Night of the Drakoryans: A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy

by Ava Sinclair

  My stepmother did not allow me so much as a comb when I was growing up. She called my hair a raven’s nest. Each night, I’d work the knots out with my fingers the best I could. The irony of the priestesses’ gentle hands untangling and washing my raven tresses did not escape me. Finally, on the day of my death, I would be well-groomed.

  The priestesses had chanted as they poured water from the ritual pitcher over my body. The water was cold. I’d shivered from the sensation, but I’d also welcomed it. I’d welcomed every feeling — pleasant or unpleasant — that I’d taken for granted during a life that was about to come to an end. I’d concentrated on the gooseflesh raised on my skin, on the softness of the cloth the initiates used to dry my body, on the near reverence of their touch.

  Once I was dry, another priestess approached with a gown that shimmered in the glow of the candle-lit cavern. Once a virgin is named, the village seamstresses work night and day to make the gown in preparation for the sacrifice. It is fashioned of fabric woven from a special metal mined and spun into a pliable, fireproof thread. This one would protect me from the heat when the dragon burnt the bond tethering me to the post on Altar Rock.

  I had never worn anything but poorly-fitting, ash-stained shifts. This dress molded to my body, the shiny material both light and strong. It moved with me, but also cradled and supported the weight of my breasts, the creamy swells visible above the neckline.

  Once I was dressed, the priestesses stood back and stared. There was a curious look in their eyes; it took me a moment to realize it was admiration. It felt unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and I’d looked away.

  “It is traditional for the mother to have a final word with her daughter,” the priestess had said. “I know your mother died after you were born.”

  “I do not need any final words anyway,” I’d replied.

  “Your stepmother…” The priestess had looked down apologetically. “She has requested to speak with you. And by tradition, I cannot refuse her.”

  My heart had sunk. I’d wanted to refuse, but when I looked up, she was already here, standing behind the priestess.

  “This won’t take long.” She’d sneered as her eyes swept over me.

  The priestess shot me a concerned look, but left just the same, the other priestesses and initiates trailing out behind her as I begrudgingly turned my attention to my stepmother.

  I was used to her hateful looks. But the loathing in her eyes at that moment ran deeper than I’d ever seen it. She stared me up and down, her expression more bitter by the moment.

  “I bet you think you’re something special, dressed in that fancy gown with your hair all flowing. I bet you think you’re beautiful. I bet you think your father will look at you and remember, remember her…”

  Her words died away. She was shaking, and I realized then that all those years of animosity were inspired by one woman’s jealousy of another.

  “With you dead, I’ll finally be rid of her,” she’d continued, and I didn’t have to ask who she referred to. No matter how hard my stepmother had sought to disguise my similarity to my mother, or subjugate my father into denying it, the resemblance was always there, and along with it, a memory she could never live up to. “Your father will forget about her now. He’ll forget about you, too.”

  She’d walked around me, her steps clumsy and heavy. “I wonder how he’ll do it, the dragon. They don’t eat the sacrifices in front of us. Pity. I’ll have to imagine your death. Will he dash you against the rocks and lap up the pieces? Or will he throw you into the air and catch you to swallow you whole? Perhaps he’ll find another dragon and they’ll rip you asunder while you scream.”

  “That is enough.” The priestess had come back in. Her voice was heavy with condemnation. “That is enough.” She walked over to me. “It is time, Syrene. Is there anything you’d like to say?”

  I’d long given up trying to reason with my father’s wife. I’d thought to have nothing to say to her this day, either. But at that moment, I’d changed my mind. Drawing myself to full height, I’d looked down at her.

  “He won’t forget,” I said. “He’ll never forget. That is why he never smiles. He will always remember what he lost; he’ll always endure the pain of replacing his beautiful wife with a twisted harridan. Today, he will remember. Everyone will. And every day after I’m gone, they will silently compare your ugliness with my mother’s beauty.” I’d looked to the priestess then. “I’m ready.”

  I could hear the villagers outside the cave and walked towards the sound as my stepmother sputtered in rage. Usually, the walk of a sacrifice to Altar Rock is a somber affair. But I could hear laughing and chatter, as if this were a festive occasion. As I’d emerged, everyone had fallen silent. Only the wind could be heard, and the crowd had parted like a wave at my approach. The villagers started to whisper as I passed.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Is it really Syrene?”

  “She looks so like her mother…”

  I’d not acknowledged the comments. I took no satisfaction from them. I did take satisfaction when I looked back to catch sight of my stepmother’s ashen face, and of the stricken expression of a father who knew it was too late to apologize for his cowardice.

  Then I’d directed my focus straight ahead as I’d walked up the path to Altar Rock. The rocks where the dragons land are different in each village. Some are ledges, some flat ridges. Our path led to a boulder that had to be climbed. Two priestesses helped me up to a post made from a petrified tree with roots wrapping around the rock like a gnarled hand.

  I’d stared into the sky as the rope was fastened around my ankle. The priestesses had retreated to resume the chant they’d started, the chant that called the dragon.

  I kept waiting to feel fear. I kept waiting to feel sadness that my life was ending. But at that moment, I didn’t feel anything other than anger and relief. Even if the rope had fallen from my ankle, I’d have stayed. My back was to the villagers as I faced the dragon appearing as a dot on the horizon. Death was coming, and I welcomed it.

  I felt the wind of the dragon’s wings before it reached me. It was a warm day, and the breeze carried the scent of something growing on the distant hills. The approaching dragon was a copper color. The sun glinted off its wings. Behind me, some villagers cried out in fear even though the beast was not coming for them.

  When it reached me, I could barely fathom its size. It hovered above the massive boulder, fanning its wings. It was all I could do to stand upright, but I was determined not to be blown to the ground by the force of the wind it created. The dragon alighted on the boulder in front of me like a bird on a branch. I stared at its clawed feet and dragged my gaze up to the square pale plates of its underbelly to the huge, leathery wings that shadowed me, to the arched neck and massive head with curved horns and intense, golden eyes.

  The dragon emitted a low, thrumming growl and lowered its muzzle, exhaling a blast of warm air across my head. I turned my gaze straight ahead, refusing to show fear, determined to deny satisfaction to villagers hoping I’d scream or beg or recoil in horror.

  The dragon reached out a great, clawed foot and wrapped it around me. The pads pressed tightly against my body, their texture rough like giant callouses. I looked down to see hook of one great claw, hard as a blade and twice as sharp. It pulled me up until the rope at my ankle was taut, then leaned its head over and breathed a stream of fire at the base of the tether anchoring me to the post.

  Then I’d felt a jerk and a wave of dizziness as the boulder descended beneath me. The dragon was pumping his wings, taking me up by degrees. I looked down to see the villagers staring, open-mouthed. I could not make out their faces but hoped they were still thinking of my mother, and what a pity it was that my father had just lost the last beautiful trace of her in this world.

  Now I am here, in this castle, where I awakened to learn I’d been robbed of the ending of my story. The man who’d come to me had been kind enough. He’d tol
d me not to be afraid, that he’d come to replace my pain with pleasure. But I had not wanted safety, nor pleasure. I’d wanted oblivion, and this man had stolen that chance. When he’d reached for me, I’d hit him. Then I’d hit him again as I’d scrambled from the bed. I’d barely seen him through the red haze of rage that clouded my vision. He was a silhouette in the room, a target for whatever I could throw.

  It makes no difference now that I have learned his name — Lord Edrys of Jo’lyn. It makes no difference that he tells me I am safe. It makes no difference that he seeks my trust. I do not need him to keep me safe. I will not trust him. I could not even trust my own father. How can I trust any man?

  I do not want one mate, let alone three. I don’t care if they did save my life. Lord Edrys will not get what he wants from me. Neither will his brothers.

  Chapter 3

  XARSI

  We’ve sent for the oracle. At this point, it is all we can do. The guests have started to arrive at Castle Jo’lyn for the Claiming Day festivities. The taking of a virgin is a time for celebration in the Drakoryan Empire. They will expect Edrys to appear in the feast hall tonight with our mate clad in a gown of his dragon color. The dress will signify that she has been claimed by the first of the Lords of Jo’lyn.

  By tradition, this appearance will be repeated through three nights of merriment and celebration. We had looked forward to our castle being filled with guests. We’d each imagined the pride we’d feel as, one by one, we’d walk into the hall with Syrene.

  How can we possibly explain our absence at the feast? What should be a time of joy is a time of misery and pain. The physical ache of an unmated Drakoryan is nearly unbearable, especially in the presence of his intended virgin.

  “Where is Galifan?” Edrys punctuates the bellowed question with a slam of his fist against a stone pillar. His chest is heaving. I know he feels the pain worst of all, for this was supposed to be his night.

  All Drakoryans have a resident oracle who can commune with the witches either through trance or scrying. An oracle is given quarters at the top of the keep, and most happily stay in residence doing what oracles do best — studying magic or portents and attempting to divine the future. But Galifan isn’t so dependable as other oracles. He’s prone to disappearing for long stretches of time, often traveling to the forest to procure herbs and plants for his potions. He shares the same mental connection that my brothers and I share, in that we can call him. We have been calling him for hours now to no avail, and Edrys is becoming more agitated with each passing moment.

  When our oracle finally strolls into the room, his heavy brown robes covered in cockleburs and tiny sticks, Edrys explodes. “Galifan! What good are you if you do not come when I call?” He storms over, staring down at the tiny old man who looks up from under the brim of his peaked hat. His long gray beard, braided at the bottom, hangs past a belt strung with little bottles and vials.

  Galifan snorts derisively and walks to the table, where he pours himself a goblet of wine.

  “I did show up, but in my time, not yours. Raise your voice to me once more and I shall disappear again.”

  There are few in the Empire who can stand down an angry Drakoryan. An oracle is among them. Edrys turns away. Galifan’s gaze follows him.

  “I’d thought it safe to take to the forest,” he says. “Should you not be making bed sport with your raven-haired virgin?”

  Edrys spins around. “That’s why I called. The witches made a mistake.”

  Galifan puts down his goblet. “The witches do not make mistakes, Lord Edrys. Do not say such things.”

  I intervene. “Galifan, the virgin will not accept Edrys. She insists she’ll have none of us.”

  “She’s hardly the first reluctant virgin…,” the oracle begins.

  “It’s different than that,” Nyron steps forward. “She attacked Edrys.”

  “Attacked?” The wizened face takes on an expression of surprise.

  Edrys nods. “I am at a loss. It is more than just defiance. There is something deeper. She was angry, not because a dragon took her, but because she survived.”

  “Hmmm…This is dire. Dire indeed.” The oracle looks around the room. “A bowl. I need a bowl. And water.”

  Nyron springs to action, going to a table by the door and bringing back a shallow bowl made of hammered metal. I fetch a pitcher and once my brother has put the bowl on the table before the oracle, I fill it with water.

  We watch as Galifan fumbles at the items hanging from his belt. “Hmm…yes…this will do…” He removes a round squat container and pulls the stopper from the top. We watch in silence as he tips the bottle over the bowl, releasing a thread of thick, glowing fluid into the water. The fluid moves like a shimmering snake before spreading into a cloud. The oracle puts a hand on either side of the bowl.

  He is scrying, gleaning information through calling forth images in the water that only he can see. Sometimes he can tell the future. Sometimes he gains insight. Sometimes, Galifan will stare for an hour and announce that he sees nothing, for his power comes from the Mystic Mountain. The witches can sense one of our oracles scrying. If they want him to have the knowledge he seeks, they will send it.

  I find myself holding my breath. I know my brothers are, too.

  Please, I pray to whatever gods may be listening. Beside me, Edrys is tense. I cannot help but pity him. We fought for the order in which we would take Syrene. He won, and yet his prize remains unclaimed, and the halls of our castle are filling up with guests who will demand answers when he does not show up with her at the first feast.

  “She is damaged.” Galifan’s voice stirs me back to my senses.

  “Damaged?” Edrys’ voice is laced with fear. “Is she mad?”

  “No…” Galifan squints into the bowl. “Her spirit is like…it’s like a wounded, wild thing. It has only known hurt and betrayal. Your virgin does not know how to trust.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Galifan holds up his hand. “Patience, young lords! I can only give you messages as they are revealed…”

  He continues to stare into the bowl.

  “There was someone who loved her once. Her mother. She died. Since then she has navigated a cold world with no protector. Her father was weak. All else were cruel. Her perception of the world is twisted. She saw the sacrifice as a way to escape a life of terrible pain.”

  I look at my brothers. There is pity on their faces, but also concern.

  “It is easy for a Drakoryan lord to touch a woman’s body, to fill it,” the oracle says. “But this woman needs her broken heart filled before you fill her body. You must be as firm as the father who was weak, and as caring as others who were dismissive, as present as her mother was absent, and as enthralled as others were jealous. Rebuilding trust will take time.”

  “Time? What time do we have?” Nyron points to the door. “There are feasts planned. Four days of them. We are expected to all take our bride by the fourth day, to present her each night at the feast.”

  “I fear that may be impossible with this one.” He shakes his head.

  “Impossible...?” Edrys cries. “Then what are we…?”

  Galifan holds up his hand, silencing us. “Taking her to the feast, parading her in front of strangers? Remember, this is one who endured a lifetime of public scorn. Expose her to the gazes of others and she will retreat inside of herself. Your virgin needs to be ensconced with her lords, to get to know you one by one, to be intimate as she is able.”

  “And exactly how are we supposed to do that when we have four days?” I ask.

  The oracle squints as he peers into the bowl one more. “Not four days. One night.”

  We glance at one another, more confused than ever.

  “The witches will bend time for you. You will have one night to all claim the virgin Syrene of Arkney, but the span of that night will be six days. To your guests, time will pass as one evening. Should you be successful, at the end of that night, you will directly
invoke the Deepening. Only then will you present Syrene to your guests as a fully claimed bride who wears the gown of all your colors.”

  We pause to absorb this information. I can feel our collective disappointment. Our fractious bride is to deny us the individual celebration feasts that are part of the Claiming festivities. She will not sit at each of our sides wearing the gown representing the individual color of the dragon form of the lord who claimed her. There will only be one joint celebration, and likely an explanation as to why three feasts have been replaced with one.

  “There is no other way?” Nyron asks. The room has gone quiet.

  Galifan consults the bowl again. “You are quite welcome to try, but I see…failure. And even with the witches bending time to give you the long night, there is no guarantee of success.”

  I glance warily at my brothers. “And if we don’t succeed?”

  The oracle looks up. His expression is grim. “There will not be another chance for the Lords of Jo’lyn. If you have not claimed your mate before the sun rises once more over the Drakoryan Empire, your bloodline will end.”

  Chapter 4

  EDRYS

  “I won’t talk to you until you give me something to wear.”

  Syrene is standing, a sheet partially wrapped around her body. Under any other circumstance, it would be amusing. My bed is enormous, and she is small in the middle of it.

  “I won’t give you anything to wear until you eat.” I remember what Galifan said she needed —understanding, patience, caring, and affirmation of her beauty. Those things should be easy. She is so lovely, and I want to soothe her hurt. But the oracle also advised firmness. I cannot reach her if she does not respect me. That starts now.

  I have brought a bowl of candied and fresh fruit, a hunk of brown bread, a pot of creamed honey, a meat pie, and a flask of wine. I place it on a table by the fireplace.