Night of the Drakoryans: A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy

by Ava Sinclair

“You have to eat, Syrene.” I look at her. “If you eat, I’ll give you a gown.”

  She doesn’t move. “I thought you intended to rut with me. If you’re offering me a gown, does that mean you’ve changed your mind?”

  I pull the chair away from the table. “I don’t intend to rut with you. Stags rut. I am not a stag. I am a Drakoryan. We do not rut. We fuck, at times sweetly and leisurely, at others with rough passion. And should I decide to fuck you, a gown can be removed.” I point at the chair. “Sit. I know you’re hungry. Your beautiful eyes give you away.”

  Syrene scowls. She’s trying hard to hide her desire for the food, but I doubt she was given a good meal before being taken to Altar Rock, and she hasn’t eaten since she arrived.

  “The meat pie is delicious,” I say. “Savory venison swimming in a red wine gravy, seasoned with…”

  That’s as far as I get before she practically runs to the table, dragging the sheet behind her. She reaches for the wooden spoon I’m holding in my hand, snatching it away as she sits in the chair. Syrene digs into the pie, scooping a spoonful into her mouth. She grasps the bread, pulling a chunk off, stuffing it into her mouth after barely swallowing the first bite.

  “Slowly, slowly,” I say. She glares up at me, swallowing hard then coughing. I pour her some wine and she reaches for the goblet. I hold it while she takes a sip. “You’ll do yourself no good if you choke.”

  I pull up a chair and sit across from her. Syrene picks up a piece of fruit, and her eyes widen in surprise when she tastes its sweetness. It’s the closest thing to a pleasurable reaction I’ve seen, and I’m encouraged, but also frustrated. Does she know how much I long to taste those juice-stained lips? If only I could touch her, give her a chance to experience the same ache I’m experiencing...

  She glances up, catches me staring, and her expression turns self-conscious and uneasy. She was about to take a second bite of fruit, but now puts it down.

  I nod towards her plate. “There’s much left. Surely you’re not filled.”

  “You think I’m being greedy.” Her tone is both accusatory and defensive.

  The comment is the last thing I expected.

  “Greedy? No.”

  “I’m just hungry is all. I’m not a pig looking to eat you out of house and home.” She shoves the plate away.

  “Syrene, you are in Castle Jo’lyn. A thousand soldiers could not eat me out of house and home.” I slide the plate back over. “It is considered an offense to refuse food offered by a lord’s own hand. Now, eat. I command it.”

  She looks from my face to the plate and back again. Her hunger is greater than her defiance. As she stares longingly at the fruit, I feel a swell of rage— not at her, but at whoever first hurled the words she parroted. What happened to her in that village? I want to ask, but sense this is not the time to probe wounds that are still so fresh.

  Syrene resumes eating. She has slowed down, and I tell her of the different fruits she’s experiencing for the first time, grapes and pomegranates grown in the volcanic soil in the village of Branlock, honey harvested from crevasses high in the mountains, bread baked with soft, unborn grains and flavored with herbs from the castle garden.

  “Would you like more?” I ask her when she’s finished. “This is your home now. You will never go hungry again.”

  She regards me from across the table. “This is not my home. My home is nowhere.”

  I let this go. I will not battle with her unless I must.

  “Tell me what your village was like. If you do not consider it a home, it must have been unpleasant.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the village. If anyone should answer questions, it should be you.”

  I sigh and cross my arms. “Very well. Ask me a question.”

  My acquiescence seems to take her by surprise. She falls quiet, considering what she wants to ask.

  “I was sacrificed to the dragon…” When she finally speaks, her words are thoughtful, as if to herself. “I passed out in its clutches. I woke up here.” She pauses. “Do you control the dragon, then?”

  I can’t help but smile. Most virgins wake assuming the Drakoryan rescued them from the dragon. Syrene is closer to the truth than she realizes.

  “In a manner of speaking, we do.”

  She falls quiet once more. I realize then that this woman is a thinker. I can almost hear her mind working, considering which question comes next. “You command them to burn some portions of the land and not others, controlling how much the villagers grow?”

  I nod.

  “My stepmother said she and my father will be rewarded with more land because the sacrifice came from their house. She boasted of getting a cow.” She makes this statement matter-of-factly.

  I try to hide my distaste. “They did not mourn for you?”

  “Why mourn what you do not care to lose?” Her eyes flash with pain, then anger. “I wish I could control a dragon. I’d burn Arkney to the ground.”

  In a moment of desperation, I nearly offer her the chance. How easy would it be to exploit her hurt and anger, to offer retribution by fire in exchange for the chance to slip my cock into her virgin pussy, to claim her as I so burn to do?

  But what would it make me, to feed the anger? I’ve seen my enemies burn during times of war. I know of the temporary pleasure it brings. But in its wake, there is no satisfaction, only a sense of emptiness — failure even— for the finality, for bringing death when there could have been peace.

  “They should be ashamed, especially your father. I’m quite sure there is no fairer maiden in Arkney than the one who sits across from me.”

  “First he feeds me, then he flatters me.” Syrene laughs cynically and stands. “But it will avail him naught.” She moves to the window and looks out. The sheet spreads behind her like a white stain on the stone floor. “Let me leave this castle, Edrys of Jo’lyn. I have not love nor care to give to a single lord, let alone three.” She looks away for a moment, and I realize she is trying not to cry. When she faces me again, she is composed, but speaks with the quavering voice of the gravely wounded. “You seem strong, stronger than any man I have ever seen. You must be so to command a dragon, after all. I have no doubt that you and your brothers sought to bed me, to break me. But one cannot break what is already broken. Don’t you see?” She looks back out the window, repeating the words in a whisper. “Don’t you see?”

  I approach her as one might approach a frightened doe in the forest. I half expect her to bolt, but she does not. Lust had driven me back to this room, but seeing her standing here, so sad and beautiful in the moonlight, makes my heart ache even more. I have not pressed her for details of her former life, but I don’t have to. The small glimpse she’s given me of her last day in Arkney tells me an important truth. This is a woman who needs to be taught how to give and receive.

  “I see,” I tell her. “But if I may, I would give you something you’re in need of, Syrene of Arkney. I would give you hope that broken things can be mended by gifted hands, that the lies you were told can be undone by honest truths about your goodness and beauty. Do not think that anyone here would see you through jealous eyes. You are a jewel, and if your village hated you, it was because they knew they would never shine like you.”

  I want to reach out. I want to take her in my arms. Instead, despite the growing ache in my loins, I step back, and I bow.

  “I will leave you to rest, Syrene of Arkney. An attendant shall come around with a gown for you.” She is looking at me with something akin to guarded curiosity. “May I call on you tomorrow?” I ask.

  I can see she wants to refuse. There is a glint of defiance in her eyes. But it falters. Syrene drops her gaze, but it is too late. I have noted the first faint signs of progress. But I do not let her know this.

  “Think on it,” I say. “I would like to come around in the morning, to see if there is anything you require. All you need do is ask, for my brothers and I are at your service.”

  Chapter 5

&
nbsp; NYRON

  I should have fought harder. I should have flown left instead of right. Had I rolled and used my claws, I would have caught Edrys on the edge of his wing. But I’d missed, and he’d dipped down to come up underneath me, the bony plates of his head ramming into my breastbone. The blow had sent me reeling into the side of a cliff, where a falling rock had pinned my wing to the side of the ledge. For good measure, Edrys had passed low over me, singeing me with fire. We both knew two more passes and I would be dead.

  I had lost.

  It is folly to dwell on my defeat, but I cannot help but to brood, what with my older brother sitting across the room as if we have all the time in the world. He acts as if the long night will go on forever, when we only have six days at most to bed and bond with the woman who lies upstairs in the chamber.

  It is not easy for me to accept defeat. I find it hard to accept failure in others. In myself? It is nearly impossible. Had I won, we’d not have needed to appeal to the witches. Edrys says our mate has suffered a traumatic life. He says we should be gentle.

  I disagree. If she lacked a proper upbringing, isn’t that more reason to be firm? Love can come later, but a woman like Syrene will not allow herself to feel it unless she is made to submit.

  When Edrys comes downstairs, I give him my opinion on his weakness, on how I would have handled this. And what does he do? He reminds me that I lost. He turns his back on me, refusing to discuss it further.

  He’s being weak. And I find myself growing impatient with his coddling of our bride.

  “Does she know what hangs in the balance if she doesn’t agree to mate with us?” Across the room, Xarsi, the eldest, is pacing. “Did you try to make her at least understand that without her cooperation, our bloodline will die?”

  “No.” Edrys’ answer is predictable, at least to me. “She’s been stripped of her free will all her life, first by her family, and now by us. At best, she’d be unsympathetic. At worst, she’d realize the power she has over us by saying no.”

  “Isn’t that the problem?” I walk over to where my brothers are standing, determined not to be ignored. “You’re already giving her power just by walking out.” I face Edrys. “So many traditions have already been broken. We aren’t attending the feasts. We’re being given a long night instead of four days. So why not break one more rule, brother, for all our benefit? Why not give this task to one who can actually do it instead? Forfeit your first rights to me!”

  Edrys is on me before I can stop him, shoving me hard against the wall.

  “Don’t!” Xarsi moves to stand beside us. “Stop this.” He’s looking at me, but I stare at Edrys.

  “You know it’s true,” I say through gritted teeth. “You are strong in flight, but weak in the bedchamber.”

  “Really?” Edrys smirks. “And your arrogance would have you reckless in both.”

  My blood is boiling. I feel strong hands on my shoulders, Xarsi’s hands. He wrenches me from Edrys’ grip and points to the door. “Go have a flight,” he orders. “Cool yourself. We’ll achieve nothing by fighting amongst ourselves.”

  I walk to the door. “Yes. Have a flight, Nyron.” I glance back over my shoulder, mocking their words. “Have a flight while your two brothers conspire.”

  “No one is conspiring.” Edrys sounds weary. “We are all on the same side, Nyron. But I will not give up my first rights to Syrene.”

  “Go!” Xarsi commands before I can reply. And I do, forcing myself to walk through the hallway to the narrow stone staircase that winds like a corkscrew to the top of the mountain.

  Every castle in the Drakoryan Empire is unique. Dragons entering Castle Fra’hir, for instance, fly into a cave and over a small inland sea to reach a platform at the base of the mountain. Our landing platform is at the top, like a giant rookery. Two massive ledges, one above and one below, are joined by stone columns spaced wide enough to allow dragons to fly between them. Inside, the back wall ascends steeply, with ledges and small caves hidden throughout where dragons can rest.

  I prefer our design to Castle Fra’hir’s. When leaving from their subterranean cave, a dragon must rise into the air. Here, we leap from the edge to glide out over the mountain peaks. Or, as I do now, we fall.

  I stand on the lip of the ledge, hold my arms out by my side, and drop headfirst over the edge. The first time I did this in my fifteenth year, my mother screamed, thinking I’d jumped to my death. But I had not. My special trick is to shift in midair. Today, it is easy. Anger has heated my blood. The dragon was uncoiling in my veins long before I’d made the leap. Now I turn into a jet of amber flame, and when I solidify, it is as an amber dragon. I spread my wings, catching an updraft that lifts me away from the crevasse I’d been heading for.

  I circle the peak of Castle Jo’lyn, moving in and out of moonlit clouds. Flying helps cool my blood and clear my head. But I have another reason to take to the skies.

  A dragon’s sight is exceptionally good. As I tighten my circles around a peak of the mountain that serves as one of the castle spires, I peer in the windows until I see what I’m looking for. There it is — the slim form of the virgin I’d yet to see, the virgin I should be taking at this moment. I alight on the spire above her window, grasping the sides with my claws and anchoring myself with my tail. From my vantage point, I can see into her room, but she cannot see me.

  She has moved to the sill and looks out. Does she sense me there? Did she catch a glimpse of amber in the moonlight? I imagine moving to a ledge near her window and transforming back into my human form. I imagine slipping into the window and taking her with a swift, uncompromising seduction. Edrys would surely be furious, but our bloodline would be secured. I hear the rumble in my own throat and edge towards her window.

  It is time for me to take command.

  That’s when I feel the heat. It sears my scales and I roar in surprise. I catch a glimpse of our intended mate stepping back from the window, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide in shock. I look up, expecting to see the copper color of Edrys, my meddlesome brother. But instead I see the pewter color of Xarsi. He slices through the sky like a sword, coming back. I inhale, seeking to fill my fire glands with venom, but he has the advantage. He comes in low, burning my tail and back legs. The pain is intense. I lose my grip on the spire and slip. I crash down the side of the mountain, striking our castle home twice before tumbling off the side. Xarsi has strategically spared my wings. He herds me back to the platform, where we land together.

  For the second time, I feel humiliated. Xarsi planned his attack, and I am burning with humiliation long after the flame overtakes me that turns me back into my man form. Xarsi changes as well and rushes over, his face furious.

  “What is wrong with you, Nyron? Are you trying to ruin all we have?”

  “I’m trying to save it!” I rush at him, but we both stop short of touching. As angry as we are, we both know we could easily turn once more, with disastrous results.

  “She is not yours. Not yet.” Xarsi points towards the spire housing Syrene’s room. “I know you would handle things differently. So would I. But we were brothers before mates, Nyron. It will do no good to take a mate if we destroy our own peace in the process.” He looks down at my skin, which has started to bubble in places. The rush of anger had blunted the pain, but I feel it now. “Come,” he says. “Let’s get you to the pools.”

  I am forced to lean against the brother who attacked me. Xarsi is the oldest. If anyone should be angry at not having first rights, it should be him. But he has a mystical side and believes that there is a reason for all that happens, even if he feels the same frustration that we do now. He was disappointed when he lost to me but took it much better than I took my loss to Edrys.

  Xarsi is a mystery to me sometimes. How can he accept things when he could change them instead? That is what I had wanted to do. But now, thanks to a surprise attack from my usually gentle brother, I am heading to the pool.

  All castles have healing pools. Were my
burns worse, I would need to seek healing at stronger pools, such as those in Mount Fra’hir or the Mystic Mountain. But ours are sufficient for my injuries. Xarsi lowers me in.

  “How did you know what I was going to do?” I ask.

  He helps me to seated on a ledge before answering. “Because I know you, little brother. I am grateful that you are Drakoryan instead of fully dragon; if you were the latter, you’d burn the world to get what you want.”

  I move my legs in the water. Already I can feel the skin starting to mend. “That is unkind, Xarsi.”

  “Unkind? Yes. But true.” He sighs and sits by the pool. “We don’t always agree, Nyron. But when we disagree, we must remember that House Jo’lyn, like all houses, lives or dies by the strength of its bonds. That is why combat between brothers is reserved for first rites. After that, we must learn when to stand down. Today, I side with Edrys, and you are outnumbered. There may be a time when I side with you on another matter, and I have no doubt that Edrys will concede. You must learn that art, brother. We must have solidarity. As goes a house, so goes the empire.”

  I nod. What else can I do? As much as my gut may rebel, I know Xarsi is right. But I still fret over Edrys’ patience, for the mere glimpse of the elusive Syrene has done nothing to increase my own. How much longer can I wait until my more savage nature causes me to do something we will all regret?

  Chapter 6

  SYRENE

  The moon was up while I slept. It is still up when something stirred me awake. It was a sound—the sound of wind. But it was no ordinary wind.

  No villager who grows up under the rule of dragons could mistake the sound of wind produced by dragon wings for anything else. I’d moved to my window but had seen nothing. I had felt something, though. The hair on the back of my neck had stood up. There was something watching me. I could not feel it, but I knew it was there. And I knew it was a dragon.

  I’d stared towards the moonlit mountains, sure I’d catch a glimpse. But just when I was telling myself this was all a trick of imagination, I’d seen the fire flame past my window. Then not one dragon but two had appeared—one amber and one metallic gray. They had sparred, and the latter had dashed the former to the rocks. They’d flown off together then.