Chapter 4 Sarak
Sarak
The Frostfang Pass bites like a living thing.
Wind howls through the jagged teeth of the mountains, hurling ice that feels sharp enough to flay skin.
Gamble’s cloak snaps behind him like a battle standard, silver-green hair whipping across his cheeks.
He is laughing as he runs two steps ahead of me, boots skimming the snow crust without breaking through.
“Keep up, old man!” he calls over his shoulder, voice bright with mischief.
I snort, smoke curling from my nostrils. “Old man? I’ll show you old when I bend you over the next snowdrift, elf.”
The threat only makes him laugh harder.
I growl but cannot resist the temptation of a smile too. The elf is full of sass, and it suits him. The only problem is that the boy knows it too. He’s trouble.
The broken halves of the fire stone ride in a lead-lined pouch against my chest, wrapped in dragon-scale leather. They are quiet for now, but every hour the cracks knit a little more.
Revaster’s magic is patient as it is dangerous.
It will wait until we are tired, cold, and far from help.
Gamble knows it too, but he refuses to let the weight crush him. That is the thing about my little elf, he dances on the edge of disaster the way other people breathe.
We traverse a ridge and the pass opens below us—a narrow white scar between black cliffs.
Mercenaries. Twenty, maybe thirty. Revaster’s colors: crimson and ash.
They’ve set a barricade of overturned wagons and sharpened stakes across the only path wide enough for two abreast. A warlock stands atop the highest wagon, staff glowing with sickly red light.
“Hell,” I grumble.
Gamble drops to a crouch beside me, breath fogging. “Well. That’s inconvenient.”
I study the terrain. Sheer walls on both sides, avalanche chutes above, and the wind funneling straight through the choke point.
One dragon could burn them all to cinders, but the moment I shift fully, the cliffs will come down on us.
Gamble’s illusions are clever, but thirty men with crossbows and a warlock who can see through an elf’s illusions is another matter.
“Plan?” Gamble asks, eyes bright.
I grin, all teeth. “We give them exactly what they’re expecting.”
He arches a brow. “Which is what precisely?”
“A terrified little elf and one very large, very angry dragon.”
Gamble’s answering smile is pure sin. “I do terrified so well.”
I cup the boy’s cold cheek. “You stay behind the illusion. You do not step into arrow range. You break that rule and I swear on every scale I own, I will blister your backside until you can’t sit for a week. Understood?”
He salutes with two fingers. “Yes, Daddy.”
The word slides down my spine like heated oil. I steal a hard, fast kiss then shove him gently behind a boulder.
“Showtime,” I snarl.
I step into the open and let the shift take me, my growls and pangs of pain coursing over my entire being. The change is violent this time: bones cracking, lengthening, wings exploding from my back in a rush of searing wind.
Scales ripple across my skin, obsidian and molten gold. I rise on hind legs, thirty feet of muscle and fury, and roar.
The sound shatters ice from the cliffs and sends the mercenaries scrambling for weapons. They know what is upon them—and they know too that there is not a damn thing they can do about it.
Below, Gamble’s illusion blooms: a second, smaller me (half-shifted, wounded, limping) dragging a terrified, wide-eyed elf by the wrist. The phantom Gamble stumbles theatrically, cloak torn, silver hair wild.
Real Gamble, hidden, weaves the glamour with both hands, lips moving in silent elven bursts.
The mercenaries take the bait like starving wolves.
“Alive!” the warlock bellows. “Revaster wants the elf breathing!”
They charge the illusion.
I drop from the sky like judgment itself.
The first blast of dragon fire turns the front line to ash before they can scream.
I land between the wagons, wings mantled, tail lashing.
Arrows ping harmlessly off my scales. I breathe again, a focused lance that melts the warlock’s staff and the hand holding it. He shrieks, tumbling from the wagon.
Real Gamble darts from cover, a streak of green and brown. He flings a handful of glittering dust that bursts into a dozen phantom dragons overhead. The mercenaries panic, shooting at shadows, their cries of distress showing them for the craven souls they are.
I wade through them like a storm.
Claws rend steel.
Teeth snap spines.
One fool tries to hamstring me with a poleaxe; I catch the haft in my jaws and fling him into the cliff face. The crack of bone echoes momentarily before the bloodbath continues apace.
It is over in minutes.
When the last body falls, the pass is silent except for wind and settling snow.
I shift back to two legs, chest heaving, blood steaming on my skin.
Gamble stands in the wreckage, eyes wide, lips parted.
There is awe on his face, and something darker— a sense of arousal, sharp and sweet in equal measure.
I stalk toward him. “You moved from cover.”
The elf lifts his chin, defiant. “I was never in danger.”
“You were twenty feet from a warlock who could have shattered your illusions with one word.” I crowd him against an overturned wagon, hands braced on either side of his head. “I gave you a direct order.”
Gamble’s breath hitches. “And I improvised. We won, didn’t we?”
I lean in until our noses brush. “We won. But disobedience is disobedience however you figure it. Now you face the consequences.”
His pupils blow wide. “Here?”
“Here.” I spin him, press his chest to the wagon’s frozen side. His cloak falls open. I yank his trousers down just far enough to bare that perfect, heart-shaped bottom. The cold air kisses his skin, the curve of his buttocks delectable to my eyes.
“Sarak—” It comes out a needy whine.
“Count,” I growl, and bring my bare hand down hard.
The crack echoes off the cliffs. Gamble jolts, a shocked cry tearing from his throat.
“One!” he gasps.
Another. Harder. His back arches beautifully.
“Two—fuck—Daddy!”
By five his voice is ragged, by ten he is sobbing into his forearm, hips rolling helplessly. This isn’t the somewhat playful spanking from before. This is real. This is essential correction.
Gamble’s skin is furnace-hot under my palm, glowing crimson against the snow. I pause at twelve, rubbing soothing circles, letting him breathe.
“Color?” I murmur against his ear. My dragon is listening for any true distress.
“Green,” he whispers, trembling. “So bloody green.”
I smile against his nape. “Good boy.”
The last eight are slower, deliberate. Each one draws a broken moan, a plea, a litany of “I’ll be good, Daddy, promise—” until he is limp and submissive, traces of tears freezing on his lashes.
When I finish, I pull him into my arms, wrapping my cloak and wings around him to shield him from the wind.
He burrows into my chest, shivering with aftershocks. “I hate you,” he mumbles into my neck.
“Liar.” I kiss the salt from his temple. “You’re dripping. Your ache is close.”
He whimpers when I slide a hand between his legs to confirm how his hard cock is at the point of no return.
I stroke him once, twice, slow and possessive, until he cums with a gasp and guttural moan against my throat.
I hold him through it, murmuring praise in old draconic, words that mean mine, precious, perfect.
When he can stand again, I right his clothing, buckle his cloak.
My own need is a fierce, banked coal, but there will be time later.
For now, the pass is clear, and the sun is sinking toward the far ridges.
Gamble looks up at me, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “Still carrying me over the next ridge?”
I scoop him up without a word. He squeaks, then settles against my chest like he belongs there… because he does.
“Next time you disobey me in a fight,” I warn, voice rough, “I won’t stop at twenty.”
He nips my collarbone. “Next time I’ll earn thirty.”
I laugh despite myself, the sound rumbling through both of us, and launch into the sky. My wings catch the updraft; the pass falls away beneath us.
Ahead, the Emberfall Glades shimmer on the horizon, green even in winter, lit from within by ancient magic.
Gamble’s arms tighten around my neck. “Sarak?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m glad you’re my Daddy.”
My heart stumbles mid-beat. I press my lips to his hair.
“And I’m never letting you go, little elf,” I roar. “Not for Revaster, not for curses, not for all the fire in the nine hells.”
Gamble smiles against my scales, warm and trusting, and for the first time in two centuries, the dragon in my chest is utterly, perfectly at peace.
We fly west, into the setting sun, toward blood rites and ancient debts and whatever the future dares to throw at us.
Let it come.
I have my hoard now.
And I will burn the world before I surrender him.