by Ava Sinclair
“Yes, you will,” I tell him with a ready grin. “You are a great Drakoryan. You are a mighty dragon. You will be an ancient…”
The image dissolves and time accelerates now. They are happy images. Lessons and feasts and celebrations. I am flying again. I look to my left and see a flash of my golden wing. I am Imryth. I am flying with my father. We communicate without words. I am telling him I do not want to burn the fields. I do not understand why we must.
He tells me man will never accept our dragon side, that man is too flawed to be allowed back in power. He tells me we must manage them, just as they manage the crops and livestock we allow them to breed. We protect them. When winters are hard, we supply them with food, keep the wolves away. But they give us tribute – food we allow them to grow, and only on land we allow them to use. The rest is burnt.
He tells me to dive. In my dragon sight, I see women rushing to grab their children. They have seen our passing shadows through the clouds, and they are screaming. I do not want to do this, but I do it anyway. I target a rolling field just bursting with green. It takes only seconds to turn it black.
I ask my father about our servants. He tells me they are a different kind of man, the kind found under the earth, stouter and simpler and more loyal. But the other men, they are different. Left alone to unite, they would choose a king to rally under, to fight. We cannot let that happen. We keep them dependent. All we require is tribute. Food. And once a year, a daughter.
“Why can we not just deal with them in our man form?” I ask.
“Because,” he responds, “you do not deal with your foe in your weakest form.”
More years fly by. Flashes of memory. Sparring matches, training. We follow father into the army. Although we have known centuries of peace, we must always be ready. Readiness makes for peace, our father says.
And then a dark cloud envelops me. I feel a chill. The old man’s face from under the hood.
Danger, he says. We are not alone. The witches have seen a portent.
I feel heat in my face. Everything is dark. I am afraid. I hear screams. I am flying over a field. There are pools of blood, wounded dragons turning from brilliant colors to dull gray as they die. One falls from the sky, hitting the earth with a thud. I hear flapping. I do not want to turn. I see a dragon, larger and fiercer than any of us. It zooms past, laying down a swath of flame.
War. Our castle is under siege. What do the dragons want? I ask the Oracle as I land and fold my blue wings. “Why do they attack us? Who are they?”
ShadowFell, Olin the Wise says. The witches have warned us, he says. These are dark dragons, different. They are trying to get to the Mystic Mountain. What they want is there. We cannot let them have it. They want magic.
All the knights of the empire rally to the base of the mountain. It is hazy here. I do not see. I only feel. Heat and pain and loss but also bravery and determination. I see a massive orange dragon rise from a subterranean cave. It is Vukurcis, King of the Drakoryan Empire. He is swathed in a circle of blue flame – a magical fire shield conjured by the witches, the Wyrd. He fights the largest black dragon as we, his soldiers, battle the enemy in the sky and on the field.
My father fights by my side, incinerating a ShadowFell rocketing towards us.
Then, through the smoke, I see it. The king’s magical shield is beginning to fade.
“Father,” I say, but he has seen it, too, and flies to the king’s side. King Vukurcis is in danger. The peak is crumbling beneath him and the ShadowFell King. King Vukurcis is close to falling when my father flies headlong into the side of the enemy dragon. He knocks it backwards, but as the ShadowFell falls, the hooked claw on the wing joint catches my father’s chest, opening it. He falls from the other side. The enemy dragon recovers before hitting the ground, but upon seeing so many of his soldiers slain, roars in defeat and retreats.
I do not want to see the next vision. I feel the pain before the image comes into view. I am seeing now through the eyes of all my mates. Our father, Rymoth, is lying on a rock. A large man in a crown holds our father’s hand. It is King Vukurcis returned to his Drakoryan form. Olin the Wise kneels by his side, a hand on my father’s head.
“Can he be saved?” asks the king.
“There is nothing that can be done,” the Oracle says.
“Our pools!” Zelki is demanding, but Olin shakes his head.
“The pools of the Wyrd,” Tythos looks at the Oracle, but our father, his face ashen under the lowering cloak of death, shakes his head.
“I wanted the same for your mother, but in her wisdom, she forbid it. I have lived my life, but it is time to go. Now, I will live on through you, my sons.” Final words fall from his lips. “Hold fast your bonds.”
I can’t breathe for sobbing from the collective pain. I am drifting now, moving through channels of time. The tide of life moves on. There is a land to rule, responsibilities to be met. My mates live with their grief, weaving the loss of their father and mother into the rich tapestry of their lives. They are in full manhood now. They are anxious. All grows dark.
I look at them from above now, hovering. It is a different perspective, detached, as I watch them fight. They fight as dragons, bloodying one another. I feel their pain even as I observe as an outsider. There is rage and a sense of competitive drive that is fierce and primal. Zelki defeats Imryth. Zelki defeats Tythos. Drorgros defeats Zelki.
And then, it grows dark for the last time. I am a dragon. I am flying. I am Drorgros the Dragon. The sun glints off my green wings. I am speeding through the clouds. I see something in the distance. A cliff. A ledge. There is a woman, small and blonde and afraid. I dive, dropping straight down, then curve up, pumping my wings as I rise. I look her in the eye. She stares back. I land on the ledge, set fire to her bonds. I know her. Somehow, I know her. She looks into my eye. She is not afraid. I feel myself smile. I cannot help it, but the human gesture on the visage of a dragon terrifies her. She screams. I pluck her from the cliff…
I hear myself gasp, like a drowning person come up through the water.
“Breathe…breathe…that’s it.” My mates are encouraging me to take in the air that I need. It is a struggle. “Come on. You can do it.” “That’s it, my beauty.” “You’ve done it.”
Their voices are so clear, but as I adjust my eyes to current surroundings, I understand that they are not speaking to me. I am hearing their thoughts.
“I saw what you saw. Felt what you felt,” I say without words.
“Yes, you did. And you always will,” they answer with their minds.
They wrap their arms around me, holding me in their circle, my Drakoryan mates, men who become dragons through a magic I am determined to understand, but inside as soft and human as the mate they have vowed to protect.
I am theirs. And they are mine.
LYLA
“The Deepening is like losing your virginity all over again.” Enid hands me a cup of sweet wine as she seeks to explain what I’ve been through.
“That is a good comparison,” says an olive-skinned woman who was introduced to me as Daka. “Only it is not just you who is laid bare and exposed. Your mates share in your vulnerability. Lord Enrik says a Drakoryan, even if told what to expect, is as affected by the Deepening as his mate.”
The other women nod.
We are sitting by a pool in the Crystal Cavern. The other Drakoryans will leave tomorrow, but tonight is for us women. They were waiting for me here, after the Deepening, and gently embraced me when I walked in, spent and still a little disoriented.
They are warm and strong, these women who share in my fate. All were seized by dragons, some from my village, some from other villages I have never heard of. They each have their own stories. They will share them. They say we have time, and from them I learn other secrets. I learn that the Deepening grants more than a bond. When a Drakoryan deepens with a mate, he gifts her with some of his life force, giving her exceptionally good health and a supernaturally long lifespan.
Human women can still die – of injury, illness, in childbirth – but it is rare.
My induction into the world grants me membership into a special sisterhood. Enid is the one who gives me the necklace that all the women wear – a gift, she tells me, from the witches.
“The Wyrd send a message through us,” she says as she fastens it around my neck. “You are now one of us, Lyla. You are now a Fire Bride.”
I lift the pendant. It looks like frosted glass, but inside is a tiny, living flame. It changes color as it burns – green, blue, red, gold. I nearly cry with joy.
I still have questions. They laugh when I say this. You will always have questions, they say. But you will learn.
“Knowledge is not hidden here.” A small, beautiful woman with a tight cap of red curls moves to sit beside me. “I expected my mates would lock me away and breed me to death. I was angry. I fought them. But no Drakoryan is matched with a mate he cannot handle. I challenge mine, but they need someone who keeps life interesting.”
“Not mine,” says Enid, smoothing my hair over my shoulder. “Mine prefer predictability. They take too much to heart. I am their haven, their comfort.”
“What will I be?” I ask.
Enid smiles. “That will be up to you, Lyla. What do you want to be?”
I know what I want to be. I want to be happy. I know I love my Drakoryan mates. I do not want to be without them. But I also know that I will never be truly content until I can get word to my mother and my aunt that I survived. I do not want to defy my mates, but I’m committed to bringing peace to my mother, to easing her pain.
But for now, I will establish myself here. I will accept my fate, even as I forge my own path in this wild and mysterious world.
I was, after all, raised to be strong. I am a loved daughter, the niece of a priestess. I am Lyla, bonded mate to the Lords of Fra’hir. I am a Fire Bride.
My story is just beginning.
Excerpt from Fire Bride
Thank you for reading Sacrifice.
The sequel to this book, Fire Bride, will be released on March 10, 2018, and is available now for pre-order HERE.
Prologue
Once upon a time there was a king who had everything a king could ever want.
He had riches, a powerful army, and a fine castle with a high parapet overlooking all the lands he ruled.
He was King Eknor, and after years of making war, he was finally able to bask in his victories. He had defeated the kings of the valley. He had defeated the kings of the highlands. He had defeated all the kings in between. He had stormed their castles, overpowering them with such overwhelming force that most surrendered right away. Of those who had not, all that remained were their severed heads, rotting on pikes.
Each morning the king would walk to the parapet and watch the sun rise and spread its golden glow over the lands he’d conquered. Day after day he did this, but one morning he realized his pride was beginning to ebb, like the slow leak of air from a punctured lung.
Despite what he saw, he knew there was more land for the taking, land he could not see even from the tallest room of his castle.
King Eknor wondered what lay beyond the horizon, over the curve of the world. He imagined greater riches than he had in his storehouse, finer and bigger stags than those in his forest, mines filled with jewels and precious metals yet to be discovered.
Day after day he stared at the horizon. Day after day he became more restless, less content. The king knew not be satisfied until he had more. He knew he would not be satisfied until he traveled to where the world curved, to conquer what was yet unseen.
The queen urged caution. She urged contentment. Had he not conquered the other kings? Wasn’t it enough? What lay beyond the curve of the world was not for him, she reasoned. She begged her husband to heed his Oracle, who’d warned that beyond the curve of the world lay the Wyld, its thick forests inhabited by beasts and fairie folk. The Wyld was full of magic, deep and old and unsullied by Man.
“Stay,” the queen begged. “Rule your kingdom. Keep the peace.”
But King Eknor would not be influenced by a mere woman, for what did women know of ambition? He ignored the queen’s pleas. He told her would take their three sons— Arok, Dax, and Yrn. He would take half the army. The other half would stay behind to keep the peace. He would journey over the curve of the world, and conquer lands he could not see.
The queen wept, falling to her knees. She pressed her face into the king’s gauntlet, pleading, but he pushed her to the throne room floor. As she lay there, sobbing her grief, the king walked away, followed by sons who had become as cold and ambitious as their father.
And they left. They traveled through the conquered lands, and over the curve of the world until they came to the edge of a wild, wild forest. At its entrance stood a mighty stag, blocking the only way in, its antlers as broad as a spreading tree, its eyes fierce and protective.
“I am the guardian of this place,” it said. “This is a land of magic. You are not welcome here.” Some of the soldiers were afraid to hear a talking beast. They wanted to flee. But the king forbid it.
“I am King of Men,” he snarled, “And your magic is no match for me.”
King Eknor ordered his soldiers to kill the stag. They surrounded the creature, hemming it in. The stag tried to rush through the ring of horsemen, but could not. On the king’s command, the soldiers fired upon the noble creature. It took many arrows, and when it finally fell, the king dismounted, drew his sword and approached the bloodied beast. The stag looked up through weary eyes and begged for its life. But the king refused, cutting its throat.
“Should we butcher it for meat, sire?” a soldier asked.
The king regarded the dead stag. “No need. The wood is full of beasts. Why haul our meat when we can kill another deer closer to where we break camp? Leave it to rot. We’ll take the head for a trophy on the way back.”
They continued through the wood.
At dusk, they made camp in a glen. The soldiers chopped down a gnarled yew, which groaned with each blow of the axe. They burned it for fire. The eldest prince shot a doe that came to the stream to drink, sending her orphaned fawn bleating into a thicket. He and his brothers set snares in the night, and in the morning found a russet fox, its paw caught in the loop. When it looked at the middle prince with hopeful eyes, he and his younger brother clubbed it to death and cast lots for its skin.
The carrion birds, realizing that Men meant Death, began following them, feeding on the creatures they needlessly felled. The princes’ swords and skinning knives stayed red with blood. They killed for fun, boasting of the fine trophies they would take once they had conquered whatever sovereign ruled this land, for despite what the Oracle told them, there was always a ruler, always a king. There was always someone to defeat.
And they were right. There was a ruler of this realm, and it was angered by each senseless slaughter, each felled tree. The cries of the carrion birds, the coppery smell of blood and smoke, were an offense to this sovereign, who was more powerful than the king could imagine.
And unlike mortal men, the rulers of the Wyld had no need of bows and blades. Its weapons were in nature itself. It sent driving snow so thick that the king, the princes, and the soldiers lost their way in the wood. It sent knives of icy wind that pierced furs and armor and woolens beneath them. The men shook with cold. Their lips cracked and bled. Frost clung to their lashes and beards. Some begged to turn back.
But the king pressed on, refusing to admit defeat even when first horses, then soldiers, began to die from hunger. With each loss, he fancied he could hear laughter on the wind, and this enraged him. He rallied his dying men, not realizing he was leading them in endless circles.
When his own horse fell beneath him, he demanded the mount of his most loyal knight, leaving man stranded, for no horse could carry two by this point.
It was only when he and his sons – the sole survivors – were killing their last horse for food – that King Ekn
or realized the folly of his pride. He’d betrayed his best knights. He’d lost half his army.
“What have I done?” he thought, and with that one question, the weather calmed.
The king and his sons, on foot now and weak, discovered path that led from the forest to a cave. They entered, leaning against one another for support. They needed shelter. They needed warmth. They were tired of eating snow. They needed water. They could hear it dripping, and stumbled through the dark passages, following the sound.
When the cave opened to the cavern, what they saw made them cry for joy. It was a pool, the surface smooth and glassy. The king stumbled towards it, beckoning his sons to follow. But their legs gave way before they could reach it, and they lay on the stone floor, helpless.
The king looked up then to see a woman sitting on a stone by the pool. How had he missed her before?
He reached up and beckoned her to him. “Woman,” he called, “my sons and I are dying. Bring us water.”
The woman did not move. She just stayed where she was, on the rock.
“These are no ordinary waters you ask for,” she said. “They are healing waters.”
“More’s the better,” he replied. I am no ordinary man. I am King Eknor. And you will bring me and my sons drink.”
“A king you say?” She smiled but did not move
The king lifted his head. Was she mocking him? Why wasn’t she obeying? He gritted his teeth in fury and tried to crawl forward, but his legs were as lead. Beside him, his sons groaned with thirst and pain.
“Bring me water!” His command echoed off the walls of the cave. “I demand it! Bring me water or…”
“Or what?” The woman stood. She was clad in blue and had long silver hair. She walked over and knelt beside him. “What will you do if I refuse to obey, great king of men? Will you shoot me full of arrows? Hack me apart with an axe and burn my body? Catch me in a snare and strip me of my skin?” She reached out a warm hand and cupped his chin. “You may have been a king once, but no longer. Now you are but a beggar.”