House of Ashes (Dragonesse Book 1)

Chapter 1

One

An hour after the news of my father’s death broke, I was roaringly drunk and raising a toast to his suffering.

“May the old bastard rot in the Nine Hells!” a ferryman bellowed, hoisting a tankard.

My vision was already blurring as I lifted another mug of the swill they called ‘shine’ here on Mistward Isle, and cheered with everyone else.

It burned going down, and that was fine with me. The fire in my stomach was better than the numbness that had come over me when the news was first broken.

I’d only been in the town because this was the day the ferrymen—wyvern-riders who’d chosen trading over message routes—came to Mistward Isle with the dregs of their cargo. All the better goods would’ve been sold on the mainland, and we were in the lean season here on the Isle.

Previous lean seasons had taught me the value of being well prepared.

I’d scraped together a few stolen and scavenged half-moons to venture to Farpost to buy bread, excited that I’d have something to eat besides scorched campfire rabbit for once…or worse, raw rabbit. Sometimes the campfire wasn’t worth the risk.

But instead of their usual orderly offloading, the first group of ferrymen had come racing in from the eponymous mists that surrounded the island, their wyverns nearly crashing into the docks in their haste to land.

Cargo had spilled everywhere, torn from the wyvern’s belly-nets. Chaos ensued as everyone grabbed for scattered food or damaged supplies. A few dragons had grabbed entire crates, vanishing into the alleys of Farpost with their stolen treasure and ensuring that more than a few convicts would go hungry tonight.

Then one of the ferrymen had the wherewithal to stop everyone dead in their tracks by shouting the news out over the tumult.

Nasir of the House of Undying Light, Drakkon of the Royal Koressis Eyrie, the dragon who had united all the Houses in his youth and torn them apart in his senescence—the dragon who had made me, loved me, then exiled me—was dead.

I had hoped for this day for a long time. Whispered a prayer to the gods every night that the next day would be his last. But now that it was here…I wasn’t sure if it was victory I felt, or something else.

Instead of pondering that too deeply, I pushed my empty mug aside and slid another dull half-moon on the scarred table.

In the midst of all the earlier chaos on the docks, I’d stolen two loaves of bread, and decided news of this caliber deserved a rare celebration, rather than spending the hard-won coin on more food.

I had waited years for this. It deserved a commemoration…and maybe it was the shine going to my head, but it was better to be somewhat drunk than to grapple with the clarity of emotion tonight.

One of the barmaids quickly slipped the half-moon in her pocket and returned with another mug of shine. In the Wyvern’s Whore, Farpost’s largest and most prosperous tavern, the gut-knotting, throat-tarnishing shine was all they served.

I knew I would regret this impulsive spending in the morning, but…my father was finally dead.

If that didn’t call for a drink, nothing did.

And the celebrants were out in force tonight. I rarely visited the Wyvern’s Whore, but I’d never seen it so packed before. The ferrymen, being the bearers of wonderful news, were given the choicest seats, and plied with as many rounds of shine as they could handle. By morning, they’d be scattered far and wide across the town, their pockets picked clean.

I was tucked into a dark corner, which suited me fine. A stranger sat nearest to me, his hood pulled up so I couldn’t pick out his features, but I was making a point of not looking at him too hard.

Once or twice I’d seen the flash of his eyes turn my way, and I wanted no part of that.

Black scales gleamed on the backs of his large hands, catching the light as he tapped a half-moon on the table. There was clearly a strong vein of dragonblood in his family, and dragons were bad news. He had to be a new convict here, probably delivered in the last week; none of the dragons I knew of who lived on Mistward Isle had scales that precise shade of ebony.

But when the barmaid saw the half-moon, and the breadth of the stranger’s shoulders, she wasted no time in tossing blonde curls over her shoulder as she prowled back into our lonely corner.

I envied the expanse of tan skin she showed above her blouse. She was Bloodless; she could afford to show skin, while I wore rotting layers cobbled together out of whatever bits and pieces I could salvage from Mistward’s rocky beaches.

As a draga, a fully dragonblooded female, my scent and appearance were a lodestone for the male dragons. It was better to be filthy, so no one would look past the dirt.

But I couldn’t help but feel the pinch of jealousy over the pretty barmaid, who didn’t have a drop of dragonblood in her and would never need to hide.

Especially when she gave the stranger a seductive smile, knowing she could earn more than a half-moon if she sold flesh along with the shine.

I scoffed at myself under my breath, pulling my gaze away from the strange dragon and the barmaid. I had no reason to be envious of the attentions of a convict dragonblood.

Bright colors caught my eye, drawing my scrutiny away from the dragon and barmaid. Another ferryman had clambered up on the rough-hewn bar to make his own toast, spilling shine everywhere. His nose was bright red, laced with purplish capillaries, from too many years of the Mistward rotgut.

“I hope he died screaming!” he yelled, and another cheer went up. “May Aurae spit on his corpse and Sunya eat his soul!”

I very much hoped for the same thing. I sent my own silent prayer to Aurae of the Fang, the dragon goddess of death, to drag him kicking and screaming straight to the darkest, iciest depths of the Nine Hells. Sunya of the Claw, the Judge of Souls, arbiter of justice and retribution, would surely weigh him heavily.

The bartenders went to work pouring more rounds for the ferrymen, who had likely never known such celebrity before and never would again.

I sipped at my mug despite the rancid taste, making it last, knowing I only had another two half-moons in my pocket; money that was best saved for another day.

My mind was fogged enough now, though I kept returning to the thought of what his last moments had been like—if he had died in agony, or comfortably, in his own bed and surrounded by family. It was like a sore tooth I couldn’t stop probing with my tongue, knowing it hurt and unable to help myself.

The barmaid had returned with the stranger’s shine. She leaned forward as she slid his mug across the table, showing a vast expanse of smooth, scaleless cleavage.

“Anything else, love?” she murmured, reaching for his hood with a flirtatious grin. “Why don’t we see what’s under there—”

One of those scaled hands gripped her wrist, gently forcing it away. The shine curdled in my stomach as I took in the blackened claws at the tips of his fingers; gods, he was of ancient dragonblood to have that much control over his draconic form. “That’s all.”

His voice was deep, smooth and dark as smoke. It was a sensual voice. The kind I wouldn’t mind whispering into my ear for a night while I forgot everything…

I twitched with irritation as I caught myself.

Unfortunately, unlike the coy Bloodless barmaid, I couldn’t just pick a stranger from the Wyvern’s Whore for a night of fun.

Dragons might be able to sniff me out, but I also struggled with the innate desire to find and bind to a mate. Once a mate bond was established, dragon and draga were of a single mind, sharing the mind-speech—and she would become his rider, directing the dragon’s fierce, primal form.

But there were no dragons worth mating on Mistward Isle.

This place was a nightmare packed with criminals and the cast-offs of society, and before my mother had died, she’d made it clear I was not meant to be the rider of a dragon who was a coward, a thief, or a liar.

If a dragon ever got close enough to touch me, through sight and scent he would be able to detect that I possessed the full dragonblood of a royal House.

It was because of that blood that wrapping myself in grimy layers and never exposing my skin was necessary. Mistward didn’t just host criminals, but exiles and usurpers; some would see my lineage as an opportunity.

Others would outright kill me if they knew who I was.

Especially now, in a tavern packed full of drunk dragons and Bloodless, all of whom despised the Drakkon for sending them to this stark, barren hellhole at the end of the world.

I took another drink, breathing deeply while the mug was in my face. The acrid scent of the shine would make it impossible for me to catch so much as a whiff of the stranger, and hopefully make my own scent that much less appealing.

The barmaid had gone again, and I kept a careful, if bleary, eye on the sea of bodies around us.

The ferrymen had finally vacated the top of the bar, possibly because they were now too drunk to climb it. All of them had received claps on the back for their denunciations against my father.

But other dragonbloods had arrived, drawn by the news, and now many of them huddled around one of the card tables, close enough for me to overhear. The cards themselves lay face down, long forgotten as they drew a ferryman into their circle.

“The Drakkon died without naming an heir,” the ferryman said, squinting at the leader, a large dragonblood male with dark auburn hair. “It’s been, what…three centuries since the last Interregnum? Princess Yura has already declared her intent to make the claim, take the throne of Koressis and name herself Dragonesse, but the House of Jade Leaves refuses to support her, and the Shadowed Stars are demanding that she back down.”

The dragons laughed roughly at that, even as my ears perked up.

“There’s going to be war, boys. The question is whether you choose to go fight for them, or sit here and rot in this shithole.”

The shine in my throat turned sour. Yura of the House of Gilded Skies…my half-sister.

Every bit as illegitimate as I was, a bastard child of the Drakkon.

He’d had a mate once, a draga from the Iron Shards. After a few decades of what seemed like a golden reign, she’d died in battle against a newborn Primoris.

My father had spent the rest of his life shattered by the broken bond, drowning the pain and loneliness of losing his mate with a series of mistresses, which had resulted in me and Yura.

And she was already trying to lay claim to the royal eyrie.

Dying without naming a successor must have been the crowning achievement of my father’s fuck-ups.

But the ferryman was right. The last Interregnum was a bloody chapter in dragon history, all the Houses vying for power and killing indiscriminately to gain it over the span of two vicious, destabilized decades.

During the time of a declared Interregnum, any royal dragonblood pair could submit themselves as the new Drakkon and Dragonesse, and the strength of the Houses in their Court—the right of might—would prove them worthy to rule.

With my sister involved, this particular Interregnum might make the last one look like a pleasant and joyous occasion.

“Fuck the Gilded Skies,” a Bloodless man said, making a rude gesture. “Their bitch draga sent me here.”

The ferryman who’d announced imminent war accepted another tankard of shine. His eyes were already glazed from the first three cups, but he was a veritable font of information, and I could tell he wasn’t going to dry up as long as others were paying. He knew he had every ear right now and was milking it for all he was worth.

“Unfortunately, the bitch’s daughter has got the right of it,” he said, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “Princess Yura and Prince Tidas of Razored Cinders announced their mate bond last moon cycle. The Shadowed Stars have put forth Princess Maristela as a contender, but she has no mate yet.”

Rage simmered me through me, warming what the shine hadn’t touched. Yura had never wasted a moment in taking what she wanted.

Like princes promised to others.

Like thrones that should have been mine.

If my life had gone according to my mother’s plan, I would have been mate bonded to Prince Tidas as his rider. When I was eight, I’d once been lost in a daydream of riding a dragon far above the earth, scribbling our names inside a heart of flames: Sera + Tidas.

In time, I had scribbled out those hearts. I had grown to despise Tidas, but managed to maintain a civil veneer. We were, after all, arranged to be mates.

But on the day my father had stripped my mother and I of our titles and sent us to Mistward, Tidas wouldn’t meet my eyes. Because of my mother’s actions, I was dead to him.

I had never broken the Law, had always been the perfect daughter, and yet the Drakkon had sent me with her.

The House of Silvered Embers was struck from the rolls of the Great Houses and exiled from our ancestral home, Varyamar Eyrie. We were to be a House of Ashes from that day forth—burned out, useless, no longer considered true dragonbloods.

Now I would never have a dragon mate, never be a rider…

And neither could I claim the throne.

It was decreed by the gods that only a mated pair could ascend to the throne. Just like Larivor of the Wind and Naimah of the Flame had mated and created the first eyrie, where their dragonblood descendants would rule, so must a dragon and a draga be mated to claim the royal eyrie, and the titles of Drakkon and Dragonesse.

There were plenty of dragons in exile on Mistward, but I couldn’t risk it. I had been away from home for too long; I had no way of knowing if allegiances had changed, if one of those dragons held a grudge against the ashes that had once been Silvered Embers.

And even if I knew the dragon would not kill me outright, there was still the fact that none were mate bond material.

I might have actually been the only draga on all of Mistward Isle who had not committed a crime. Even now, in a life without options, I still couldn’t bring myself to sink that low.

The ferryman’s next words nearly knocked me over, dragging me from my racing thoughts. “The Jade Leaves have been demanding to know what became of Serafina of Silvered Embers. Their Lady claimed that she’s here. They put her forth as the Drakkon’s highest-ranking child and would support her claim to the throne.”

The stranger shifted in his chair.

I lifted my mug to hide my face. Surely he was joking.

An ancient House like the Jade Leaves would never throw their weight behind an exile.

One of the Bloodless exiles seemed to be of the same mind. He waved a hand. “Murderer’s spawn. And if she was sent here, she’s long dead anyway. Let the eyries tear themselves apart! Once they’ve burned themselves out, then we come in and get first pickings.” He grinned, showing an expensive gold tooth.

Ridiculous…and yet, several of the dragons in their group were murmuring, voices growing louder.

“What do you say, ferrymen?” The Bloodless man was flushed with shine and excitement. “The Drakkon’s dead! His decrees don’t matter now. Bring us back home. Push them into their little war, let them kill themselves off, and we split the spoils of the eyries.”

One of the dragons, the auburn-haired male, stood up. He towered over the Bloodless man, vibrant crimson scales gleaming on the tan, bare flesh of his shoulders and arms. Pointed, scarlet-tipped nubs grew high up on his forehead.

“You do nothing, Bloodless.” He sneered, shoving the man aside as easily as knocking over a child.

The Bloodless man stumbled and went down hard, his mug of shine soaking the front of his trousers. He stared up at the crimson dragon, realizing his mistake.

A Bloodless would never lead a dragon.

The crimson dragon turned to look at the others, his gaze skipping over the Bloodless as if they’d ceased to exist. I did a quick count of my own and realized there were at least ten dragons in the tavern right now, and a good fifteen ferrymen, all of whom possessed wyverns and the means to carry Bloodless foot-soldiers over the Empty Sea.

A chill ran down my spine. That was enough to take on one of the smaller Houses’ eyries, possibly a middling one with enough planning. Some Houses possessed great eyries, but their descendants had thinned considerably.

I would know; when the ancient Silvered Embers were reduced to ashes, those with dragonblood in my House had numbered only two: my mother and I.

“We make them bleed,” the crimson dragon said, his deep voice rolling through the suddenly silent room. He slammed a fist on the table, sending cards flying. “We make them pay for stealing our lives!”

Alarm twisted through me, not just because of the searing madness in his eyes, but because no one quite seemed so drunkenly cheerful anymore. Eyes had hardened, and lips were pressed into thin lines.

“Kalros,” the barkeep warned. He watched the angry crowd with a sharp eye, sensing the same rising bloodlust I did. The Wyvern’s Whore had burned down three times in the years I’d lived on Mistward; he was right to be worried.

But I was more worried about what might happen if the other dragons chose to follow Kalros.

He had the strength and the power to bring them to his side.

The crimson dragon rounded on the barkeep, his lips drawing back over sharp teeth.

“Why are you here?” Kalros demanded, his words ringing through the room. “The Razored Cinders took your daughter. And what did their fool dragon do when you tried to take her back?”

The barkeep stared at Kalros, eyes huge in his pale face. I was clenching my mug hard enough to turn my knuckles white.

But Kalros didn’t stop. “He sent you here. He sent you here for trying to save your blood! So I say—bring the fire to them! Make Yura crawl before the bitch reaches the throne!”

This time the dragons pounded the tables as they screamed, elation turning to vengeance as the tavern shook with their combined thunder.

The shine was no longer a warm glow in my stomach. It was roiling acid, threatening to come back up.

We’d gone past celebrating the death of a dragon we collectively hated, and into the realms of a riot breaking out. Now the rage was fully flowing through them, and they wanted to bathe in the blood of a royal draga.

I fully believed that any royal draga would do for them tonight, which made my presence here all the more perilous.

I pushed aside my half-full mug and stood, carefully adjusting the several cloaks I wore in tattered layers. I was boiling hot wherever I went, with several shirts layered beneath the cloaks, but the combined scent of dirt and sweat always hid me.

I simply hoped it would be strong enough to take me through a crowd of dragons hellbent on tasting royal blood.

From here, I could return to my little seaside cave. I’d come back early in the morning, long before the thick sleep of shine wore off these dragons, and bribe a ferryman with my last two half-moons to bring me back to the continent. With the Drakkon dead and the Interregnum throwing all the Houses into turmoil, no one was going to notice or care about a single Mistward refugee.

From there, all of Akalla awaited me. And if what the ferrymen said was true, the Jade Leaves might take me in. I still remembered the long lessons from the Training Grounds, what an Interregnum truly meant: opportunity hidden in the chaos.

Without an heir to uphold the departed Drakkon’s Judgments, the slate was now wiped clean.

Any exile could return home; any exile who could enter their eyrie and gain their Ascendant’s blessing could raise their House from ashes.

I could find a worthy dragon to accept a mate bond, reclaim my House…and take down Yura on my own terms.

Because I would be damned to the Nine Hells myself before I allowed my sister to take Koressis Eyrie.

I was the first true-born child of the Drakkon, with twice-royal blood. A serious threat to Yura, even with the might of two Houses behind her.

And I was getting ahead of myself.

Just get out of here first, I told myself. I wasn’t going to be a threat to anyone if this crowd tore me apart. My own plans of vengeance could come after I’d left Mistward behind and found shelter and safety.

I clutched my outer cloak tightly around me as I edged past the stranger, whose hand rested easily on the table. His cup was still full, untouched, and as I passed he tapped one claw on the wood. The hollow sound sent a chill down my spine.

But he didn’t stop me.

I silently cursed myself as an idiot for choosing a dark corner in the back of the tavern. It had seemed like a good idea when I arrived; I’d been well hidden. But now I had to weave through a crush of angry, sour-smelling exiles and ferrymen.

My throat was painfully dry as I pushed through, keeping my head down. Elbows jostled me, my toes were stepped on more than once, but I said nothing. Female voices would attract too much attention here.

The door—and freedom—was so close, only a few steps away, when a fresh bunch of exiles arrived, pouring in and pushing me back.

“The fucker’s dead!” a Bloodless man yelled with a wild grin, pumping a fist in the air. He looked down at me, standing right in front of him. “Give us a kiss, love, the bastard’s in his grave!”

In front of everyone, the man snaked an arm around my waist and ripped back my hood in the same motion. He picked me up roughly, planting a sloppy kiss on my mouth and forcing his tongue through my lips.

He tasted like rotgut whisky. I braced my hands on his chest, pushing to get away from him, but he wouldn’t let go.

So I bit down. Hard.

The copper taste of blood flooded my mouth, overpowering the whisky. He dropped me with a howl, clutching his bloodied mouth, and I hit the ground with both feet, ready to sprint to the door.

A powerful hand gripped my cloak and spun me around.

I found myself glaring up at Kalros, who wore the faintest, most disbelieving smile.

“Oh, now what is this?” he murmured, fisting the cloak so I was hoisted an inch above the floor.

I struggled, lashing out at him, but it was futile. My brittle, claw-like nails didn’t make so much as a dent in his scaled skin. Maybe in another life I could have stood up to him, but now…a dragon would not have to work hard to hurt me.

He licked his thumb and rubbed it across my cheekbone, wiping away the dirt I’d allowed to accumulate there and revealing the iridescent white shine of soft, tiny scales.

“A draga,” he said quietly, speaking to himself. The crimson dragon lifted me higher, burying his face in the hollow between my chin and throat and breathing in deep. His beard tickled horribly, the scratchiness of it against vulnerable skin making me want to scream. “A rank, filthy pig of a royal draga.”

I stopped struggling. It wasn’t fear that held me frozen, but self-preservation. Dragons had a high prey drive in either form, winged or earthbound; struggling meant they’d simply run you down all the quicker.

“Which House are you?” he demanded, dropping me to the floor again and keeping a tight grip on my cloak. He shook me hard enough to make my teeth rattle together.

“Ashes,” I whispered, lowering my eyes. Direct eye contact with an angry dragon was considered a threat. The days when I could stand my ground were long gone.

Kalros simply laughed, shaking me again. “Try again. Which House are you, little draga? Who are you?”

“My name is Miri.” I gasped out the first name that popped into my mind as the cloak tightened around my neck. Miri had been one of my childhood tutors. “I never knew my House—”

“Liar.” Kalros pulled a lock of my hair free from its braid. Even through the accumulated grease and grime, the shine of silver strands among the coal-black ones couldn’t be entirely hidden.

He examined it, amber eyes narrowed, then his gaze returned to the scales on my cheeks and my silver irises, which no dirt could hide.

Scion-marks. I bore the stamp of my Ascendant’s lineage as surely as any coin.

His own vibrant eyes widened.

“Silver and onyx? I think…” He leaned in closer, the smell of sour shine on his breath making my stomach turn. “No. It can’t be. I think I just found you…Serafina.”

“I’m Miri,” I lied staunchly. “Aurae strike me down if I lie.”

I was sure Aurae of the Fang would forgive me for taking her name in vain just this once, but I sent a silent apology to her nonetheless.

Kalros tugged a lock of ink-and-silver hair, disbelief becoming vindication, his chapped lips spreading in a slow grin.

“I almost can’t believe it. The murderer’s spawn, right here under my nose. The gods could not have been clearer.” He looked back at the rapt exiles, the bar silent and full witness to our exchange. “They’ve given me the answer.”

He dragged me to the middle of the room, back straight as he paraded me through the tavern, showing my face to them all. I would never be able to hide on Mistward again. “We’ll make our own House, boys, with this royal draga right here. We’ll take Koressis and name ourselves—”

“The House of Whores and Shine,” a yellow-toothed ferryman shouted, and they all cheered again, toasting the name.

“Indeed,” Kalros agreed. His grip on my upper arm was painful, squeezing so tight I imagined I could hear my own bones creaking. “The House of Whores and Shine. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take Serafina here upstairs and fuck her senseless ‘til we’re mated. You can call me Drakkon after that.”

The Bloodless man whose tongue I’d bitten laughed, clapping Kalros on the shoulder like he’d made a hilarious joke.

I swore to Sunya of the Claw right then and there that if Kalros swung his cock in front of me, I’d bite it off at the root and make him bleed for this.

As he pushed through the tavern towards the stairs, I gritted my teeth, wracking my brain for the past lessons I’d had to sit through. Who was this dragon?

All royal draga were instructed on House lineages, but I couldn’t think of any besides our own that had been exiled in recent years…

“House of Bloodied Talons,” I said, the name popping into my head.

Kalros stopped, looking back at me with a frown. “Pardon?”

“I remember now—you’re Bloodied Talons.” I grinned at him, my teeth still stained red from the Bloodless’s tongue. “And exiled because your craven family chose to sit out the war of the Primoris. Couldn’t handle the flames, could you?”

“You know nothing of that.” His amber eyes darkened, the shade becoming molten with inner fire. Crimson scales crept over his chest, down his abdomen. “Have you ever seen a Primoris, little draga? Do you have any idea what it’s like?”

His voice had lowered to a silky, deadly tone. Soon he would snap…and just as well, because I’d rather be dead than raped into a mate bond.

“I know that my House went to war. Your entire House were cowards,” I taunted him, signing my own death warrant. “What makes you think you could claim any eyrie, let alone Koressis? Your House didn’t have the balls for war then, and you don’t have them now.”

His expression was frozen in place. It didn’t change even as he lifted a hand, drawing it back. His grip tightened, shoulders tensing to deliver a blow.

But it never arrived. A black-clawed hand gripped the crimson dragon’s upraised wrist, digging into his tendons.

The stranger stood behind him, more silent and deadly than any storm. Somehow, he made even a dragon as large as Kalros look small.

“Who in the Nine Hells are you?” Kalros growled, the muscles in his biceps bulging as he fought to extricate himself. “The fuck do you want?”

The stranger didn’t give an inch. The two dragons remained locked in place, Kalros straining against him, the stranger cool and unmoved.

His deep, smoky voice issued from under the hood. “That’s my princess you’re fucking with.”

Then he squeezed, claws punching through scaled skin, until the crack of snapping bones filled the air.

Kalros howled, releasing me to clutch his shattered wrist, and the stranger was immediately engulfed in a tide of furious exiles.