by K.N. Lee
Now, that he had the savage’s rune as well, he would put it to good use.
He curled his fist around the hilt of his dagger, licking his lips as he stared into the vast horizon before him. Waves rose like walls and crashed all around, sending frigid water onto the deck.
It was time to finish what he started when he first came to this realm.
Time to awaken the beast.
3
What is happening?
Those words continued to spin and dash around Amalia’s mind as she silently wept. She grieved for her parents, for her freedom…for the man she’d grown to love.
Despite his betrayal, she missed him. Pain gripped her chest and wouldn’t let go.
Snarling, she wiped her tears away and punched the bars of the cage.
Don’t be so stupid, she told herself. She was no longer a little girl. Tears were for babies. She was a warrior.
A Wolf.
Aros would not reduce her to a weak human ever again. She would never be that same girl who ran from the fight.
She took in a sharp breath and turned to the light as the door to the room was opened.
She and Kylan shared a look as one of the monks came down the stairs, a torchlight hanging from his fist. He didn’t say a word, simply approaching the cage and unlocking it.
Amalia froze, her brows snapping together. “Am I free to go?”
He shook his head. “No. You’re free to sleep in the main cabin. Come.”
She swallowed, her throat dry, but suddenly felt unsure about leaving her new companion. She glanced at him, his eyes as sharp and enchanting as when she’d last found herself drowning in them.
“Is he coming too?”
“No, please come with me now,” the monk said, and Amalia lifted a brow, surprised by his polite request.
She crawled across the sticky, wet floor and out of the cage. She gasped as Kylan shot toward the monk, prepared to tackle him.
The monk casually stepped to the side, and during the course of his recitation of two quick words, he shot a blast of air into Kylan’s chest. It materialized out of nowhere, and was faster than she could blink.
At closer observation, it resembled two ghostly fists that screeched through the air and into Kylan’s imposing frame.
Kylan grunted, just as stunned as Amalia, as it sent him flying to the back of the cage with a loud crash. Then, he slammed the door shut and turned the lock. He took two small, golden, coin-sized discs from his pocket. Amalia watched as he threw one to Kylan. She gasped as it flew through the darkness and tripled in size as it wrapped around Kylan’s neck like a collar.
When he threw one to her, she wasn’t quick enough to stop it from doing the same and locking itself around her neck.
“They should have collared the both of you long ago. We will not have anymore disobedience,” he said. “There will be no shifting or usage of magic from her on out.”
Those words shouldn’t have frightened her, for she was less skilled in her magical abilities than that of her warrior training. Still, she was left exposed without it.
Amalia swallowed, fretfully searching the collar for a way to take it from her neck.
“This way,” he said, as calm as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Amalia found herself cold, wishing she was back in the cage with Kylan. She couldn’t explain it, but every muscle and hair on her body seemed to pull toward him by an unseen force. She wished she knew more about magic—about the prophecies and tales Aros and Kylan had assured her were true.
The monk took her by the arm and didn’t ask for her compliance a third time. She was marched up the stairs and onto another floor where three other monks stood outside, watching them with dark, unyielding eyes.
They all wore the same maroon cloak and black, leather boots, but one of them had blue eyes that reminded her of one of the townsfolk in Skal, so pale that they were almost white. It meant that the man was going blind. Such a shame, for his eyes were kind in the midst of those who looked at her with suspicion.
As she passed him by, his eyes followed her in adored silence. She was led to a room at the end of the hall. Still shackled by the ankles, she shuffled inside and glanced at the large bed and furnishings.
With a raised brow, she turned to the monk just as he closed and locked the door.
She reached for the knob and turned, checking to see if it were truly locked. Where would she go if she escaped, anyway?
They were in the middle of the sea, where no one could hear her scream or heed her call. No mermaid or creature of the deep would help her find her way back to land if she found herself thrashing around in the waves. She’d be dead within minutes.
Sighing, she reserved herself to enjoying what little comforts this room could temporarily give her. It was much warmer than where she’d spent her time thus far. She wasn’t quite sure how many days had passed since she had been turned over to the Brotherhood—how many days it had been since she was betrayed by the man she loved.
Quietly, she searched the room for anything she could use as a weapon. To her dismay, there was little more than scrolls and books that filled the drawers of the grand, mahogany desk at the back of the room. She stared, perplexed at the maps and scrolls that littered the walls with pins and foreign etchings.
There was nothing there to help or entertain her, so she sat on the bed and touched the soft quilted fabric. As the waves rocked the ship, she crawled under the covers and stared at the wooden ceiling. Her heart ached, but her mind and body screamed for peace.
And so, she fell into an uneasy sleep, ignoring the aching in her chest for something she never knew she needed—for the handsome man in the cage.
4
Her legs spread open. Dark, perfect legs of smooth coal-colored flesh. Cool cream the smell of lavender was spread up from her ankles to her thighs by delicate white hands. While one woman oiled and brushed her long purple hair, two others began their preparations of the dark elf who had been deemed a divine Cleric.
A Shi’Syn Cleric to be exact—the most powerful rank to be held.
Eiko watched them, hoping someone would speak to her for once. She may be a Mage, but she was barely twenty years old and needed a friend. Anyone would do. If things continued this way, she feared she would go mad. Memories of her seven sisters came to her.
Father would watch them as they practiced their choreographed dances for the tribe, smiling and clapping. How she missed them all. In her dreams, she was home, and not a prisoner to the fanatics who had stolen her.
As the servants used sharp blades to shave her legs of all hair—no matter how faint—Eiko yawned and closed her eyes. This was her life, now. Hours were spent bathing, dressing, and preparing her for what she liked to call The Great Show.
By sunset, she would be put on display and worship as if she were a goddess. She was not. Not even close. But, she would play the role, even if she were simply one stolen Mage out of a thousand. It was better this game than the alternative. No, death was not in her future...not this early at least.
Once the shaving was done, hot water was poured onto her legs and warm towels patted them dry. Next, it was time for the draping of the fabric over her voluptuous body. Taller than most, Eiko stood and looked down at her servants. She’d learned early on to save her breath. These women weren’t here to socialize. They did their duty and scurried away like meek mice.
Thin, sheer satin covered her breasts in an X and wrapped around her waist, falling over her nether region. Then, a golden belt was clamped across her waist and locked behind her back.
She was to be seen, but not touched, especially her sacred areas. An Cleric was nothing without her innocence.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to have courage for what was next. Each time she was presented to the monks, she worried that she would be replaced, or worse--killed. She'd seen so much death during her time in the temple. The Brotherhood was ruthless and determined to find the Mage who would bring
the gods back to their world.
The bell chimed and she knew that it was time to go out into the ceremony hall. She walked along the dark hallway, watching the torch flames dance as if to the soft music being played on a harp.
Through the wide hallways she walked at a slow pace. Her robes lightly touched the floor as she made her way to the altar. Her heart thumped in her chest and matched that of the drums that began to play along with the harp.
The steady beat vibrated along the walls and floor, and as she emerged from the hall and into the room that was built like an arena, her head began to bob to the beat.
She looked up at the rows of monks assembled, her head held high. If she appeared to be confident, they would trust her.
Yes, she had the gift of prophecy, but one could fall from grace so quickly in this world.
The monks sat in rows that went as high as the glass ceiling that looked up into the night sky. She gazed at the crescent moon, wishing she could fly away from this place and return to her home.
Such a thought was pointless. She knew she’d never be free.
The monks began to hum a hypnotizing hymn as she descended down the white, stone stairs into the pit of the room where smoke and colorful vapors the scent of menthol and spice wafted into the room. She breathed it in, letting its power enter her body and spread across her arms and legs, and into her blood. Before she reached Brother Yousef at the altar, she was already a little lighter on her feet—a bit intoxicated.
Dressed in white, instead of the customary blue robes, he held a clay dish with sparkling water within it.
She knelt before him and looked into his glowing eyes.
“Drink of the Mother,” he said, and poured the sacred spring water down her throat.
It was cool, and sweet. She didn’t mind this part. The fumes were relaxing, and the water was refreshing. It was what came next that made her blood curdle with fear.
Her brows furrowed as the pain began to itch at her throat. Her body twitched and convulsed. Frothy, white foam came from her mouth. She shot a frightened look to Brother Yousef. She tried to keep the strangled cries inside as her heart pounded in her chest. Instead of comforting her for what was about to happen, he touched his hand to her forehead and began to pray.
Prayer never did anything for her, and as her veins and muscles began to burn and her eyes rolled into the back of her head, she almost wished the Mother would come take her away.
No, she wasn’t going anywhere. She was a prisoner to this place and none of her hopes or prayers mattered to anyone but herself. By morning, she would have sputtered out several prophecies that she would barely remember.
But, first, she would have to die…the same way she did during every crescent moon.
5
Vidar led the way, his tail trailing and shimmering in the midnight sky as the red dragon at his back sped to keep up. The people of Wregard were besides themselves with worry for Kylan.
It was up to him to take action while the others prepared for war with the monks. In times of war, one needed an ally, and the dark elves had once stood side-by-side with the dragons and the Mages.
Their kingdom of Lordisburg was built underground after the great exodus from Kjos centuries ago.
Dark elves thrived there in harmony—just on the outskirts of the old world—mining and digging deeper into the land until they could go no further. Fire and lava awaited at the deepest layer, and that was where the dark elves built their empire.
Lordisburg sprawled for miles underneath the jungle, and still, they weren’t safe from the creatures of the Feral Lands. And so, they depended on ancient treaties with mighty warriors to keep their lands clear of such monstrosities.
The dragons were such warriors, and Vidar and Sassa flew to their outpost city in the dead of night when the elves would be awake and prepared for a formal meeting. Holgar and the others were awaiting their return, ready to strike their enemy. The monks had gone too far invading their home and stealing their leader.
Just like the molten lava in the black mountains that shielded the dark elf kingdoms from the rest of the world, war was brewing.
Their wings outstretched and together, they darted through the warm air toward the jungle floor. Once their feet touched the moist earth, Vidar and Sassa shifted into their human forms and stood to their full height. The effects of the change lingered as Vidar stretched his arms and neck.
The moon shone brightly on the purple flowers that covered the tall, black trees. Being of the last dragons meant they needed to uphold their secret from every outsider. They wouldn't risk their secret being discovered by anyone but the true heirs of the Erani.
Such secrecy was for the good of their entire race.
Sassa cracked her knuckles, breathing in the fragrant air.
“Pretty flowers,” she said, ripping one from the ground and stuffing it into her hair.
He glanced back as she straightened her tunic and pulled her fire-red hair into a ponytail of braids and loose tressesShe gave him a wide smile.
“How do I look?”
He returned the smile, his heart full with love for her. “Beautiful as always.”
“Good,” she said. “But, I’m not sure the elves will appreciate my beauty half as much as you do.”
“No,” he agreed, tucking a fallen red strand of hair behind her ear. “They will appreciate the way you have a knack for slamming a sword into a man’s chest much more.”
“Aye,” she said, beaming with pride. “I am quite good at that, aren’t I?”
“One of the best,” he said.
It was true, Sassa was a skilled shield and sword master. He dare say she would easily beat him in hand-to-hand combat. Though you’d have to get close enough to him for that. Vidar was an archer, and one wouldn’t make it two feet toward him if his arrow was nocked and pointed at their skull.
“Let’s make this quick,” Vidar said, and she nodded, instinctively reaching for a sword at her hip.
They couldn’t bring weapons into dark elf territory. So, together they headed to the gates of the underground fortress, hoping the treaty between their clan and the elves still stood.
The thick underbrush of evergreen vines and fallen branches announced their arrival to the outpost guards.
Two tall elves with skin as black as coal, pointy ears, and eyes that glowed in the dark like orbs outstretched their spears toward Vidar and Sassa’s chest.
He stiffened.
Two weeks had passed since Kylan was taken by the monks. Two weeks to lose all they'd fought for.
“King Matsuharu is expecting us,” Vidar said.
The elves exchanged a look. “Right. Vidar, is it?”
‘That’s it, mate.” Vidar nodded, directing his gaze to the sharp point of the spear at his chest. “Mind lowering that. I didn’t bring my wife along to have her ran through like a deer.”
As it was lowered, he relaxed his jaw, but kept his guard up.
“Right. Apologies,” one of the guards said. They parted ways and bowed their heads.
“You may pass.”
Vidar led the way, with Sassa at his back. She was nearly as tall as him, with slender shoulders and strong arms.
“Have you met the king before?” Sassa asked as they walked through the deep trench that cut through the jungle. At the end of the trail was the mouth of the mountain, where the stone gate awaited.
The song of the night was heard from above, and the moon's light lit their way along with poles wrapped with glowing effervescent yellow orbs. Such inventions were unknown in their village, but so was the prospect of living underground.
Magic was something they knew little about, yet it surged through their veins every time they shed their human bodies and became dragons.
“I have not,” he said. “Davvyn and Kylan usually handle such meetings.”
“You've been given a great honor, husband,” she said. “To meet with kings and negotiate politics is something only the wisest and mo
st trustworthy are entitled to. I knew you were special when I first laid eyes on you.”
His cheeks reddened. Even after being married for several years, she still stirred such affection in his heart.
“You give me too much credit,” he said under his breath.
The responsibility was passed onto him only because Kylan had named him second in command—a title Holgar would have preferred to the young man with little diplomatic experience.
“We just need to find Kylan and all will be as it once was.”
“It will never be the same,” she said. “Not with those monks flying about.”
“We will destroy them,” he said. “Every last one.”
Vidar sat before the king in his dining hall. There were several dark elves of high rank sitting at tables around the king’s table in the center of the room, under a divine chandelier with dozens of lit candles. The lute was played softly as valets brought platters and covered dishes of food to set before them.
It was different than the tables they had in Wregard. These were short and close to the floor and one had to fold their legs under them or before them to sit at them.
Wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs, he tried to remain calm, or at least appear to be so.
King Matsuharu used his flatbread to pick up the pastes and meats on the platter before him. The rice and vegetables steamed from their pots and Vidar and Sassa didn't hesitate when the king nodded for them to partake.
“Eat up, friends,” he said, taking a big bite. “We welcome you as guests and family. When our ancestors sat at the round table centuries ago, we vowed to always uphold the treaty.”
Vidar drank a sip of wine. One sip was fine, he told himself. Maybe a glass. but, any more than that and he feared he'd lose his senses.
Sassa drank her glass down and pulled the meat of a pheasant from its bone with her teeth. Then, she stuffed a chunk of bread drizzled in spicy oil into her mouth. A grunt of pleasure rumbled in her pale, white throat.
The king smiled, nodding at Sassa's appetite and vigor. Then, he chuckled and slapped his thigh.
