Chapter 6 Sarak
Sarak
The storm breaks at dawn, leaving the world scrubbed clean and glittering. But I can’t help feel that this is a false dawn. I’ve lived too many lives to be fooled into thinking that evil backs down and walks away—Revaster will be back, and he’ll come harder than ever.
Still, the elf and I are safe for now.
We emerge from the cave like survivors of a shipwreck.
Gamble’s hair is a wild silver-green halo, my wings stiff from disuse, the fire stone quiet but watchful in its pouch.
The sky is a hard, perfect blue. Snow dusts the pines like sugar.
For one heartbeat we just breathe it all in and say thanks to the gods who make it all possible.
Then Gamble grins, wicked and bright. “Race you to the bottom of the ridge, Daddy.”
The damn elf is off before I can answer, boots skimming the crust, laughter trailing behind him like bells. I let him win by three strides, mostly because the sight of his buttocks bouncing down the slope is worth the dent to my pride.
The village of Thornhollow nestles across the valley below—timber houses, smoke curling from chimneys, the smell of baking bread and woodsmoke on the wind.
It’s smaller than my forge-town, rougher around the edges, but the folk here know dragons.
We’ll be accepted, prying eyes won’t run and tell tales to the kinds of people who we don’t need knowing our location.
The inhabitants nod respectfully as we pass; children trail us with wide, curious eyes.
Gamble waves like a prince and I simply smile.
For a brief moment, it feels like the two of us might just have a life approaching normal.
Of course, we both know that right now the truth is something altogether different.
“This way, boy,” I say.
“Got it, Daddy,” Gamble replies, his hand brushing up against me, sending a surge of adrenalin over my body. I know I want to take the next step with him and I’m sure the elf feels the same way too. But that time will have to wait. For now, we have business to discuss.
We find the tavern at the heart of the square: The Embered Hearth.
Low beams, roaring fire, the scent of mulled cider and venison stew thick enough to taste.
The barkeep—a stout woman with fox-kin ears—takes one look at my size, Gamble’s pointed ears, and the way I keep a proprietary hand on the small of his back, and ushers us to a corner table without a word.
“Best seat in the house,” she says, winking. “On the house if the dragon tells a story later.”
Gamble’s eyes sparkle. “He’s shy.”
I snort smoke. “I’ll consider it.”
We order enough food for four men and a pony. While we wait, I spread the fire stone on the table between us, wrapped in lead cloth. Gamble pulls a worn leather journal from his pack—his mother’s, pages crammed with cramped elvish script and crude sketches of runes.
“Elowen’s notes,” he explains, flipping to a dog-eared page. “She studied the old dragon-pacts before Revaster twisted them. Says the stone was forged in the Heartforge beneath Drak’Vahl—the ruined citadel in the Emberfall Glades.”
I lean in, shoulder to shoulder. “My clan’s ancestral seat. Been abandoned for a long time. Ever since it was burned down.”
Gamble’s fingers brush mine over the page. “The ritual needs three things: dragon blood, elf-song, and the Heartforge’s flame. We have two. The third…” He taps a sketch of a circular dais ringed with runes. “Needs us both, at moonrise, on the longest night.”
I trace the runes with a claw-tip. “That’s three days from now.”
“Plenty of time to flirt shamelessly in taverns,” Gamble says, batting lashes.
The food arrives—platters of roast meat, honey-glazed roots, warm bread, cider that steams. We fall on it like starving wolves. Between bites, Gamble feeds me morsels from his fingers, licking honey from my lips when I let him.
The tavern hums around us. Laughter, clinking mugs, a bard plucking a lute in the corner.
Someone starts a drinking song about a dragon who stole a prince’s heart.
Gamble joins in, voice clear and sweet. The room roars approval at Gamble’s tuneful assistance and I can see the pride in the boy’s face as he begins to show off for the crowd.
I pull him into my lap, nipping his ear. “Behave.”
“Never.” He wiggles deliberately. My cock stirs and I pinch his thigh in warning. He only laughs.
Hours slip by. We pore over the journal, heads bent together. Gamble translates elvish while I add draconic lore. The stone pulses faintly, as if listening. By the time the fire burns low and the bard switches to slower tunes, we have a plan: reach Drak’Vahl, perform the rite, shatter the curse.
Simple.
But maybe too simple.
We step outside into crisp night air. The square is empty, lanterns swaying. Snow crunches under our boots. It all seems tranquil, but something isn’t quite right. My senses heighten and the effects of the cider disappear instantly as a high-alert clarity comes over me.
Then the shadows move.
Hunters pour from alleys and rooftops—twenty, thirty, more. Revaster’s elite: black armor, crimson runes glowing on their blades. A warlock hovers above, staff crackling with blood-magic. The air reeks of sulfur and intent.
Gamble’s hand finds mine. “Told you the flirting was too good to last.”
I grin, all teeth. “Hold tight.”
I shift. The change is explosive—bones lengthening, wings erupting, scales rippling like shimmering stars in the night. Gamble scrambles onto my back as I rise on hind legs, thirty feet of fury and fire. The hunters hesitate, then charge.
I breathe.
Dragon fire rolls over the front line in a wave of gold and crimson. Men scream, armor melting. Gamble’s legs clamp my neck; his hands weave spells as he rides me like he was born to it, laughter wild in my ear.
“Left!” he shouts. I bank hard; his spell shatters a warlock’s barrier. I snap the man in half with my jaws.
They swarm. Arrows ping off my scales. A net of crimson chains lashes toward us—Revaster’s binding spell. Gamble flings a handful of glittering dust; the net freezes mid-air, turns to butterflies, dissolves.
“Show-off,” I rumble.
“Jealous?” He leans forward, kisses the ridge of my neck. “Focus, Daddy.”
A hunter leaps for my wing. I crush him under one claw. Another drives a spear into my flank—pain flares, hot and bright. I roar, spin, tail lashing. The spear snaps and the man flies into a wall.
Suddenly, Gamble’s magic falters. The fire stone burns against my chest, drinking his strength. I feel it through the bond—his knees weakening, his grip slipping.
My rage ignites, white-hot. I spread my wings wide, beat them once. The downdraft flattens hunters like wheat. I breathe again—this time a focused lance that carves a path through the square. Gamble clings tight, chanting under his breath, weaving a shield of green light around us.
We burst free of the swarm, launch into the sky. Arrows whistle past. One grazes Gamble’s arm; he hisses but doesn’t let go. I climb hard, wind screaming, until the village is a toy below and the hunters are ants.
Only when the air thins and the stars wheel overhead do I level out, banking toward our camp in the foothills—a hidden hollow I scouted at dusk, ringed by wards and old dragon runes.
I land soft as a cat. Gamble slides from my back, legs trembling. I shift to two legs, catch him as he sways.
“Easy,” I murmur, cradling him close. Blood seeps through his sleeve where the arrow grazed him. My dragon snarls at the scent.
The boy laughs, shaky. “We’re alive.”
“Barely.” I carry him into the hollow—a circle of stones, a small fire already banked by my earlier preparations, furs spread thick.
I set him down, strip his cloak and tunic with careful hands.
The graze is shallow but angry. I clean it with water from my flask, smear dragon-blood salve. He hisses, then sighs as the pain ebbs.
“You were magnificent,” Gamble says, eyes shining. “My dragon.”
“You were reckless,” I counter, but there’s no anger in it. I kiss the bandage, then his wrist, then the inside of his elbow. “Riding into battle on my back like some elven warlord.”
“Jealous of my flair?” He tugs me down until I’m stretched over him, furs soft beneath us, firelight dancing across his skin.
“Terrified,” I admit against his throat. “Every second you were up there, I thought—”
He silences me with a kiss—slow, deep, tasting of smoke and cider and him. His hands slide under my shirt, nails scraping down my back.
“I need you,” he whispers. “I need to feel you. All of you.”
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “Here?”
“Here.” He arches up, grinding against me. “Now. Please, Daddy.”
The plea undoes me. The boy wants this as much as I do. And I’m going to make sure he gets it too.
I strip him bare, then myself, until there’s nothing between us but firelight and want. His skin is furnace-hot under my palms; the fire stone lies forgotten on the furs, quiet for once. I kiss every inch of him—collarbone, ribs, the hollow of his hip—until he’s writhing, begging in broken elvish.
As Gamble’s cock thumps and twitches, I take my own rock-hard cock and slap it back and forth against the boy’s smooth, milky-white stomach.
“Daddy’s going to show you how a dragon fucks,” I growl. “Do you think you can handle it?”
Gamble nods and sinks to his knees.
“I’ll show you that I can handle anything,” Gamble says, a slight hint of nerves in his voice just before he presses his puckered lips up against the engorged tip of my cock and lays a soft, wet kiss there.
“Good boy,” I roar, my balls tightening as I feel Gamble reach behind and grab my ass as he opens his mouth wide and takes my entire length inside his mouth. “Get it nice and wet. Trust me, you’re going to need all the lube you can get when I take that naughty little ass and make it mine.”
Gamble makes a muffled reply as he begins to bounce his mouth up and down my shaft, spittle flying out the side of his mouth as he works hard and fast, just the way I like it.
But if the boy thinks that he’s going to be leading the way on this, he’s got another thing coming. I’m his Dragon Daddy, and it’s time to show the sassy elf who’s the boss…