Dragons Realm

by Tessa Dawn

  The crowd grew deathly quiet as Dante approached the first of the two condemned men. “Wylan P. Jonas?”

  The warlock raised his head, leveled a hate-filled glare at Dante, and spoke with heavy contempt in his raspy voice. “Yes, lord?”

  “You have been found guilty by a court of your peers for the crime of treason: What say you?”

  The prisoner mustered his remaining courage and spat at Dante’s feet, and the effort cost him greatly, as his cracked, swollen lips immediately began to bleed. “I say you can all go to hell.” His eyes flashed amber, glowing with rising malevolence, and his words trailed off with a hiss.

  Dante remained unfazed.

  He neither reacted to the abuse nor acknowledged the slight.

  Rather, he stepped gracefully to the side. “And Sir Henry Woodson, you have also been found guilty of plotting against your realm and your king. Do you wish to speak on your own behalf?” He narrowed his eyes with singular purpose in an unspoken warning: Think before you speak. “Do you wish to beg your prince for mercy before you die?”

  The second prisoner looked up and trembled.

  After a long, piteous moment had passed, he shrank back against the post. “It is not in the nature of a warlock to submit to the rule of another mystical being, milord. I make no apologies for defying the Dragonas or the king’s rule.” He gasped for air, and it was readily apparent that his lungs had already been damaged from a previous beating. “However, I am also not a fool. If his lordship would send me to my death with honor, without the pain or scourge of fire, then I would humbly request that he do so.”

  Dante took a measured step back, regarding the second prisoner from head to toe. Mercy was not the way of the dragon, and ruthlessness was all the Warlochians understood.

  He stepped forward, approaching the obstinate prisoner first, the one who had spat at his feet; and the crowd gasped as he tore Wylan P. Jonas free from the post and crushed the heavy iron manacles effortlessly beneath his powerful hands.

  The iron crumbled into dust.

  Wisps of smoke rose from the prince’s palms.

  And Dante kicked the prisoner to the ground with a booted foot and snarled, “You are an insolent fool, warlock, but at least you are brave. The merciful death will be yours.” He grasped the hilt of his sword in its scabbard, brandished the blade in an audible chime of steel, and swiftly brought it down along the prisoner’s neck, removing his head in one clean blow. Bracing himself against the spattering gore, he licked his lips, felt his fangs begin to elongate, and slowly re-sheathed the blade. “As for you, Sir Henry Woodson, you shall return to the pit of hell as nothing more than a pile of ash, so that even those who inhabit the underworld will know: A dragon’s fury is mightier than a warlock’s pride.”

  He took two large strides back and began to call his beast.

  Orange and red fire began to circulate around his body, radiating like a macabre halo, even as pulsating tendrils, like miniature bolts of lightning, shot forth from his fingers. His fangs extended even further, growing perilously sharp and long, and a primordial growl rose in the back of his throat, shaking the ground beneath them. As his face began to harden with the emergence of primordial scales, and a pair of leathery wings punched through his back, he drew back his shoulders, bent both arms at his sides, and strained to arch his spine.

  And then he parted his lips and threw back his head, releasing a deafening roar, as an unbroken stream of mystical flames shot forth from his mouth and scorched the second prisoner, without mercy.

  The male cried out in agony.

  He yanked against his chains and thrashed against the post.

  He jerked in pain, writhed in misery, and spat curses, tinged in bloody, blackened mucous.

  And yet, the torture persisted.

  Which was Dante’s intention.

  He continued to channel the dragon’s fire, the infernal, never-ending blaze, until the screams of the warlock were finally silenced by melting flesh and calcifying bones. Until the crowd turned away in horror and hid their revolted faces from the ghoulish spectacle before them.

  Until the gathered Warlochians cried out for mercy on behalf of the prisoner, again and again…

  And again.

  Until, finally, Dante relented.

  The flame turned white and the fire began to cool, until at last, there was nothing left but a charred stump and steaming ash where the post and the traitor had just been. Calling his dragon to heel, Dante fought to regain his center, to reconnect with his civilized core, and to extinguish the flame once and for all.

  Having followed Dante into the square, Damian stepped forward, beside him, and waited, his savage expression daring anyone in the crowd to speak, to even presume to meet their eyes; while Drake took a stance on Dante’s other side, projecting unconditional solidarity and conviction with his presence. He may have been a logical thinker, a calming influence—he may have stood in the eye of the storm—but he was still a Dragona at heart. And, together, they wielded enormous power and influence.

  When, at last, Dante’s wrath had cooled—his fangs and his wings had retracted—he searched the crowd for the sheriff. The male was hovering behind the aged stone well at the back of the square, his face a mask of terror, and the moment their gazes met, the sheriff quickly shuffled to the front of the crowd. He stood before Dante and waited, his head dropped low in a deep, subservient bow.

  “We will take drinks and refreshments at the tavern while you tend to our horses,” Dante said. “And then we will be on our way.”

  Before the sheriff could answer, a young girl, perhaps ten or eleven years old, shot through the horrified crowd. She ducked beneath the warlock’s legs and ran toward Dante, almost as if she were fearless. “Milord!” she cried out. “Milord! Please—please—hear my petition.”

  Dante looked down at the eager child and drew back in surprise. Great Winter Spirits, she was human! He could tell by the contour of her eyes. What was she doing here among the Warlochians? “What is the meaning of this?” he asked the sheriff, choosing to ignore the child.

  The sheriff looked perplexed.

  He shook his head back and forth; his eyes darted this way and that; and he finally shrugged his shoulders. “My prince, I…I do not know. Please—”

  “Raylea! Raylea, come back!” Another human, a beautiful, middle-aged woman, darted through the crowd, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the dragons. She grabbed the child by the arm, snatched her frantically away from Dante, and tried to tuck her behind her back. “Forgive me, milord. She is just a child. She doesn’t know what she is doing.” The woman gathered her skirts and tried to curtsy—it was poorly, at best—her wide eyes brimming with fear. She looked down at the child and frowned, her face growing ashen. “Raylea, what have you done? Apologize to the prince at once!”

  The girl stepped out from her mother’s side, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and boldly shook her head no, although she was clearly shaking in her stockings.

  The woman gasped. “Raylea!” She turned her pleading eyes to Dante and waited, presumably for his wrath.

  Dante considered the girl and then the woman, each one in turn, before firmly pursing his lips together in thought. Finally, he said, “I assume this is your daughter?”

  The woman trembled. “Yes, milord.”

  “And you did not think to raise her better than this?” Damian cut in, his voice reverberating with ire.

  The woman fell to her knees in the dirt. “I have tried, my prince.” She practically groveled on the ground, even as she tucked the child tight against her bosom in a gesture of protection. “I beg your pardon. Forgive her…or hold me responsible in her stead.”

  Drake took a measured step forward. He held up his hand to silence his brothers. “Your love for the child is apparent, but it still does not explain why she would dare to approach a dragon prince. The commonlands will soon be my jurisdiction, which makes you my imminent subject. Explain yourself: Why are you here amon
gst the Warlochians? And why has the child approached the Dragon Prince?” When the woman hesitated, as if she were searching for just the right words, Drake narrowed his gaze with impatience. “Speak quickly, woman. No one has time for these antics.”

  Dante waited in silence, curious to hear her reply.

  The woman cleared her throat. “If it please you, milord…” She stared straight at Drake, pleading with her eyes. “This is my daughter, Raylea. She ran away from home several days ago, after she heard that the future prince of Warlochia would be traveling to this province for—”

  “No! No, Mommy!” the girl cried, tugging on her arm. “You have to ask him about Mina.”

  The woman gasped and shoved her hand over her daughter’s mouth. “Be quiet, child! Before it’s too late for me to save you.”

  Damian withdrew a sharp, curved stiletto from his belt and held it out in front of the girl. He turned it slowly back and forth, rotating the shiny blade in the fading sunlight so that the reflection flashed in her eyes, and then he placed the curved edge against the child’s throat. “If your daughter speaks out of turn one more time, I will remove her tongue.”

  The woman turned a ghastly shade of white, as hideous as one of the nearby gargoyles, and she pressed her hand even harder against the child’s mouth. “Please, milord.” Her eyes said everything she couldn’t say: I’m begging you not to hurt my baby.

  Drake placed a steadying hand on Damian’s arm, indicating that he wanted him to wait for his direction, yet he was also wise enough to play his cards just so. He cast a sidelong glance at the angry prince. “Perhaps the child should tell the tale, Prince Damian, since she is clearly so…eager…to speak. Perhaps we should hear her petition before we cut out her tongue.”

  Dante waited for Damian’s reaction, appreciating Drake’s tactic: It appealed to Damian’s pride without challenging his authority, and it was certainly better than mutilating a little girl in front of a village of gawking spectators, for the gods’ sake. “But first, she must apologize for her insolence,” Drake added, using his eyes to issue a clear warning to the child’s mother: The situation could quickly get out of hand, and none of the princes would stop it.

  The mother whispered hastily in the child’s ear, and the girl stood tall. “Forgive me, milords.” She curtsied like a proper lady, and then she knelt beside her mother.

  “Speak,” Drake ushered, nodding his acceptance of her apology.

  Raylea raised her head and smiled, her dark, luminous eyes brightening beneath a veil of thick, curly lashes, her brows rising in ardent anticipation. She was nothing more than an innocent child, a bit immature and unruly, yet harmless. “It’s just…it’s just…I heard that there was going to be an execution…for treason…in Warlochia, and I knew that the princes would be here.” She inhaled sharply, trying to modulate her breath. “So I ran away from home.”

  Drake frowned. “Why would you do such a thing?” He gestured at the village square. “An execution is no place for a child, and Warlochia is no place for a human.”

  She nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, I know, but I just had to see you. All of you. One of you. I had to ask about my sister, Mina.”

  “Who?” Damian asked irritably.

  Drake held up two fingers. “Go on.”

  “My sister; her name is Mina Louvet,” the girl answered sweetly. “She was taken to the Keep six years ago to be trained as an Ahavi, and then we heard that she had been chosen as a Sklavos and taken to Castle Dragon.” She reached into a tattered sack and withdrew a homely, patchwork doll. “I made this for her with my own two hands. I just wanted”—she eyed all three of them warily—“I wanted one of you to give it to her…for me.”

  Damian scoffed in disbelief, and Drake slowly shook his head, squatting down so he could address the child at eye level. “The Sklavos Ahavi belong to the Realm, little one, not to their families. They are not permitted to maintain contact with their kin, at least not until after the Autumn Mating; and even then, it is at their lord’s discretion. Do you understand?”

  The girl swallowed, and her eyes filled with pressing tears. “I know. I do. But…but it’s just…I made it…with my own two hands.” She held the doll out to Drake, rotating it ninety degrees so that it stood upright, and the little button eyes stared back at him.

  Damian stalked away toward the tavern, lest he do something rash—thank the Spirit Keepers—and Dante held his tongue, trying not to chuckle, waiting to see what his wise, benevolent brother would do next: Would he address his youthful subject with kindness, or would he address the doll, instead?

  He looked on as the prince took the toy from the child, patted the object brusquely on the back, and then turned it this way and that in mock appreciation. “And what a fine work of craftsmanship it is. It is very well made.” He looked back at Dante for support, and when none was forthcoming, he sighed. “What is her name?”

  Raylea shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought…maybe…Mina could name her.”

  Drake smiled then. He handed the doll back to the child, patted her on the head, and rose to his full five foot eleven inches. “You hold onto this, Raylea, and perhaps after the Autumn Mating, you will have a chance to give it to your sister yourself.”

  “But I haven’t seen her in six years,” the girl said, a fresh tear rolling down her cheek.

  Her mother rose to her feet then and clasped the child by both shoulders. She shoved her behind her back once more; only, this time, she gripped her arm so tight she could have cut off her circulation. “Thank you, milord. You are far too kind.” She averted her eyes and bowed her head. “I apologize for my daughter’s impetuousness, and I assure you, it will not happen again. We pray that Mina will bring honor to the Realm”—her voice caught on a sob before she quickly regained her composure—“and we hope to see her after the Autumn Mating, should her master allow a visit.” The fear and anguish in her voice were unmistakable, despite her best attempt at courage and decorum.

  Drake pretended not to notice. “Very well, Mistress Louvet.” He spoke quietly yet sternly. “Your daughter’s impetuousness is forgiven. However…” He leaned in and grasped her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Keep a closer watch on her. Warlochia is no place for a child or a human woman. You are no match for these magical beings.” His warning could not have been any clearer: Humans were afforded basic protections in the commonlands, where human decrees and law enforcement were in play, but once they left that province, once they ventured into Umbras or Warlochia, all bets were off.

  “Yes, milord.” The woman spoke quietly. She curtsied once again, first to Drake and then to Dante. “And thank you for your compassion as well, my prince.”

  Dante nodded, but he said nothing.

  As he watched her walk away, ushering the child hurriedly in front of her, he turned toward a nearby warlock, an old man with a long white beard and a cane, and gestured him forward.

  The man shuffled as quickly as his aged feet would allow. “Yes, lord? How may I serve you?”

  Dante bent to the old man’s ear, and in a voice so low it was barely audible, he whispered, “Have a courier bring the doll to Castle Dragon in the morning.”

  The old warlock looked surprised, but he stared after the departing mother and child and nodded profusely. “Yes, yes, of course, milord.”

  Dante nodded, waved him away, and then turned in the direction of the tavern. He suddenly felt the need to have a stiff drink with his brothers, and he wanted to get on with his day. It wasn’t like the execution had bothered him; actually, not at all. And he didn’t feel as if he had truly gone against Drake’s wishes, either—at least not in a way that really mattered. After all, he had no intentions of repeating his father’s mistake or his twin’s tragic recklessness: A Sklavos Ahavi was not meant to be made immortal, nor was she born to be a queen. And desiring a woman, any woman, so much that a prince would sacrifice his duty to the Realm in order to keep her affections, that he would take his own life in her absence, wa
s unfathomable to Dante on every level.

  No, Dante Dragona would not make the same mistakes his father and his twin had made.

  He would feed as a dragon must; he would produce the required heirs; and the Realm would always come first.

  Still…

  What harm could there be in giving an Ahavi her sister’s doll?

  Chapter Four

  Castle Dragon

  Mina Louvet gingerly climbed out of the slippery bath in her private bedchamber, careful to maintain a sturdy grip around the edge of the tin basin. She reached for a woolen towel, planted both feet solidly on the wooden floor, and began to dry off as quickly as possible. Shivering from the cold, she angled her body toward the hearth for warmth and glanced toward the doorway.

  There was someone in her room.

  A figure in the shadows.

  A murky impression, like a waif or a ghost, and it flickered in the reflection of firelight, dancing in her peripheral vision.

  Gasping, she quickly wrapped herself in the towel, turned in the direction of the shadow, and strained to take a second look.

  It wasn’t a shadow at all.

  It was Dante Dragona.

  And he was standing in the doorway like a notch in the frame, utterly melded and silent, as if he simply belonged there, as if he were part and parcel of the woodwork itself.

  Mina cursed beneath her breath even as she exhaled in relief. Thank the Spirit Keepers it wasn’t an actual specter, yet what it was—who it was—was far more daunting. Her heart began to race from a different kind of fear, and she struggled to steady her nerves.

  As far as Mina knew, Dante was supposed to be away from the castle.

  Just yesterday morning, he had traveled to Warlochia on important court business, and she was surprised to see him back so soon. Just what his business had been, Mina had no idea—the Ahavi were not privy to such matters—but by the weary look on his face, it must have been something grave. His eyes were haunted with subtle shadows. His jaw was set in a hard, implacable line, and his usual discernable expression was inscrutable.