by Jaye McKenna
Mikhyal resumed his exploration of Tristin’s body. Tristin moaned as Mikhyal’s hands stroked his belly and meandered slowly down toward his hips. When he brushed his fingertips lightly over Tristin’s groin, he was pleased to note the shape of a hot, rigid cock pressing tightly against Tristin’s breeches. Tristin let out a little gasp, and Mikhyal let his fingertips linger, stroking him softly through the fabric.
“Oh… oh, yes…” Tristin whispered.
When Mikhyal cupped Tristin’s cock in his palm, Tristin began rutting against it. His body trembled, his skin was scorching against Mikhyal’s chest, and the little whimpers falling from his lips were all it took to send a storm of heat crashing through Mikhyal. The motion of Tristin’s backside against his erection was enough to have him flexing his hips, seeking the sweet friction that would eventually lead to his own release.
Tristin turned his head, mouth seeking Mikhyal’s. It was an awkward angle, to be sure, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Tristin pressed against him, writhing in his arms.
Mouths met, tongues clashed, and husky moans filled the air until Tristin suddenly stilled and let out a choked cry. Moments later, Mikhyal pulled Tristin hard against him, his own release a blinding flash of pleasure that left him panting and struggling to support Tristin’s weight as well as his own. With a groan, he hauled Tristin to the bed and collapsed, pulling Tristin down with him.
They settled in a tangle of limbs, Mikhyal’s arms loosely around Tristin, so as not to make him feel trapped.
“That was… that was lovely,” Tristin murmured. “No one’s ever done that for me before. I… might have done it myself a few times, but then the drugs made it impossible to feel anything… and I couldn’t… and of course, locked up in Shadowspire, there was never anyone…”
The mixture of wonder and regret in his voice made something in Mikhyal’s chest tighten. How lonely Tristin’s life must have been. He lifted Tristin’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Then I am honored to have been the first.”
“Will you be the second, as well?” Tristin whispered. “And the third? And—”
Mikhyal silenced him with a kiss.
* * *
A fat raindrop spattered on one of the flat grey stones surrounding the herb garden, and Tristin paused in his weeding to squint up at the overcast sky. It was bright enough to the west that the afternoon might be sunny, but the dark clouds directly overhead meant he’d have to take cover for now if he wanted to stay dry.
He brushed his hands off and went inside. At the kitchen door, he stopped and poked his head in. “Is there any word on Prince Mikhyal, yet, Alys?”
Alys turned from the tray of pastries she was preparing. “Not yet, Tristin. I checked with Wytch King Drannik a few minutes ago to see if he’d like some tea. Ambris and Prince Vayne were still in with the prince. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to carry the pastries for me?”
“Of course, Mistress Alys, I’d be happy to help.” Tristin came all the way into the kitchen in time to see Dirit creeping across the work table toward the pastry tray. “Dirit, don’t you dare.”
Dirit flattened his ears and turned his head to look at Tristin, gleaming black eyes full of reproach. “I was only watching,” he said, sitting on his haunches near the tray. “You always think the worst of me, but I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”
“Yet,” Tristin corrected.
“Is that little rat about again?” Alys eyed the work table suspiciously. Though Tristin noted no difference in his appearance, Dirit must have chosen that moment to materialize, for Alys gasped and jumped back. “Out of my kitchen with your dirty little feet, you!” she said sternly. “Or you’ll find yourself with a broom up your backside.”
Dirit drew back. “You wound me, Madam. I only wished to compliment you on your most impressive pastry-making skills.”
“Trying to sweet-talk me, more like,” she muttered. “Tristin, get that tray before he has his grubby paws all over it.”
“Grubby paws?” Dirit’s whiskers drooped. “I’ll have you know I am far cleaner than any human I’ve ever met.”
Alys ignored him and picked up the tea tray. “I shall be having another word with His Highness about his pet rat as soon as Prince Vayne has finished with him.”
Tristin lifted the pastry tray. “Have you been in to check on Mikhyal lately?” he asked Dirit.
“First you accuse me of stealing pastries, and now you want information,” Dirit complained.
“Oh… oh, I am sorry, Dirit. I didn’t mean to accuse you, but you were slinking across the table, and you did have a rather furtive look in your eye.”
“Slinking? Furtive? Well, I never,” the little dragon huffed. “You’re very lucky I happen to like you, Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed, or I should decline to say a word. As it happens, I was in to see His Royal Transformedness only a few moments ago. They’re almost finished, and he slept like a baby through the entire procedure.”
Tristin let out a tiny sigh of relief. He’d been worried in spite of Vayne’s reassurances. He remembered all too well what Jaire had told him about Kian’s transformation. Kian had very nearly died, and Jaire had spent the entire time listening to his screams, unable to help him.
“Tristin! Are you coming?” Alys called from the hall.
“Yes, Mistress Alys, sorry!” Tristin hurried after her, nearly dropping the tray in his haste.
“As long as you’re coming with me,” Alys said over her shoulder, “do you think you could keep His Majesty company? He’s looking a bit on edge. I’d try to reassure him myself, but I’m not sure how he’d take it, coming from the help, and all. And since you’ve already been through the transformation, you can probably set his mind at ease better than I can.”
“Ah… well… I…” Tristin tried to swallow past the knot of panic rising in his chest. He’d been out in the garden for a reason: avoiding having to talk to Mikhyal’s father.
Tristin had no idea what the oath he’d sworn to Garrik meant to his own status. Did it mean he could initiate conversation with the Wytch King of Rhiva without giving offense? Or must he wait for the king to address him? All he knew about the nobility of Skanda was that their interactions were governed by a tangled web of complex rules he’d never had the occasion — or the need — to learn. Jaire had tried to explain some of it to him in the days leading up to the betrothal ceremony, but Tristin hadn’t managed to make sense of any of it yet. He’d already decided the best course of action was to simply keep his mouth shut around anyone who looked to be of the noble class, but if Alys wanted him to entertain Drannik, that strategy wasn’t going to work very well.
Life had been a lot less complicated when the only people he’d had to talk to came from his own imagination.
“I’ll try, Mistress Alys, but I’m not sure I’ll be very good company.”
Alys stopped when they reached the suite and patted his arm. “Just keep His Highness’s rat out of sight, and I’m sure all will be well.” She pushed open the door of the suite before Tristin could respond.
He waited, awkwardly holding the pastry tray while Alys arranged the tea things and poured a cup for Wytch King Drannik.
Alys handed the Wytch King his tea and took the pastry tray from Tristin. “There you are, Your Majesty.” She set it down on the low table and set out two plates and two napkins. “If you need anything else, just send Tristin to the kitchen. He’s going to keep you company while you wait.”
And with that all too brief and surely inadequate introduction, she left him alone with the Wytch King of Rhiva.
“Have a seat, then,” Drannik said. “Tristin, is it? Vakha’s boy, Garrik says. You certainly have the look of him.”
“I… I w-wouldn’t know, Your Majesty,” Tristin stammered. “I n-never met him. Alys said you were worried. About Mikhyal.” Tristin froze, aware that he may have just committed an error. Was he supposed to use Mikhyal’s name? Or his title? “Er… I mean,
His Royal Highness, Prince Mikhyal.”
Drannik’s lips twitched. “No need to stand on ceremony, Tristin. You’re Garrik’s cousin, and he seems to think a lot of you. As does my son.”
Tristin’s face burned. What did the Wytch King mean by that? Had he heard them last night? He wanted to sink into the floor at the thought. Had he been noisy? He couldn’t remember anything but the feel of Mikhyal’s hands on his body and the scorching heat burning through him. Had he cried out in his ecstasy? “Ah. I… I see. Um.”
He stared down at the table in time to see Dirit reaching for a pastry. The little dragon hooked a blackberry tart with one long claw and began dragging it toward him. Tristin glared at him and shook his head ever so slightly.
Not slightly enough, for the motion caught Drannik’s attention. The Wytch King followed Tristin’s gaze, eyes widening as he leaned forward to peer at the little dragon. Dirit froze, then turned his head, looking first at Tristin and then at Drannik. Very slowly, he unhooked his claw and drew his arm back.
“I was rather hoping you’d be too busy with introductions and awkward conversation to notice my nearly inconsequential transgression.” Dirit’s eyebrow tufts drew together, and his little pink tongue darted out.
“Amazing,” Drannik murmured. “Is this the little creature that lives in the Wytch Sword? The same creature that saved us on the road to Altan?”
“Ai, Your Majesty,” Tristin said, relieved to have the king’s attention on something besides himself for the moment. “This is Dirit. Dirit, may I present Wytch King Drannik of Rhiva, Mikhyal’s father.”
“Yes, I am aware,” Dirit said, still staring longingly at the pastry. “I’ve been watching over him, at his Royal Stubbornness’s insistence.”
“Have you, now? Well, for that and your other services to the royal line of Rhiva, you have my most heartfelt gratitude.” Drannik chuckled, a low, rich sound. “Help yourself, Master Dirit. You saved us all when those bandits attacked us on the road. I believe you are owed far more than a bit of pastry.”
“Why, thank you, Your Most Gracious Majesty.” Dirit rose up on his haunches and executed a neat little bow. Formalities completed, he dropped to all fours and minced back to the tray, snagged the tart, and devoured it in three bites. “Mmm, that Alys does have a way with pastry. We shall have to see about hiring her for ourselves, don’t you think?”
“I imagine Garrik would have something to say about that,” Drannik said with a smile. “I had better taste one and see for myself. Tristin, please sit down. I’m not about to bite you. Though I cannot say the same for Master Dirit, here. Look at those teeth! Quite marvelous.”
“The better to defend your line with, Your Majesty,” Dirit said. He lifted a claw to his mouth and began licking. “Sticky again. I cannot abide sticky.” And with that, he faded from sight.
Drannik leaned back in his armchair, still gazing at the spot Dirit had occupied. “Fascinating,” he murmured.
He might have said more, but at that moment, the door to the bedroom opened and Ambris slipped out and closed it quietly behind him.
“Prince Ambris.” Drannik got to his feet. “How fares Mikhyal?”
“He is very well,” Ambris said with a reassuring smile. “He slept through the procedure, and he should wake soon. You may go in and sit with him, if you like. Vayne is just tidying up his inks.”
Drannik nodded to Tristin and went off to the bedroom.
“You’re looking much brighter than the last time we talked,” Tristin said.
Ambris’s smile widened. “I’m feeling much brighter, too. Things went better with my father than I expected them to. I was horrified to run into him down at the castle. It was as much of a shock to him as it was to me, but it’s turned out to be for the best. He had no idea what was happening at Blackfrost, and not only is he overjoyed to have me back, but he’s welcomed Kian into the family, as well. If there wasn’t all this alliance business going on, I think he would have liked to stay longer. He’s invited us to come and visit the palace at Mir as soon as we can be spared, and of course, he’ll be here at harvest, when we reaffirm our vows. Oh, but you already know all that — you were there at dinner.”
“I was,” Tristin said, “and I was pleased to see him officially welcome you both. I know how wonderful it feels to find a family after believing you have none.”
“Garrik and Jaire both seem very fond of you already,” Ambris said. “And I couldn’t help but notice how much attention Prince Mikhyal was paying you at the betrothal ceremony. I saw you dancing. You make a very handsome couple, if I might say so.”
Couple? Tristin’s ears went hot. Was that what people thought? “Ah. Well. I think… well. I’m not sure it’s… I mean, well. People will talk, won’t they?”
The knowing look Ambris gave him said he was well aware it was more than talk.
Unable to think of a thing to say, Tristin settled for, “He… he has been very kind to me.”
Ambris burst out laughing. “Tristin, you are a master of understatement. I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. We can talk about something else, if you’d prefer. Tell me about your plans for the garden. Garrik said Master Ludin has put you in charge of designing a proper garden for Dragonwatch.”
Pleased to have something else to talk about, Tristin began detailing his plans, sketching the shapes of the proposed flower beds in the air as he spoke.
* * *
I’m going to throw myself off the top of the tower and fly.
It didn’t seem real, even though Mikhyal had seen the reflection of the magnificent sapphire-blue dragon tattoo adorning his back. A shiver that was equal parts excitement and dread rippled through him as he followed Tristin and Master Ilya up the smooth-worn stone steps of the watchtower. All three men wore nothing but cloaks.
The clouds parted, and the sun came out just as they emerged on the roof. Mikhyal chose to see that as a good omen as his bare feet slapped on the still-damp stones. He followed Ilya to the edge of the rooftop and stared down at Dragonwatch’s courtyard, where Kian waited, already in dragon form. Mikhyal watched in wonder as the muscular black dragon took to the air. Strong enough and large enough to support a foundering dragon, Kian was there in case something went wrong.
Mikhyal tried not to think about that, but as he let his gaze travel down the mountain to the castle so far below, his stomach began to knot in dread. He was truly expected to step off the edge and… and fly?
“You’ll be fine,” Tristin said, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Vayne has etched the patterns into your mythe-shadow. Even though your human mind can barely imagine it, your dragon body will know exactly what to do. It feels a bit odd the first time, but all you have to do is let go and let it happen. Ilya and I will be right here with you.”
“And Kian is down below,” Ilya added. “A precaution we’ve not needed thus far. Everyone Vayne has transformed has come through the process with the instinctive abilities to shift and fly. Would you like to try shifting now?” Ilya stepped back to give him room, and after giving his hand a final squeeze, Tristin, too, stepped back.
“I cannot wait to see your dragon form,” Tristin murmured, meeting Mikhyal’s eyes. “You will be magnificent.”
“As magnificent as you?” Mikhyal whispered, and Tristin flushed and smiled as Mikhyal undid the ties of the cloak he wore and cast it aside.
“Think about taking dragon form,” Ilya said. “You should sense a glowing core of light. Vayne will have given you the patterns and the ability to use them.”
Sure enough, a glowing ball of light hung in the back of his mind. Patterns danced around it like golden snowflakes. The one to shift was there, and he instinctively knew that in order to shift, he had to take hold of it and mentally push it into the light.
The shift was smooth and didn’t feel at all strange. Jaire had described it to him as just another way of being, and indeed, that was exactly how it felt. His new form felt familiar in a way
Mikhyal couldn’t explain, like drawing on a comfortable pair of gloves he’d worn many times before. He knew exactly what to do with it, and though he’d wondered how he would ever manage to walk on four legs instead of two, that, too, felt completely natural.
As natural as gliding through the sky on a river of air.
His fears, it seemed, had been shed along with his human skin. When Mikhyal turned to look out over the mountain slope with his dragon eyes, instead of seeing a suicidal drop, he saw freedom only a leap away.
Tristin came up beside him, already shifted. His iridescent ruby hide gleamed in the sunlight. Mikhyal looked down at himself to see his own sapphire-blue scales shimmering and glinting.
It was Tristin’s voice, but in his head.
Mikhyal didn’t even have to think about how to respond; he knew, the same way he knew how to launch himself from the top of the tower and let the wind flow beneath his wings to buoy him up.
In dragon form, Tristin couldn’t blush, but Mikhyal guessed if he were in his human form, his cheeks would be glowing, and he’d be shuffling his feet and looking everywhere but at Mikhyal. Tristin launched himself into the air. Fear forgotten, Mikhyal followed him with his gaze, hungry to experience flight for himself.
A hard blink brought down the inner eyelids that filtered the light, allowing him to see the air currents as flowing rivers of color. Fascinated, he watched Tristin climb higher and higher, following a lazy spiral of orange, then gliding gracefully down on a river of indigo.
With a trumpeting cry of triumph, Mikhyal leapt off the edge of the tower and spread his wings.
* * *
Tristin could barely watch Mikhyal’s first attempt at flight. Despite his reassurances to Mikhyal and his own firsthand knowledge of how deeply ingrained his own dragon instincts were, his heart was still hammering in his chest when the sapphire-blue dragon dove off the top of the watchtower.
