Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he kingdom of Lyrithia bordered Brackroth, its steep stretch of mountains carving up the rugged terrain, dividing the two land masses in half. Whereas Brackroth was bleak and bitter, constantly under overcast skies and frigid rain, Lyrithia was quite the opposite. Once Svartos soared over the magnificent mountain peaks, so high they were still dusted with snow, the gloomy mist of Brackroth dissipated and Lyrithia came into view.
Late afternoon sun splashed across the sky and thin ribbons of clouds cast long shadows on the ground below. Even on the back of his dragon, the beams of light never quite touched him. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt the warmth of sunlight upon his skin, save for when Creslyn used her magic. Somehow, her power had reached him, and the thought of it left him slightly on edge. Sunshine and rainbows shouldn’t be able to penetrate the darkness of his soul, and yet…
He shook his head, tightening his hold on Svartos’s reins.
Sprawling towns dotted the lush green landscape. Many of them were nestled in valleys, situated by flowing river ways with crystal clear water that spilled down from the mountains. Shops and homes were painted in rich, vibrant hues—deep red, navy blue, forest green, and burnt orange. From Drake’s vantage point, he could just make out the castle in the distance, set against a backdrop of dense pines and sloping hills.
But he would not be paying the king a visit.
The piece of folded parchment tucked into his vest caused his bloodlust to stir, and he grit his teeth against the mounting pressure pounding against his skull. Each time King Marius gave him a name, it awoke the slumbering darkness inside him. He’d made a choice long ago. In exchange for a weapon of deadly force, he would become the king’s assassin. The deal had only required a few vials of Drake’s own blood, and he’d been so consumed with greed, he’d readily accepted the offer without realizing the full extent of the truth. That damn witch his father lusted after had made it so the weapon would end a life upon its first strike, but if he ever turned against the king, his own life would be taken as well.
Otherwise, Drake would have killed him with his shadows long ago.
He wondered how much Marius had given her in exchange for that bit of trickery.
The bastard must’ve known Drake would one day want him dead.
In the beginning, Marius sent him off to kill anyone who posed a threat to Brackroth—enemies, rebels, even those who had wronged him in the past. But now it seemed as though Marius was simply giving him names for sport.
Drake sneered at the notion, guiding Svartos to a patch of shaded overhang in a thicket of trees.
He wasn’t above killing someone. In fact, there had been many times he’d enjoyed watching the life drain from his victims’ eyes. Those who had been on the receiving end of his blade often deserved their demise. But Marius had begun taking lives for no other reason than the fact that he could , and even that caused Drake’s shadows to hiss and recoil.
He swung off Svartos, adjusted his leathers, then yanked off his riding gloves, tucking them into his back pocket. The trees rustled on the breeze, disguising the annoyed huff of Svartos when Drake tossed him a chunk of raw meat.
“I’ll be back just after nightfall.” He rubbed his hand along the dragon’s roughened black scales. “And then we can return home.”
To Creslyn.
Svartos tossed his head once before settling down in the sparse patch of forest.
Drake wasted no time heading toward the village. The sooner he got this over with, the better. Moving through the elongated shadows of the setting sun, he found his way to the heart of the village square, then stalked out of an empty alley that reeked of urine and tobacco. He scowled at anyone who passed him, but his reputation was widely known in Lyrithia, and most of the inhabitants avoided him anyway, giving him a wide berth. He could sense their fear, the way icy panic slid down their spines, how their breathing grew shallow the moment they laid eyes upon him. While most of the villagers would pray to their gods as he strode past them, silently begging to be spared, he knew a select few would be bold enough to search him out.
He strolled through the village on his way to the local pub, pausing only when a display of sparkling jewels in the window of a storefront caught his eye—the diamonds in particular. The necklace was a collar made of four separate strands, each one graduating in size, and the stones along the bottom row were about as large as river pebbles. Matching earrings were paired with the necklace, and then there were the silver bars, where the gemstones dripped like a sparkling waterfall.
Perfect.
Drake made his purchase and continued to the pub, choosing a secluded table in the far corner where the grimy lighting couldn’t quite reach. The stench of stale alcohol hung heavy in the air, coupled with a haze of smoke. Burnished sunlight angled in through shuttered windows and every so often the door would groan open as a few more patrons entered the pub, the end of the day drawing near. Three musicians were set up on the other end of the space, across from the scuffed bar, their instruments strumming out an off-key folk tune that grated against his ears.
He ordered a whiskey, biting back his grimace when they served it in a glass that looked as though it had never been washed.
The liquor was mediocre at best and lacking any real flavor, but Drake didn’t really care. He was merely biding his time, waiting for his unsuspecting target to stroll into the pub.
Minutes ticked by as more villagers crammed into the run-down establishment, crushing tables together and fitting themselves into any open space at the bar. None of them looked his way, but then the distinctive click of heels echoed in his ears and a scent he’d all but forgotten heightened his awareness.
Drake’s head snapped up, and he found himself staring at Ingrid, a tall blonde woman with keen eyes and a pair of lips that had taken his cock more times than he could count. She wore Lyrithia’s traditional dress, a dark blue skirt with colorful flowers embroidered along the hem, and a corset that laced up the front, so the fullness of her breasts was on display. Her hair was twisted into two plaits, bound with the feathers of a raven, and she’d lined her eyes with kohl.
Her red mouth curved into a smile. “It’s been a long time.”
“And it will be even longer,” he answered coolly, finishing off the foul drink.
Ingrid pulled out the empty chair next to his, its legs scratching against the wooden floor. Then she plopped down, her hand reaching for his thigh.
Drake snared her wrist, digging his fingers into her flesh. “Don’t even think about it.”
She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout, seizing the opportunity to move closer to him.
“I haven’t seen you in months. You came all this way from Brackroth, the least you can do is give me a few hours of your time. Preferably in my bed.” Ingrid tilted her head, angling to kiss him. The heady scent of her flowery perfume was nauseating. “Let me show you how much I missed you.”
Drake released her then, shoving her back with such force she nearly toppled out of the rickety chair. “I owe you nothing. Not my time. Nor my attention.”
“I know why you’re here.” Her whisper was harsh, and she leaned back, drumming her nails along the table’s uneven surface. “You think you’ve come to kill my father. Wait until you find out you’ve been made a fool, that you coming here was nothing more than a trick to?—”
Drake moved with excessive speed. He yanked the parchment from the pocket of his vest and slammed it on the table in front of her, forcing her to see the name scrawled in blood. “Does this look like a trick to you, Ingrid?”
The rouge on her cheeks faded, and she turned pallid, her throat working tirelessly to swallow all the vile, hateful things she would never have the courage to say.
She reached for the parchment, but he was faster, snatching it up before she could rip it to shreds.
Like that would do anything.
Ingrid bared her teeth, the desire in her eyes replaced by cold loathing. “You can’t do this.”
He debated placating her with a sarcastic response when the bloodlust stirred. Inhaling deeply, he tracked the scent of the day’s fresh catch from the fish market mixed with cherry tobacco smoke from a pipe. Halvor, Ingrid’s father, was about to walk through the doors of the pub.
Her eyes flew wide, recognizing his intent.
“No!” she cried, clambering out of her seat and darting toward the entrance.
Drake watched her scramble through the crowd, cursing under his breath as she plowed into her father and dragged him out the door.
Damn Ingrid for getting involved. She would only serve to make things messy on his end, either with blood or tears.
He crumpled the parchment, cramming it into his pocket, and slipped into the shadows. They swarmed him, their cool caress a balm to the heated rush coursing through his veins. The compulsion to kill was raging, and he pulled the Shadowblade from its sheath. Its midnight blade pulsed with power, the hilt throbbing in his grip, summoning him to fulfill his long-standing bargain. The magic it possessed had become an obsession, a calling, serving only to intensify Drake’s desire for death.
But there was something else. Something more prominent that prodded at the back of his mind, digging into his subconscious.
Shaking off the odd sensation, he moved like a wraith from the pub to the village square, clinging to the expanse of darkness coating the cobbled streets. The sun sank low in the western sky, so streaks of crimson bled against the approaching hues of twilight. A blonde head ducked around a corner, and he tracked it, following Ingrid and her father into a cramped alley littered with crates and piles of days-old rubbish.
The Shadowblade hummed against the grip of his palm, ready to sing with blood.
Drake slinked past Ingrid in a blur of shadows, prepared to strike, when her father laughed loudly and swatted away her hand.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ingrid. Prince Drake won’t actually kill me.” Halvor ran a hand down his beard, smoothing the wiry gray strands. “I’m nothing more than a ploy. Marius needed a reason to distract the prince so he could get rid of some blasted faerie.”
Drake’s blood ran cold.
“I saw your name inked in blood!” Ingrid shouted, grabbing at his arm.
Halvor paled. “That double-crossing bastard…”
But their words were nothing more than garbled nonsense, lost to the frenzy of hostility ravaging Drake’s mind. His shadows seethed, fueled with vengeful wrath. They poured from him like a venom of darkness, stealing every shred of light and encompassing the alley with a gust of frozen air. So cold, Ingrid’s panicked breaths puffed out in front of her and turned to icicles.
Creslyn was in danger. That was the unsettling grip of unease he could not shake.
Drake snarled, his arm arcing through the air as he drove the Shadowblade into his target. The dagger seemed to hum in satisfaction, its blade glistening with the blood of his victim. Ingrid screamed, but her cries fell on deaf ears.
He didn’t care.
Sheathing the blade, he stole through the falling night toward the line of trees where Svartos waited for him. He swung up into the riding seat, his hands and veins turned black from the mass of shadows lashing out around him.
Drake’s gaze narrowed. He would kill whoever hurt her.
“Vaeja .”
Drake stalked toward Dragnott Lair, dusting off his hands.
Upon his return to Brackroth, King Marius gloated like an imbecile, dancing around the subject of Creslyn’s whereabouts while his scathing remarks lingered in the back of Drake’s mind.
“What did you do to her?” Drake demanded.
“I got rid of a pestilence upon my kingdom.”
And when Drake threatened to slay every guard in the throne room, the bastard had only laughed.
“ They’re easily replaceable,” the king chortled.
“Just like you,” Drake replied before unleashing his power upon every soul in the room.
Their screams were drowned out by the piercing crack of thunder from an approaching storm. Shadows erupted from Drake in a relentless wave of terror, feeding off his own rage. Painful cries and pleas for mercy shuddered through the throne room as impenetrable darkness strangled each soul. As the thrashings subsided and the shouts of agony became nothing more than dying whispers, an unnatural calm took root in Drake, branching out to even the balance between man and monster.
Only when Kjeld ran in, claiming Creslyn was safe in the lair, did Drake cease his torment. But by then, it was too late.
He almost pitied the servants who would be forced to clean up the mess he left behind.
Slashing rain pummeled him as he traversed the crumbling cliffside toward the belly of the mountain where the dragons resided. Kjeld came with him, his hand constantly hovering over the hilt of his sword.
“This is all my fault,” he muttered, slicking back his soaked hair from his face. “I never should’ve left her alone, Your Highness.”
Drake stiffened at the formality between them but kept his pace clipped, ducking into the heart of the lair and out of the violent weather. “Besides myself, you are the only one remotely capable of controlling the whelps. You did what had to be done.”
They walked through the winding tunnel in silence, their footfalls echoing off the cavernous walls as steady droplets of spring water dripped from the spires lining the ceiling. The dark was penetrating, but flaming torches were ignited every few feet, dousing the lair in a soft orange light. Dragons of varying size dozed in some of the caves set back off the main path, but every so often he caught the glint of glowing eyes watching him as he passed.
Deeper into the mountain they trekked until they came upon the den of Astrylys. She was a beautiful dragon, with piercing blue eyes and silver scales coated with an iridescent sheen. She also happened to be Svartos’s mate, a coincidence that was not lost on Drake.
Astrylys inhaled, breathing in his scent, and he swore the dragon narrowed her vivid eyes as he approached. Just beyond the curve of her tail, he spied a muddied gown and the tip of a pointed ear.
Creslyn.
Astrylys snapped her mighty jaws once in warning and stretched her wings, ready to protect Creslyn the way a mother would her young.
“Careful, Your Highness.” Kjeld drew up short, lowering his arms to his side to show he meant no harm. “She won’t let any of us near Lady Creslyn.”
Good.
Drake took one slow step, then another. “Easy, Astrylys. Easy.”
The female dragon hissed, her growl deepening.
“Yes, I know I never should’ve left her alone. It was my mistake.” He moved closer, maintaining eye contact with Astrylys the entire time. Her skinny pupils dilated in the faint light, wary.
“She is mine.” Drake placed one hand over his heart and bowed low before the dragon. “Mine.”
There was a snort, intense enough it nearly caused him to stumble, but Astrylys eased back, allowing him access to Creslyn.
As soon as he saw her, he knew the deaths of those guards would never be enough for retribution. Only when he had Marius’s head on a stake, would he rest easily knowing Creslyn was safe. His gaze roved over her, his fingers clenching into fists at his side.
She was curled on a thatch of hay, protected by Astrylys’s winding tail. Her dress was damp and torn, her face was entirely too pale, and her eyes were closed. He listened for her heartbeat. It was steady, but her chest rose and fell much slower than it should have. She was weak. Possibly unconscious. But what rekindled his rage were the iron cuffs clamped around her wrists.
Drake took a steadying breath and carefully stepped toward her, aware of Astrylys watching his every movement. He grabbed the metal chain, wrapping his hand around the links joining the two cuffs, and faint tendrils of shadows slithered from his fingers. Darkness met iron and the shadows devoured the metal bindings, dissolving them completely.
Creslyn whimpered and something inside of Drake fractured.
“Prepare our bags,” Drake called out to Kjeld, scooping Creslyn into his arms. “We leave for Aeramere immediately.”
She needed a healer. And not just any healer, one of fae blood.
Clutching Creslyn to his chest, Drake bowed once more to Astrylys. “Thank you for saving her.”
“We?” Kjeld choked out, his eyes widening. “You want me to travel with you?”
“Yes.” Drake walked out of the dragon’s den, cradling a nearly unconscious Creslyn, and headed back toward the passage of tunnels with Kjeld on his heels. “When I return to Aeramere with Lady Creslyn in this condition, there’s a very good chance her brothers will want to kill me.”
Kjeld stared at him.
Drake jerked his head toward the entrance of the lair. “ Now , General.”
Kjeld nodded once and bolted down the path to ready their belongings.
Usually, the odds were always in Drake’s favor. But it never hurt to have backup, just in case. Besides, he was quite certain he could handle Lord Solarius on his own, and definitely the two younger ones, assuming they’d already returned to House Celestine from their seafaring travels. Lord Ariesian, however, could end his life.