Fate of the Dragons

by K.N. Lee

  Rowen glared at her. “You own nothing,” she spat. “This is all an illusion. And, when I find a way to wake up, I will kill you. Believe the words I speak.”

  She gritted her teeth as Priscilla dug her heel into her chest.

  “I will rip your heart out of your body.”

  Priscilla didn’t laugh that time. Instead, she gazed down at Rowen, a subtle twitch of her eye. She kicked Rowen in the face, drawing blood.

  Rowen grunted, but didn’t scream. The pain was shocking, but it wasn’t real.

  Wake up, Rowen!

  “Illusion?”

  “Its all you’ve got,” Rowen said, licking the blood from her busted lip.

  Then, she grabbed Rowen by the hair and shoved her face into the river of molten lava.

  “This may be an illusion,” she growled. “But, the pain is real. Is it not?”

  After the shock of what Priscilla had done faded, Rowen, reached a hand outward and summoned the inner essence of the lava. It bent to her will, and with a flick of her wrist, it shot upward and covered Priscilla from head to toe. Red-hot thick liquid oozed and melted her skin off, revealing white bone.

  She released the leash with a cry of agony and Rowen pulled herself from the river.

  Now, Priscilla writhed and squirmed, screaming from the ground. She was frantic. Inconsolable.

  Rowen stood.

  She glared down at the sorceress. “Funny,” she said. “I thought you knew I could not be burned. No, I control fire. It is my pet.”

  Kneeling, she collected more lava, sending it swirling into the air and then crashing down onto Priscilla’s face.

  “Tell me,” Rowen whispered. “Is the pain real enough for you?”

  Chapter 4

  Gavin followed Feyda through the palace. The guards whispered as they passed and he averted his eyes, ashamed.

  This was going too far.

  They entered Rowen’s private quarters and the stench of sweat and smoke struck him across the face. He covered his nose and Feyda ran to Rowen’s side.

  “Rowen, dear,” she pleaded. “Wake up, honey.”

  Macana had sent for him, and he knew what was going on in that room, he just hadn’t expected her to look so—near death.

  Her skin was a pale white, her eyes racing from behind tightly shut eyelids.

  There was a basin of water and fresh cloths at Rowen’s side. Apparently, Macana and the palace physician had done their best with herbs and potions to rouse her. Now, they called in something they knew little about.

  Magic.

  “Tell me what is going on here,” Feyda said to Gavin as she washed Rowen’s forehead with a cool cloth.

  “Keep your voice down,” Gavin hissed in a hushed tone. “She will hear you.”

  “Who?” Feyda asked, looking around the room. “Who is she?”

  His shoulders slumped and he dropped his arms to his sides, defeated. “The sorceress who has done this to our poor Rowen.”

  Her face turned into a scowl. “Ah,” she said. “I see. I knew I could smell the stench of dark magic wafting from the next room.”

  He paced Rowen’s private quarters, sending worried glances toward the bed. She was unconscious, but at peace.

  Priscilla needed a break, and so she had retreated to the bath house to soak in the sulfur water, giving Macana and the physician a chance to help their Queen. Priscilla knew their attempts were futile, and so she didn’t intervene, keeping her presence a secret to the staff.

  From what he’d heard from Warwick, Rowen was stronger than they’d expected and fought back against the magic used against her.

  Good girl.

  Still, Gavin knew this was not right. None of it was as Warwick had explained. How could he let this go on?

  His devotion to his master had waned and now he felt a duty to protect Rowen. From the time he grabbed her from the gallows he’d felt a connection to her. The tables had turned when he’d been shot with an arrow, and she had to lead him to safety.

  For a moment—on Captain Elian Westin’s ship—he had imagined that she had felt something for him. Something more than friendship…something he’d never forgotten, even with Gilly professing her love for him.

  “I can’t awaken her,” Feyda said, her brows furrowed, cheeks paling. “Rickard will have you hanged for this.”

  He put a finger to his lips, urging her to speak quietly. The palace guards were just outside the door and Warwick would soon arrive to request an audience with Princess Noemie.

  With Rickard gone, she was the next person in line to rule the kingdom. Until Rowen awakened, Noemie was all the Withraen’s had. They did not know how much trouble they were in, or what was coming.

  “This isn’t my fault,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. The thought of Rickard thinking such a thing made his stomach churn. He had to figure out a solution.

  Feyda walked to him, grabbing him by the shoulders. “We have to get Rowen out of here.”

  “How? The wizard will not allow it.”

  She frowned. “Do you think I care about what he wants. Help me take Rowen from the palace and nurse her back to health.”

  He thought a moment, and then nodded. “Okay,” he said with a nod. “Let’s hurry then.”

  Together, they rushed to Rowen’s bed and lifted her. “How are we going to get past the guards?”

  Feyda thought a moment, then, she lifted a finger and nodded. “Leave it to me.”

  He threw Rowen’s limp body over his shoulder, and they crossed the room and began out the door.

  The second he turned the knob, Rowen cried out and was ripped from his arms by some strong, unseen force. They gasped as her body was sent flying backward and roughly slammed into the bed.

  “What just happened?” Gavin asked.

  “I’ve only ever heard tales of this kind of dark magic.” Feyda covered her mouth, eyes widened. “She’s bound to the sorceress,” she said. “We cannot take her without causing extreme pain. We could destroy Rowen’s mind if we attempt to force her from this room.”

  The door that led from her room to the bath house flew open.

  There stood a woman, naked, dripping with water. With dark hair, soaking wet from the baths, and a half mask on her face, she was still a vision.

  Stunning.

  But, Gavin wasn’t taken by her looks. Fear filled his veins as her dark eyes went from Rowen and slowly to them.

  He sucked in a breath when her hair started to glow and all of the colors of the rainbow began illuminating each strand.

  “Don’t look,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Feyda. But, it was too late. Priscilla’s power was too strong.

  “You will leave,” she said in a voice that went directly into their minds. Her mouth didn’t move, but they both heard her as clearly as if she’d yelled in their ears.

  Gavin and Feyda nodded.

  “I will leave,” they said in unison.

  “And, you will not return to this room.”

  Again, they nodded.

  “I will not return to this room.”

  Then, she threw out her arms and sent them both stumbling out the door, slamming it in their face.

  Breathless, Feyda and Gavin exchanged a look.

  Gavin rubbed the back of his neck. Neither knew what to say. But, by the look in each other’s eye, they knew they wouldn’t give up on Rowen.

  Not today—not ever.

  Chapter 5

  The arrival to Lothlorien Palace was nothing like Ophelia expected. The carriage rode through lush, green fields and expertly manicured grounds with fountains and ponds set between the main gates and the grand structure that made up the palace.

  It was white, with several towers and windows that looked out over the sea and the grounds. Once the carriage came to a stop, the valets and attendants were waiting, ready to escort them inside.

  “We are here, my lady,” Tilton said. “I hope my hope is to your liking.”

  She nodded, a bi
t awestruck by its beauty. Though a valet stood right there, prepared to help her down, Tilton took her hand and lifted her to the ground himself.

  With Luca’Rosi at her side, she was led from the carriage and into the opulent building made of stone covered in green ivy.

  Her lips parted as she looked skyward to the tall walls that protected the king’s home. It stood on the white cliffs of Loth, with the Parean Sea at its back.

  Once inside, an older gentlemen with white hair and a thick mustache was waiting, and handed him a folded note. After reading it, King Tilton’s face paled a bit. He cleared his throat.

  “I have an important matter that requires my immediate attention. I will be sure to check on you later,” he said and bowed, leaving her alone with a palace attendant and Luca’Rosi.

  She nodded, staring down at his hand upon hers. He snatched it away as if it were on fire and she watched, dumbfounded, as he walked away.

  “This way,” a palace attendant said with a bow, before leading them to the winding staircase.

  “Keep in mind that this is only temporary, my lady. We will survive this together.”

  Luca’s words fell on deaf ears. Ophelia had already tuned her out as she went over her earlier conversation with Tilton again and again in her mind, even more so about the way he touched her just now.

  She rubbed her bottom lip as she mulled over her situation. Her eyes lifted to the beautiful architecture and decor of the palace. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. She’d grown up with wealth, but it was nothing like the opulence of Lothlorien Palace. The walls had gold trim and a bright blue paint that made the atmosphere seem cheerful and airy, yet luxurious.

  They were led up the stairs and down a long hallway with several closed doors. The servants watched her as she passed by. They didn’t bow. Why should they? She was nothing to them—a foreigner.

  The enemy.

  “Here is your room,” the young man said, pausing as he opened the door inward and stepped aside for them.

  Ophelia gave a slight bow of her head to him. “Thank you.”

  She walked inside and her eyes widened at what she saw. It was a massive room, bigger than she’d ever seen. Bigger than any room in her father’s manor.

  The balcony doors were open, letting in a flood of sunlight that highlighted tiny specks of dust floating in the air like twinkling little fireflies

  There were two areas separated by an archway. In the outer area, there were sofas and a table for meals as well as bookcases stocked with several books. Reading was never of great interest to her. That was Rowen’s hobby. But, Ophelia was captivated by something else she saw in the room.

  She crossed the room and went through the archway where her bed stood in the center. Four white posts with emerald blankets and fluffy pillows awaited, but, it was the table beneath the large window that sparked her interest.

  “Rithmomachy,” she said, touching the wooden board. “Interesting. I didn’t know humans played. We shall not die of boredom after all.”

  Luca’Rosi nodded, cautiously surveying the room. She opened one of the doors and discovered a smaller room with a bed. “This must be my room.”

  “It is, madam,” the servant said.

  Two young women walked in, dressed in apricot gowns with aprons of cream and blue.

  “Afternoon, my lady,” the red-headed one said, her blue eyes averted downward, cheeks pale. After a short curtsy, she wrung her hands and faced Ophelia. “I’m Prudence, and this is Mol. We will be your ladies maids.”

  Luca stepped forward, shielding Ophelia. “I am her ladies maid, thank you very much.”

  Prudence’s face flushed red. “I—I’m sure you are. But, the king would like us to help, nonetheless. Please do not take offense, but we are honored to do it. We are of noble birth and he wants his guest treated like royalty. As her sister if a queen after all.”

  Ophelia put down one of the game pieces and frowned. She’d never thought of it that way. Did Rowen becoming a queen truly make her royalty as well?

  She had been named Duchess of Lidenhold, a city she hadn’t even had a chance to visit yet. She had money, estates, and a shiny new title, but it never truly hit her until that moment.

  “All the same, we would like for you to leave. I can handle it from here,” Luca said.

  Ophelia cleared her throat. She forced a small smile. “It’s fine, Luca,” she said. “You two can stay and execute your duties. I am sure we can all get along.”

  Luca’Rosi sent her surprised glance, but snapped her mouth closed and nodded her acquiescence.

  “Very well,” she said, taking a step back.

  “We’ve prepared a hot bath for you,” Mol said, leading Ophelia into another room with a claw-foot tub and steaming water.

  The smell of fragrant oils and purple bubbles intrigued her. While they undressed her, she chewed her bottom lip. No amount of fake kindness would sway her. She would escape and find her way to her sister.

  Or, die trying.

  Chapter 6

  “What do you propose I do?” Princess Noemie asked from her seat across from Macana. She watched Macana in between sips of fragrant red wine.

  Placing her chalice on the table, she tapped her feet on the marble floor, impatiently. She had plans to return to her renovations of Midsommer Castle in the Withraen countryside. She’d wait out the troublesome green mist. It had to disappear, eventually.

  One could only hope.

  Macana read the scroll one more time and tore it into several pieces. Then, she stood and paced the room.

  “I don’t know. But, it seems that the entire kingdom is in peril. And, without Queen Rowen to lead, and King Rickard off to fight the humans, all that is left is you, your royal highness.”

  Craning her neck backward, her long hair cascaded down her back as she pursed her lips and drew in a breath. “Surely, she’ll wake up soon. She has to.”

  “It’s been a week,” Macana reminded her. “Neither the physician or the sorceress can awaken her. I fear we may lose her.”

  “Goodness gracious,” Princess Noemie said, her voice elevated.

  She snapped her head back up and came to her feet. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. There was no way she could leave now—not with the queen incapacitated. To think, once the queen had been subservient to her. Now, the poor social climber might be paying for her ambition.

  “Is it truly that serious?” Mocked disbelief was an emotion she’d practiced a great deal. Though, inside her heart leaped a tad, the prospect of Rowen being out of the picture more of a delight than she wished to openly reveal.

  She wore a blue dress and gold slippers that glistened under the scant traces of sunlight that spilled into the room from the draped windows that stretched from floor to ceiling.

  Macana tilted her head to the side, eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, I do believe it is.”

  “My brother,” she said, casually folding her arms behind her back as she gracefully sauntered across the room to peer out the window and out into the courtyard at the back of Withraen Palace. “Does he know, yet?”

  “A messenger has been sent to track him down and notify him.”

  “Good,” she said with a slight nod. She traced her bottom lip with her finger and glanced over her shoulder. “I will do my best to rule in his stead.”

  Macana bowed her head. “I believe you will do a fine job, your royal highness. Without a royal heir, you are next in line for the throne.”

  She could be queen? That was never in the cards for her. She was content living in luxury in Midsommer Castle, throwing parties, entertaining courtiers, and reveling in the fortune left to her and her household.

  But—queen? That was an entirely different level.

  She had once had hopes of being married to a handsome prince in a foreign kingdom, but those dreams had been crushed after the death of her father, and her brother had yet to make any such arrangements.

  This might be her chance--one to be the ruler
of her own future. Her own fate.

  “The lords of the great houses have requested an audience with you. You’ve been invited to their annual meeting. Since Rickard is not here, I think you should go. With escorts, and your ladies, of course.”

  Noemie nodded. It would be a good opportunity to get out of the palace, but the thought of traveling down into the city where the common folk resided made her skin crawl. She’d have to shed her distaste for those inferior to her if she wanted to be a good queen regent.

  The great houses of Withrae consisted of five families. While they’d enjoyed being lords for centuries, they knew they held power, even if they weren’t on the throne.

  At least their city homes were in the upper area, far from where the peasants lived. Umbridge, Rhine, Logan, Petersby, Rabaht, and Astley stood at the five corners of a great marketplace. Their towering buildings faced each other, almost as if on a battlefield, each one more elaborate than the next. It was obvious that they were all trying to top the other in terms of displaying wealth with their display of opulence.

  While they all had grand estates in the Withraen countryside, these buildings in the city were like pillars of history where citizens from all around would come to just marvel at the architecture and design.

  She supposed she’d have to get a new gown made.

  Three quick knocks came on the door, and both women turned as a palace attendant stepped inside. He bowed low, keeping his eyes to the ground as he addressed the princess.

  “There is a man here to speak to whoever is in charge,” he said.

  Princess Noemie left her place at the window and headed out the door. “That would be me,” she said, a small smile on her rosy lips. “Who is it?”

  “He says he’s from Parean, an emissary.”

  That made Noemie pause. She shot a look to the attendant. “A human? In the palace?”

  His cheeks reddened as he nodded.

  For a moment, she was unsure if she should take the meeting or not. Then, she realized that the human was the one who should be fearful. Not her. She was a Dragon, in a castle full of them. Then she remembered the ironic truth.