’s nice of you to say. But, I know I’m not a knight or a raider or anything special like that.”
“It is the truth. I can’t think of anyone kinder than you in the village,” she said and glanced at the paling sky. The smell of rain was faint in the air, but the clouds were darkening by the minute. “Perhaps we should return to the village. It looks like a storm is coming this way.”
He followed her gaze, combing his long dark hair from his mahogany-colored eyes. “I think you're right.” He reached for her hand. Amalia accepted and he pulled her to her feet.
She brushed grass from her faded blue gown and gray smock and stretched her arms above her head. By the bubbling brook at the foot of the Weeping Mountain, they had feasted on ripe mango and warm honey bread her mother had prepared for their first excursion alone as intended mates.
Tonight, there would be a feast. Their families would dine together and their fathers would discuss matters of joining their resources.
It was the way of the Skal.
A way Amalia wished she could forever be free of.
Together, they gathered their blanket and basket, while the scent of burning wood wafted their way.
Her brows furrowed as she stood to her full height—almost as tall as Tomas. He studied her face, and reached for her hand.
“What’s wrong?”
She sniffed the air, and pulled her hand away from his. Warnings bubbled in her belly. “Do you smell something?”
“I do, actually,” he said, frowning. “What is that? Is something burning?”
The air smelled of charcoal and sulfur. Realization washed over Amalia and her face drained of color. She knew that smell.
Her heart sank and she dropped the basket and turned to run toward the village. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be a bad dream.
“What is it?” Tomas asked as he ran after her.
“Dragons!”
3
The sky burned red and orange with flames as firedrakes flew from over the Weeping Mountain and toward the town of Skal. Amalia and Tomas ran across the wheat field, desperate to warn the others. Their arms pumped, and their lungs burned as they ran with all of the speed and might their bodies could muster.
Skal hadn’t seen dragons in centuries. Why had they returned?
Her heart lurched into her throat as a dragon swooped down and pierced Tomas in the shoulders by its talons. He cried out. Wild eyed, he reached for her as the dragon lifted him into the sky.
“Amalia!”
She tripped and fell face first into the grass, scraping the bridge of her nose.
She gasped. “Dear gods, help us.”
Run, an unfamiliar female voice commanded.
Confused, Amalia did the opposite. Numb with fear, she rolled onto her back. She had half a second to decide whether to use her power, or hide.
That second fled faster than she expected, and she watched with horror as the dragon pulled Tomas by the head and thighs, and ripped him into two.
The color drained from her face. His scream would haunt her for as long as she lived.
Guilt washed over her. She could have saved him. She could have at least tried. What use was magic if she was too afraid to use it? How many times had her father warned her against usin
g magic? Magic was dirty. Evil. Using it would only bring the wrath of the gods to their peaceful realm.
Still, why did they give them magic only to forbid them to use it?
Warm tears fell from the corners of her eyes.
Get up, and run!
The voice came from inside her head. At least, that’s what she thought. She couldn’t be sure. But, there was no one close enough to whisper to her like that. Nothing was around her, but an odd eagle flying across the sky and toward the woods on the other side of town, and several dragons.
She’d ran from the Weeping Mountain to the village. Now, she hid in the tall wheat stalks, fearful that if she moved, she would be the next to lose her life.
“Who said that?” Amalia asked in a whisper.
A loud roar caught her attention. She lay there, watching, frozen with fear. Eyes wide, she watched the dragons flap their red wings and blow fire onto the town without mercy or prejudice.
“Amalia,” her mother yelled as she and her father led a procession of survivors from the burning village and into the wheat fields.