by Ava Sinclair
I stand and stare. I do not have to ask who it depicts. The Drakoryans are all similar in their muscular build, sharp features, and piercing eyes. The first Drakoryan king, Arok, stares down at us. The crown he wears is iron and peaked downward at the front. The three spikes rising from the band— one on the front and two on the side — are each embedded with a different color jewel — diamond, citrine, and amethyst— intended to represent the colors of the first dragons.
King Arok is flanked by his brothers, the princes, who wear smaller crowns. On the other side of the room is another second mural depicting King Arok, his brothers, and a beautiful woman with a delicate golden circlet crowning her head of white-blonde hair. This is Genev, she tells me, the first of the Drakoryan queens, the first to be claimed after the humans were conquered.
“Even a king shares his mate?” I ask.
“Yes. And no greater story exists than the claiming of the first Drakoryan queen.” Lady Lyla smiles enigmatically. “But that is a tale for another day. Come along.”
It is hard to drag my eyes away. Perhaps it is a trick of light, but the queen’s eyes seem to follow me as I walk. The sensation is unnerving.
The second tunnel we enter is flanked on one side by solid wall and the others by pillars. Beyond them is a cavern with walls of pure amethyst. Pools of turquoise water produce tendrils of iridescent steam.
“The baths,” Lyla says. “It is said they soothe not just wounds of the body, but wounds of the heart, if the God and Goddess will it.”
“They are that strong?”
“Only the pools of the Mystic Mountain are stronger.”
Around us, other Drakoryan brides exclaim at what they see. I turn to Lyla. “Have you been here before?”
“No,” she says. “Most of us have not, save the older brides who attended the last king’s council, and that was many years ago. But a bonded bride shares some of her mates’ strongest memories, be they good or bad. And no Drakoryan male’s memory is stronger than his first visit to the Mountain of Kings. They are taken after their first shifting, to swear fealty to the king who sits on the throne, and to the empire.”
“I have not yet bonded,” I tell her.
“I know.” She casts me a concerned look. “That is one of the reasons I came to fetch you away, Isla of Branlock. We need to talk.”
Other women walk past us, chatting as they go. Despite the seriousness behind the gathering, they seem happy to see one another. I think of my sister, imagine her huddling somewhere dark and scary while I enjoy this splendor, and feel guilt wash over me.
I look back, searching for Sal. She is walking with several other maids, all dragging trunks similar to mine. The tunnel turns left and opens into a huge room with walls of silvery-gray stone. Carved pillars run from the marble floors to an intricate stone lattice canopy. Above the lattice is a domed roof of obsidian studded with diamonds that glitter like stars.
There are dome-shaped doorways off the main room that lead to other rooms. I watch as the women begin to head in different directions towards what I assume are the quarters.
“These are the queen’s chambers,” Lyla tells me. “She died before the last ShadowFell war. There will not be another until King Vukurcis joins her and one of his sons assumes the rule. Whoever wins the kingship shall be the first to take her.” She takes my hand. “This way.”
We head to the right and walk through one of the doorways. The voices of other women float through the space around me.
“When there is a queen in residence, she holds court here twice a year,” Lyla says. “It is said to be the grandest of affairs.” She stops in front of a huge oak door. “Ah, this seems empty.”
We walk into a beautiful round room. Compared to the chamber, it is simple. Yet it is still elegant, with a large bed, its posts each topped with a carved dragon head. Sheer burgundy fabric runs through the mouth of each dragon, draping halfway down the posts. A coverlet of the same hue graces the thick feather mattress.
Sal has walked in, her mouth agape.
“Never did I think to see such,” she mutters as she hauls the trunk to a towering wardrobe fashioned with the same dragon heads carved on the door. As she snaps open the lid, my eyes fall on the sword. I look up to see that Lyla has caught sight of it as well.
I flush. “Turin gave it to me.”
Lyla smiles. “No need to explain. Imyrth gave me a shield.” She arches a brow. “It saved my life.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s have a word.” She guides me to a large cushioned window seat that does not overlook the outside, but another cave, the floor gleaming with some kind of shining gems I cannot identify.
“Isla.” The seriousness of her tone gets my attention. “I wanted to get you alone, to warn you.”
“About what?”
“Dismiss your maid, and I shall tell you.”
“Sal, that will be all for now,” I say.
“Where will I go, lady?”
“There is a special room farther down where the maids gather. There is food and drink,” Lyla tells her. “My maid, Beti is there, should you seek a friend. Tell her I sent you to find her.”
Sal curtsies and leaves. When the door shuts behind her, Lyla turns back to me.
“You are aware of the situation?”
I nod. “I know the ShadowFell burned the harvest.”
“Are you aware of what happened next? The lords talk of nothing else.”
I sigh. “Zyvis. I am not only aware. I saw it.”
Lyla shakes her head. “I was hoping you had not.” She stands up. “Zyvis lost more than just his control. The Drakoryan Lords fear they have now lost the trust of the villagers, and under the worst possible circumstances. We face two enemies now—the ShadowFell hunger for revenge but also the very real hunger that pits man against man under the best of circumstances. Drorgros and the others had sought to reason with the villagers, to convince them that the destruction of the harvest was more reason than ever to unite for a common cause of survival. In one moment of rage, Zyvis changed all that. He has made the villagers fear the Drakoryan more than ever.”
I turn away, tears spilling down my face. Lyla comes to sit beside me.
“I understand how they feel,” I tell her. “And while my problems are small compared to those of the kingdom, I am almost certain that even if the empire prevails through this trial, I will not.” Lyla embraces me as I sob my fears into her shoulder. “I never thought it to be so, but I feel love for Turin and Jayx. But Zyvis? The idea of his touch fills me with such dread. I had hoped it to be different. I want to be with Turin and Jayx, but I know I cannot be with them unless I accept their brother.”
Lady Lyla allows me to cry, holding me as my sister would.
“Damn his arrogance and temper,” I say. “I was starting to feel strong again, to envision a future in which my sister and I would perhaps be reunited. Now I feel I will lose everything.” I remove myself from Lyla’s embrace and dry my eyes on my sleeves.
“This is not an easy path for a woman, Isla. One husband is an adjustment, but multiple mates? That’s a challenge. I’ve learned from other Drakoryan brides that there is always one male who tests us more than the others.”
“Turin said in the past the witches of the Mystic Mountain matched the woman to her dragon lords. The Lords of Za’vol chose me.” I draw a ragged breath. “Oh, Lady Lyla…what if they chose wrong?”
She takes my face in her hands. “Then you will fight to make it right. You are a War Bride. You arrive at a time of conflict and even if the witches did not name you, I am convinced that fate still plays a role. The Lords of Za’vol need you. And you need them, even if you don’t yet realize why or how.”
“My Lady?” Sal appears at the door.
I rise, and she walks over and hands me a piece of parchment. I open it.
“It’s Lord Turin,” I say. “He wants a word with me before he goes to the council hall.”
Lady Lyla smiles. “He likely wants to see
if you are well since I stole you away. Let’s find an attendant who can take you to him.”
Chapter 18
TURIN
The other lords are continuing to arrive as I send word to Isla. I should stay away, should start preparing for the council. I want to know that she is settled and well. I can’t get the image of her curled on the floor from my mind.
I want to see her.
Just see her.
I tell myself that as I pace the hall of the bedchamber I’ve been given for my stay. Under normal circumstances, mated brothers stay away from their maiden until unmated ones have joined with her.
These are not normal circumstances.
There’s a familiar catch in my throat when Isla walks through the door, and a familiar heat and hardness as my body responds to her very nearness. She is my true mate.
I try not to think of Zyvis. I experience a surge of jealousy each time I think of him lying with her, then a surge of fear over what will happen if he doesn’t.
“You wanted to see me, my Lord Turin?”
“Yes.” She looks up at me as I approach. Her eyes are so green. I lift my hand to cradle the side of her face. “I wanted to see how you were faring.”
She arches a brow. “My lord, I could have sent word by my maid if that’s all you wanted to know.”
I am not given to embarrassment, but I feel the heat of a flush creep up my neck. Isla sees it, too, and grins. She is so incredibly delectable. My gaze drops to the bodice of her gown. The tight swell of her nipples magically appear against the fabric. She’s looking up at me. Her lips are half-parted, and I can see the tip of her tongue.
Tradition be damned. I just want to hold her. That is all. I pull her to me and she allows it, her thin arms winding their way around my neck. I feel her soft sigh as I hear it. I bury my face in the waves of her hair. Her body is pressed against mine. I drop a hand to her lower back. I just want to touch her. That is all. I slide my hand down to cup her bottom. Just a squeeze and then I’ll let her go. Her buttock is firm and springy in my grasp.
Just a taste. What can it hurt? My lips find hers. Isla moans against my mouth and I know I am lost to her. My hands are everywhere now, moving up to find an opening to her gown, but there is only a row of buttons along the back. She tears her mouth away from mine and presses it to my ear.
“Too many,” she says. “And you cannot tear my gown.” Her next words turn my cock to iron. “Lift my skirt and fuck me from behind.” There’s a plea in her words, desperate and wanton and vulnerable. I cannot spin her around fast enough. She bends over a nearby chair, grasping the arm.
I lift her skirts, filled with appreciation at how the fabric frames the perfect globes of her ass. She looks back at me as she arches her back. I can see the fiery red fleece covering a labia parted to reveal deep pink inner petals. Her thighs are slick with a sheen of arousal, its presence revealing that she wanted this before she even entered my chamber. Her scent is intoxicating; I am as eager to have her as I was our first night together.
I plunge two fingers into her pussy, coating them with her essence as I fist the length of my cock with my other hand. I withdraw my fingers and push my cock into her tight sheath; when she cries out, I lean forward and push my fingers into her mouth.
“Taste,” I say. “It is your essence, and it is the nectar I long for every waking moment.”
She closes her eyes and sucks my fingers as her pussy squeezes my cock with the same sweet rhythm. If the gods in their realms are the creators of bliss, then they have given me more than a measure.
I look down, admiring the spread halves of her bottom, mesmerized by the sight of my cock sliding in and out of her impossibly tight pussy. Her excitement has raised ridges along the length of my shaft. They pulse and move as I thrust in and out, stimulating her so thoroughly that she comes once, then twice.
Isla is careful not to scream, for what we do is secret. She leaves little marks on her balled fist where she bites down, but her body speaks for her. The rippling of her core grips and draws on my cock, and as much as I long to give her a third climax, she unmans me before I can. I feel my balls tighten to hard knots, feel the pressure of my seed surging, and am forced to brace myself with both arms to keep the weight of my upper body from falling on her.
It is the greatest feeling in the world, coming inside her, leaving her marked. As I reluctantly back away, I watch the pearlescent stream slide from the deep pink folds of her pussy. She is mine.
She is ours.
I step back. Did I imagine Jayx’s voice in my head? I tuck my cock back under my skirt and lift Isla to standing. She turns to me and my heart aches to see how beautiful she is. Her eyes are half closed, her expression one of a satisfied woman.
“Isla of Branlock…”
“I know,” she says, putting a hand to my face. I can still smell her scent on the fingers that graze my cheek. “I shall not tell.”
She arranges her skirt. Despite my guilt, it pleases me to think that she will walk back to her chamber with my seed still seeping from her body.
“Girl!” I call to a castle maid as I walk Isla from the room. “Escort my lady back to the women’s quarters.”
Isla glances back as she leaves, her eyes brimming with love. I know she’s thinking on what I called her. My lady. Real or imagined, Jayx’s voice in my head reminds me of the truth. She is ours to share, and all depends now on the younger brother who must be made to understand the importance of control.
Chapter 19
JAYX
We gather in the throne room. To my left stands Turin, to my right Zyvis. I have cause to be annoyed with both. When I noted Turin’s absence, I suspected he’d sought out Isla. It is difficult for a Drakoryan to close his mind in times of intense passion. I’d sought his and caught a glimpse of what he was feeling and thinking. I frown to think of it now. Our younger brother has not yet mated. Turin knows better.
But there is no time to confront Turin, and even if I wanted to, to expose him in front of our hot-headed younger brother would only make thing worse than they are.
The creak of huge doors opening turns our collective attention towards the back of the throne room. Unlike other rooms of the castle, this one is austere by comparison. There is no adornment save for the Drakoryan banner on one wall and an ancient mural on another depicting a compendium of our history from the first Drakoryans created in the Mystic Mountain to the last battle of the ShadowFell.
Huge braziers blaze around a raised dais that holds five thrones — a higher one for the king with two on each side for the crown princes, who remain silent during council. Their presence is a promise of continued rule. Everyone is deferential to the king.
King Vukurcis is coming. I see the top of his crown as he enters. The lords have turned in his direction, taking a knee as he passes. As those closest to me kneel, I get my first full glimpse of our liege, lowering my head in hopes that no one sees the shock I’m sure everyone else must be feeling.
Our king has aged. The gray hair is now white, and although his carriage is straight, and his stride is strong, this is a far different man than the one who successfully led us into battle.
Ahead of me, Drorgros of Fra’hir cuts his eyes in my direction as the king passes and I know this was unexpected for him, too. Like me, he is mindful of the contrast between King Vukurcis and the princes who retain the fullness of their prime. Like their father, the princes—Bymir, Rargi, Ygi, and Oneg—exude authority and power both in size and demeanor.
Each prince stands before his throne, but none sits until his father does. Once they do, all lords all rise from kneeling in unison, and when King Vukurcis speaks, some of the loss we feel at the sight of him dissipates in the wake of his powerful voice.
“Lords of the Empire…” His words resound through the hall with the shadow of a dragon’s rumble. The voice of the king is distinct because it speaks to our dual natures like no other. “The old enemy has returned.” He looks around the room, w
hich is silent save the crackling of the fire in the braziers. “We have defeated the ShadowFell in the past. Those wars were never easy. The one we face now will be the hardest of all.”
“Our enemy has grown cunning. They hunger now for the humanity they sorely underestimated. The Mystic Mountain is now under constant guard, for there lies the magic they need to become half man. We have brought the villagers into the shadow of the empire for their own protection. Make no mistake. The enemy is watching. When it attacks, it will seek not only to become like us, but to displace us once and for all.”
A chill falls over the room. The king is silent now. When he is silent, that means there is more.
“This is not the worst of it. By now, most of you know that there is a dark force compelling the ShadowFell to their nefarious ends. The Witches of the Wyrd do not yet know its name, but whatever god allies itself with the enemy is no friend of our creators. However, this god is just as strong, perhaps stronger. We need all our attention and effort fixed on victory.”
The king’s gaze falls on me and my brothers. Just as a house claims a mutual mate, so does it claim a mutual reputation. Zyvis has damaged ours.
“What we protect may also be our downfall if the villagers rise up and divide our attention against the enemy. Perhaps I erred in not holding this council before the decision was made to bring these humans under our protection. However, I did not think it necessary to remind trusted lords of the challenges resettlement would bring, of the necessity of not increasing the natural resentment the ruled may feel for the rulers.”
“We have protected the villagers over the mountains, but we have also taken from them. We have claimed the fruits of their labor, stolen and mated and bred their daughters. If ever there was a time to combine restraint with authority, it is now.”
Food will be moved from the Drakoryan castle storehouses to the village storehouse. It was Drakoryans who decided to wait before gathering the harvest. What was lost to them must be restored. The villagers must be allowed the same agency they enjoyed over the mountains. They must pick a leader from each village, a council, to represent them all. We will negotiate…”