War Bride

by Ava Sinclair

  I have lost.

  The battle is between my brothers now. I look to the sky, watching as Jayx now pursues Turin. They rise above the clouds and the mountaintops shake with their roars. They drop through the clouds, their talons clutched together. Jayx has his teeth clenched on the base of Turin’s orange neck by his shoulder.

  But Turin – whom I sorely underestimated – is still able to crane his head above where his rival’s teeth are latched. He aims a burst of fire over Jayx’s back, burning the length of his right wing.

  Jayx opens his mouth to scream, breaking his hold. The only thing holding Jayx aloft now is Turin’s grip on his talons. Jayx’s burnt wing flops limply at his side. If Turin were to release him, Jayx would fall to his death. But Turin keeps his grip, dipping low enough to drop our brother safely on a ledge.

  A shaft of sun breaks through the clouds, illuminating Turin’s orange scales as he circles menacingly over Jayx.

  Jayx tries to pump his wings—a useless effort, but who can blame him? Turin responds by setting some trees nearby alight, a reminder that he has the advantage. Even if Jayx could make fire, Turin can avoid it from the air.

  The dragon that is Jayx bellows in despair before erupting into an indigo flame that shrinks into his man form. Turin, roaring in victory, circles the valley before perching on the ledge where Isla waits with our fathers and mother.

  The battle is over. Turin, who saved Isla from the well in Branlock, is the victor. I should feel happy for him, yet I only feel humiliation and rage at being the first to face defeat in the battle of brothers.

  Chapter 5

  ISLA

  Growing up in Branlock accustomed me to the sound of dragon wings, the heat of fire in the night as they burnt what fields villagers weren’t allowed to plant. Two maidens were taken from Branlock in my lifetime—both during my childhood. Only adults are allowed to witness a claiming, so my first real look at a dragon was when the ShadowFell slaughtered my village.

  I was unconscious when the Drakoryans had taken me from the ruins of Branlock. And because they’d not wanted to frighten me, I’d been given a sleeping draught before the Lords of Za’vol had taken me home from Castle Fra’hir.

  Lyla had warned me that it might frighten me to see the Lords of Za’vol change for the first time. I don’t think she realized that first time would be the day of their battle.

  What they’d intended as a proof of devotion, I saw as a display of savagery. The screams still ring in my ears and when Turin transforms, I cannot separate the man he becomes from the creature he was. I stand rooted to the spot as Lord Egir walks over to embrace his son, his bearded face radiating a father’s pride.

  “You fought well, Turin.”

  Even Lord Orys manages a smile. “I would have preferred it be Jayx, but we are all family.” He looks at his other brother. “Right, Udra?”

  Lord Udra does not offer his congratulations. “It is easy for you to say. Your son did not come in last.” He turns away without another word, stalking towards the tunnels.

  “Turin has won you.” A soft voice gets my attention. It’s Lady Klea, but I can barely comprehend her words through the pounding in my ears. Turin is looking past his father, at me. I can tell by his hopeful expression that he seeks my approval most of all, yet as he takes a step towards me, panic swells in my breast and I back away, shaking my head.

  “No. No. No.” I point directly at him. “Stay back!”

  I shout the words so loudly they echo back to me from the rocks around us.

  Stay back! Stay back! Stay back!

  Turin stops in his tracks. His bare, muscular chest is heaving. Down below I can see his defeated brothers limping into the caves, heading towards the healing pools.

  “Isla…” The voice that calls my name is not Turin’s but his mother’s. She steps between the two of us. Over her shoulder I see Turin’s father cast a worried glance in his brother’s direction. Lady Klea turns to them.

  “My lords, it is a time for celebration. The battle is over. Lord Udra has no doubt gone to the pools to praise Zyvis for his hard-fought effort. Lord Egir, take Turin to heal as well. Lord Orys, you should go see to Jayx.” She puts her arm around me. “I will escort Isla to her bedchamber.”

  There’s steel in her soft words and I am grateful when the men turn and walk away. Turin glances back at me as he goes. Despite the cold wind, there’s a sheen of sweat on his back, bare and broad above the leather skirt he wears. The back of his arm from the middle of the bulging bicep to halfway down his forearm is covered in huge blisters, but I know the pain in his eyes has more to do with my reaction than his injury.

  Lady Klea is as taciturn on our return to my bedchamber as she was on our walk to the wall. We enter to find Sal dozing in a chair by the fire, her head lolling to the side.

  “Up!” Lady Klea’s sharp command startles the maid from her sleep. “This room is chill, girl. Stoke the blaze and then fetch mulled wine and oat cakes for us. A lady’s maid does not dally by the fire. Should I hear of your lazing again, it’ll be kitchen work for you. Understand?”

  As Sal’s ruddy face reddens further, I wonder if issuing such commands will come naturally to me one day. I might defend the woman sent to serve me if I weren’t so overwhelmed by my own circumstance.

  Lady Klea goes to stand by the window. Her back is to me, and she waits for Sal to leave before she turns to face me. Her quiet scrutiny unnerves me.

  “You have no need to fear my sons,” she finally says. “You will accept Turin when he comes to you.”

  “You have no right to judge my fear.” Indignation has ignited my spirit. “And I am no serving girl for you to scold and command.”

  I brace myself for Lady Klea’s anger, but instead, she laughs, softly at first, and then harder.

  “Oh my,” she says when she composes herself. “I do believe I like you, Isla of Branlock. Behind that frightened façade, I sense a fighter.” She walks over to me and reaches out a cool hand to brush my face. “You will need that fight, I think, for there is no escape from this life.”

  “Lady Lyla told me as much, but what use is a fighting spirit in a world that requires me to capitulate to monsters?”

  “You are young, Isla of Branlock, too young to realize the power in submission.” She arches a brow. “Or, at least, in the illusion of submission. The strongest dragon lord – or dragon for that matter – is weaker than a cunning female. A Drakoryan male’s bloodline depends on his mate’s willing acceptance of his advances. He cannot ravish her. He cannot abuse her. He must curry her favor if she is ever to grow his seed.” She pauses. “The dragons who killed your family have no such investment in the women they took.”

  My eyes fill with tears at her words.

  “They have my sister,” I say, nearly choking on the words.

  Lady’s Klea’s face softens. She nods. “I know. My sons told me.” She takes my face in her hands. “Now you listen to me. If the ShadowFell had intended to kill your sister or the other women, they would have done it. She’s still alive.” Her eyes search mine. “You feel it, don’t you?”

  I nod wordlessly. “Yes.” A tear trails down my face and she wipes it away with the pad of her thumb. “I want to kill the dragon that took her.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” She studies my face. “Isla, I can’t replace your mother. I won’t pretend to know what she’d say at a moment like this. You must have gotten your strength from someone, and strong mothers have strong daughters. Somewhere, your sister is being strong. You must be strong until you can see her again.” She grows quiet. “Turin will be here soon. You are every bit as fierce as a dragon. Show him. Show them all. Use what weapons you have until you can gain the ones you want.”

  Chapter 6

  JAYX

  I have never known such pain. The arm that was my wing was so badly burnt, I feared the pools might not completely heal it. That is not the only thing yet to heal. Anger still burns hot in my veins.

  Were
it not for Turin, Zyvis would have killed me. My father, who lowered me into the healing waters, is quiet. Zyvis nurses his wounds in another pool. His father does not kneel at his side. Lord Udra’s broad back is turned on his son.

  “Move your arm.” My father reaches into the water to cup my elbow. I wince. While skin is mending, movement is still excruciating. I must force myself to flex the injured limb.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” I say. “I know you wanted me to win.”

  My father cups some water into his hand and dribbles it over my shoulder. He’s missing half his thumb on his left hand, and I remember him telling me that Udra bit it off when they were sparring as adolescent dragons. A dragon can heal of burns and breaks, but a missing body part is beyond the springs’ power to repair.

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Jayx. You fought bravely. And you fought fairly.”

  He speaks the last line loud enough to carry through the cavern. Zyvis flinches and Lord Udra’s grim expression proves that my father’s barb hit more than one intended target.

  “Just be grateful that your son did not shame you.” Lord Udra takes a step towards my father, who rises. Both men are tense. For a moment, I think they are going to fight. Instead, my father’s brother turns and walks from the cave.

  Zyvis stares at the wall, and as much as I try to muster sympathy for him, I cannot. In my mind’s eye, I can still see him barreling towards me as the ground below grew closer.

  Our middle brother walks in now.

  “Turin.” My father approaches him and his father. “Well fought.”

  “Thank you.” Turin nods, as Lord Egir claps my father on the back.

  “What do you say we share a bumper of ale to celebrate the bond our sons will soon form with Isla?”

  Turin’s gaze moves to Zyvis, and I see my concern reflected in his eyes. Our youngest brother does not congratulate Turin, and Turin does not speak to him as he joins me in my pool. What should be a time of personal and physical healing between brothers is cast in a shadow of mistrust.

  Discord among Drakoryan brothers is rare, but tension does exist. We sensed it growing up, but none spoke of it. The source was Lord Udra. Although Drakoryan brothers each father sons with an individual mate, the offspring consider them to be shared father figures.

  At least, it’s supposed to be that way. It was different for us, however, not because Turin and I were not encouraged to look to our uncles as father figures, but because Lord Udra was always distant towards the two of us in favor of Zyvis. Where our fathers fostered cooperation, Lord Udra fostered a competitiveness that my mother worried would impact the bond we would need as adults.

  It’s a bond that is especially important now that we’ve taken a mate. I feel a stab of resentment as I flex my arm. With our mate already reeling from her own trauma, she needs the structure of our combined strength. How can we give her that if there are fractures in our brotherhood?

  I turn my attention to Turin. His injury was minor compared to mine. His elbow is already nearly healed. I want to thank him for saving me, but instinct tells me not to bring it up until we are alone. This will need to be addressed at some point, but not now. “Father is right. You fought well. You deserved to win.”

  “It’s a bitter victory.” Turin climbs from the pool. “Isla is afraid of me.”

  “She is afraid of dragons. It is not just you.”

  “She’d best learn to overcome that fear.” Zyvis has been eavesdropping and surprises us by finally speaking as he emerges from the pool, his injury mended. He pulls his skirt over his wet body.

  Under the water I flex my injured arm, feeling the strength return. I ball my fist and imagine striking his arrogant face.

  “We should be patient, Zyvis.” Turin arches a brow at our younger brother. “We should remind ourselves that fear is understandable.” He pauses. “Unless it leads to an act of cowardice.”

  Zyvis’ face colors in anger.

  I turn my attention to Turin. Although passionate, he’s also reasonable. Having made his point, he changes the subject.

  “Did our fathers say how the harvest is going?”

  The diversion is an unspoken reprieve to an issue we know will need to be addressed later. I wait to see if Zyvis accepts the uneasy truce. He does.

  “Yes. They say it’s going well, but with the Mystic Mountain now being guarded day and night, all Drakoryan hands are needed to have the harvest in the storehouses by week’s end.” Zyvis looks at his leg. The water has nearly healed it now. I think I’d have been justified in doing worse but say nothing. “Were it not for the ShadowFell,” Zyvis complains, “we’d be preparing to celebrate at our leisure, not helping villagers with the harvest.”

  “Things are different now,” Turin reminds him. “With the villagers relocated to the empire, the storehouses will need to be stocked with enough to feed everyone.” He pauses. “My father says some of the villagers have asked for their own storehouse, just as they had in the villages they left.”

  “Their own?” Zyvis is indignant. “It is not necessary. Our storehouses can hold all we bring back and more.”

  “Word is that the king will likely allow it.”

  “Why?” Our youngest brother’s voice carries through the cavern.

  “Think on it, Zyvis,” I snap. “They’ve been displaced. They grow the food and we take our portion and leave them theirs. Each village over the mountain had its own storehouse. Why shouldn’t we allow them one here?”

  “Why?” Zyvis repeats my question back to me. “Because we are their rulers.”

  “Yes, and we have always been fair.” I fix him with a hard stare. “For all that has changed, our fairness should not.” I flex my arm again. The pain is minimal now. I lift myself onto the ledge of the pool.

  “There’s another thing that has changed,” Turin says. “We are brothers with a mate who needs our attention. We have a joint purpose in Isla now. Her care and comfort and needs must come before all else.” He looks at Zyvis. “Even before our own pride.”

  “Your journey on that path starts now, Turin.” I clap my hand on his shoulder. “Go to her. She will never learn that dragons can be noble until we teach her.”

  Turin nods. “Thank you, brother.”

  “Zyvis,” I say, “don’t you want to offer Turin brotherly support as he goes to Isla?’

  I don’t want to command our youngest brother to do what he knows he must. I sometimes hate how much he reminds me of Lord Udra. As he mutters his begrudging congratulations, I cannot help but draw the comparison. He turns away as he says it, so we cannot see the lie in his eyes.

  Chapter 7

  ISLA

  I have spent the past few hours in thoughtful silence as a maid I do not need prepares me for a man I do not want. I was bathed and clad in a sheer, soft gown. My hair, unbound from its braid, has been brushed to a gleaming russet wave scented with lavender.

  Afterwards, I send Sal away. I want time to collect myself, to reflect on Lady Klea’s advice. The bedchamber I’ve been given is in an oval room with a comfortable bed and thickly cushioned chairs. Soft woven rugs cover the stone floors. But the most impressive feature of the room is an arched window with carvings etched around the rim. It’s a large window that overlooks the southern valley where residents of a dozen or more displaced villages now work to make one large one before winter.

  The wind carries faint sounds of sawing and hammering, yet I await a different noise. When I hear the door behind me open, I steel myself. He has arrived, and while I do not hear Turin’s footfalls, I can feel his gaze on the rigid line of my back.

  “May I enter, Isla of Branlock?”

  I turn my head enough to glance at him from the side.

  “Would it matter if I refused?”

  He does not answer as he comes to stand beside me. I try not to think of what he can become. In the dying light, we watch two villagers struggle to erect support timbers for a cottage.

  “All the villagers are
here and safe,” he says.

  “Not all.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “Not Branlock.” I pause, pondering what my life would have been like if the ShadowFell had targeted a different village. I’d likely be among the women I watched yesterday, sitting in circles as they tied bundles of rushes into thatches for their roofs. My sister Zara would be at my side, along with the other maidens. Yes, we’d be uncertain, here in this strange land of our dragon rulers. Still, we’d have each other.

  “I am alone.” I speak the thought aloud and feel my face color. I sound weak, mournful. I brace myself for Turin’s pity, for him to remind me that he and his brothers will be my family now. But he doesn’t.

  “We will avenge you, Isla. We will save your sister and the other maidens.”

  “You can’t promise me that with certainty.” I look up at him and he averts his eyes. He knows I speak the truth.

  “You’re right.” He sighs as he concedes. “I cannot promise you with certainty. But my brothers and I come from a line of warriors. You’ll not get a promise from anyone more capable of honoring it.” Turin turns to me. “Isla of Branlock. Until I can fulfill your heart’s desire, what can I give you to put you at ease?”

  I look full into his face. The shoulder-length blonde hair is pulled into a knot at the top of his head. His features are strong and defined. His eyes are light grey with flecks of green. A short-cropped blonde beard hugs a strong jaw. My fingers twitch. I wonder if the beard is as soft as the lips I realize I’m staring at.

  “What do you want?” he asks again. “Tell me, and if it is within my power to grant, you shall have it.”

  He is a man, beseeching a woman to tell him how to please her. Yet I know under that softness is fire that can turn him into the beast of my worst nightmares.