5. Thalia
FIVE
THALIA
U ntil the point that Drake sneered at her to pack her things, Thalia had been having an interesting, even pleasant time. It wasn’t every day that a dragon shifter—and a king, no less—came to visit a human village and proclaimed that she was a sorceress beyond the reaches of her wildest dreams.
He had been courteous, receptive to courtesy, and refined in a way that she imagined all royals were raised to be. But the moment she rebuffed his orders, he turned a corner, shadows descending upon his neat and regal exterior.
She was frightened, yes, but more so for her father. There had been a handful of ruffians who infiltrated the village every now and then, some driven by the innocence of hunger, others with slightly more malicious intentions.
A hoodlum had once used a rabbit as target practice for his own amusement and left it splayed across an elderly neighbor's doorstep.
She had shrieked and sought out Thalia’s help.
The abiding witch had gripped the axe she left resting against the garden shed and chased them off. Bratty children, and nothing more, disappeared with feverish laughter into the night.
But standing before her was no child. He was tall, perhaps nearly seven feet, and lean like one of those wrestlers she’d heard so much about at the village tavern. He was as solid as an ancient tree. Cords of muscle stood out from his neck and the patch of forearm that peeked from beneath his cloak, making Thalia think of the vines that laced around her garden fortress.
He would not be scared off by her axe, or even a sternly raised voice.
Thalia pushed away from against the wall, even-footed, and folded her arms over her chest. The king was glaring at her cruelly.
“Did you not hear me? I won’t go. There is nothing you can say that will make me.”
Just as she was finding momentum, she spotted her father hobbling out of his bedroom. He looked pasty with fear.
“Listen to him, my child,” he pleaded with her. “Go with him and do not talk back. He is a king, after all.”
“Listen to your father,” Drake snapped, smiling smugly.
He then raised his voice into a harsh bark, telling the soldiers that had traveled with him to begin packing her things.
Her father remained hidden behind a sheet that she drew in the evenings when she couldn’t sleep, nestling herself under warm blankets next to throbbing embers of the dying fire. His eyes were hazy like that of a senior dog, afraid and cautious.
That was when Thalia barked back, raising her voice to an angered shout.
“How dare you come in here, make your pitiful claims, and scare my father. You have no right.”
Drake looked at her with an overtaxed, strained stare as his men swarmed her small home. If she hadn’t been so fiercely angry, she may have wondered about what was plaguing such a seemingly fit young man.
“I do not have time for this charade, Sorceress. I have been battling my enemy for some time now, the one I spoke of who also seeks you. A war is coming, and I must head back to my kingdom to prepare. You are fortunate I managed time to find you and whisk you away.”
Thalia felt like snickering with delirious rage. Instead, she chuckled madly, watching as the soldiers paced into her bedroom and began to ransack what little she had gathered over her lifetime of caring for her grieving father.
“What makes you so entitled to me?” she screamed at him, doing everything to hold back tears. “You walk in here and demand my presence after sitting at my dinner table. Where did you learn your manners, good King?”
But Drake was not listening. He had moved away from her and was peering into the short hallway that led to her bedroom. Thalia could hear them opening and closing drawers, rifling through her clothing and treasured items. The witch was so distressed that her feet would not move from the floor.
And still, her father stayed behind the sheet, watching with an ignorant and horrified glare.
Thalia considered walking up to the king and slapping him. Though it wouldn’t do any damage, it could sting his ego. Dragon shifter or not. But her feet still would not move.
She began to screech, demanding his attention.
“I will not go!”
Drake whipped his head toward her, and Thalia nearly tumbled back into the counter. She didn’t, but the look was so jarring, so scornful, that she started to believe that he was half mutated into his dragon form. Scales rose in iridescent hues.
His voice matched the tyrannical danger of his leer.
“You have no choice in the matter,” he hissed, tongue lashing out for a moment. “What makes you think that your feelings were going to be of any consideration?”
Thalia felt hollow. She darted a look at her father, who was still watching, reproachfully distant. The witch felt the wave of grief nearly consume her, a familiar one that had come to haunt her family.
“ Please , I can’t leave my father. He needs me.”
Her voice was small and mousey, and she hated herself for it. Drake turned toward her father, who flinched as if threatened with a weapon.
He yelled at the men who were still turning her bedroom into shambles.
“Begin to pack the old man’s things. He will be joining us on our quest.”
Her father abruptly became lucid, letting go of the sheet and clasping his hands into prayer formation. It was a pathetic, sad sight, and she detested the king for it.
“This is my home,” her father implored, his entire body trembling. “This is the place where I had my child, where I lived my life with my wife for forty-five years. Please. You must understand.”
Drake licked his lips, staring coldly. Her father turned and hobbled toward the men who were pillaging his items.
“Look at what you’re doing to him,” Thalia said, nearly spitting at the king.
She tried to move past him to console her father, but Drake shot out a hand as fast as an arrow and gripped her wrist.
His power filled the sorceress with dread at first, the way she was suddenly unable to move. She tried to escape him, tugging to the point where her muscles cramped, but then he pulled her into him. Her chest brushed against his, and Thalia’s breath caught.
His gaze bore into hers. The blue of his eyes had returned, blotting into small blemishes around the pupil like snow dotting a meadow.
Thalia felt a reluctant heat slither down her throat, bloom in her stomach, and spread along the inside of her thighs. Her heart hammered against her bust, which had unexpectedly grown sensitive to the fabric of her bodice rubbing against the buds of her nipples.
This king, this awful man, was upending her entire life at his whim. He was cruel, selfish, and domineering. He was everything she was taught to distrust in a man.
And yet his possessive touch, his fiery gaze, his complete dominance was stirring heat in Thalia. It was a sensation that embarrassed her, making the redness of her cheeks beat even hotter.
She hated herself for wanting him like this. She hated her weakness at his touch. She hated the way she couldn’t make the longing go away. But more than that, she completely hated him.
The king leaned down, eyes unblinking, and ground his teeth as he muttered. “If you're so worried about your unwell father, then you will come with me willingly.”
Thalia gulped, her throat having run dry as the desert plains.
“Is that a threat?” she whispered back.
Drake shook his head. He looked calmer despite maintaining his grasp around her wrist.
“Creation Sorceresses can change things at a molecular level.” He paused, waiting for her to absorb the wording, then went on. “That means that they can change bodies as well. They can heal them.”
The men who rummaged through her and her father’s belongings continued. Her father's sorrowful beseeching was muffled. Thalia was locked in, fixated on the king. A flare of realization cast itself over her astute mind.
“Are you telling me that if I’m able to yield my abilities of… gardening … Then I could heal my father?”
Drake nodded.
It all sounded too good to be true. But what use would it be for the dragon shifter to lie to her?
“You will be able to heal all of your father’s physical pains and restore his mental faculties to that of a ripe young man. That is what you will gain if you accept my demands.”
Thalia was spiteful, but there wasn’t anything else in the world that was more tempting than the idea of turning her father into his old self. It had been some time since her mother passed into the great beyond, his misery having aged him twofold. She wanted to believe the king wasn’t feeding her false truths for the sake of his own selfish schemes.
“You’re not lying?” she asked, her pulse hot and quick against his hold.
“If I wanted to, I could have had you and your father killed. I wouldn’t have wasted my time with petty conversation.”
That was all Thalia needed to hear. Her intuition was also keen, so even if she didn’t trust the king, she trusted herself.
When he let her go, she approached her sobbing father and informed him of the unfortunate news.