Chapter 1
Chapter One
Fenix
W ar is a means to an end, Fenix Shadowrin, former Crown Prince of the Shadowrin Flame Dragon Clan, thought, as the majesty of the bright, blood-red, full moon shined upon him and his hoard.
The eerie glow of the blood moon eclipse endowed him with much-needed strength just as his body was on the verge of giving out on him. They were forty strong, his dragon warriors, ten already killed in the intense battle that pushed them to the brink of Wolveria Falls.
It was a devastating loss of life for a race of kindred shifters who were not able to reproduce without finding their fated mate. Fenix would carry their deaths in his heart forever and would honor their sacrifice with blood!
He glanced left, over his uninjured shoulder and obsidian wing, gazing down at the dark rushing waters below. The black abyss at the bottom of the falls awaited anyone who dared to flee and jump. And due to some arcane magic in the air, their ability to fly away from the battle was nonexistent. Not that the Shadowrin ever fled a battle, though it would’ve been nice to have the option.
As the alpha turned back around to gaze into the darkness before him, he realized all at once that they would not survive without transforming. This battle had to be endured, fought fang and claw until absolute victory was won. Retreat equaled a fate worse than death, their bodies crushed and battered as they plummeted off the edge. But their feeble mortal shells would not be able to propel their enemies away. Only their unleashed dragon blood could.
The war-weary dragon hoard huddled closer together as tiny torchlights emerged from the evergreen forest of Wolveria, the ancestral home of the werewolf shifters challenging them. Land that had rebelled against the empress.
All around them, werewolves swarmed, armed to the teeth with weapons coated in magic-infused moon-metal, the stuff of nightmares for flame dragons, who drew their power from the sun.
Fear should have been coursing through the noble-born shifter’s veins, but the only thing on Fenix’s mind was his homeland. The sloping cliffs and bubbling springs of Castle Shadowrin, nestled in eternal summer, where he had been born and had every intention of dying, filled Fenix’s every waking moment. He’d been on the battlefield for ten long, brutal years, and needed to return. To rest. To search for the other half of his soul, so he could finally start a family.
They had to fight. There was no other choice. Yet the only option available to his hoard made Fenix furious. To think their enemies forced them to assume their feral states would have been nonsense mere hours ago, not quite human in shape nor dragon. But it was the only way to fight back.
He could feel his beast crawling underneath his skin, ready for a brawl, unable to take flight.
“Alpha! Now,” an ear-shattering war cry replaced the frantic sound of Erasma’s voice, his second-in-command.
Her dark brown skin contorted and shed, her face elongating, claws extending, coarse black scales bursting forth from every pore on her body. She morphed until she was a half-human snake. Fenix grinned, his golden eyes widening, pupils narrowing into black slits, hissing, roaring, tufts of black smoke billowing out from his open mouth, replacing his breaths.
Hooked to his belt were golden gloves with claws tipped in volcanic ash at the ends. They fit his real claws perfectly and would make every swipe of his palm more deadly to the werewolves who had chased them into this trap, now charging forward, transforming into furry beasts.
It was the preferred combat gear of a noble-born like himself who rarely shifted into their authentic form, let alone their half-feral state. Fenix’s more animalistic basic instincts could spell disaster in the heat of battle. Losing control was dangerous. But he would reign it in.
“Assemble! Hold!” A flood of movement punctuated each command as the survivors closed rank around their alpha.
Hunched over on hands and knees, they shed their fully human skin individually. Fenix had a fleeting thought that replacing their clothing would prove difficult and expensive, so far away from true civilization, waging war in once neutral territory. But, like everything else threatening to cloud his mind’s eye, he pushed the frivolous thought away and focused on his prey.
Fenix pulled his jewel-encrusted claws onto his fists, already soaked in blood and sweat from ripping through wolves who broke through his hoard’s defenses. He groaned as the familiar smell of burning flesh hit his nose; smoke spewed into the darkness, the only remnants of his magical fire breath and the magic seals of the glove that would ensure he did not attempt to fully transform while poisoned by moon-metal.
He closed his eyes with an anguished groan, channeling his energy to his other senses. When Fenix’s eyes reopened, they were that of a serpent, a wingless alpha dragon ready to wage war to his final breath. He unclasped his cape and stepped forward as it fell to the ground. Then, Fenix clenched his fists, rechanneling his aura towards his claws so they were more potent than the metal.
They morphed into something in between oversized human hands and a dragon’s feet, skin so tight around his muscles and bone that it would rip apart if not for the gloves.
“Attack! Kill them all! Devour these fiends to the bones!” Fenix shouted, and his hoard did just that, descending on the werewolves who could do little more than scream and run in absolute terror.
Little did the wolves know that flame dragonborn could still complete partial shifts even when struck with moon-metal—a carefully guarded secret, as those who became aware died before they could spread the truth.
The werewolves were falling in significant numbers, bloody and ripped to shreds. They were dwarfs against giants without the favor of their Gods, as his egg seeder once told Fenix before he passed on to join their ancestors.
“Aaah!” Fenix swung left just in time to shatter the sword of a charging wolven soldier.
His subordinate wasn’t so lucky, howling in agony as another werewolf impaled the dragon on an accursed blade. Fenix didn’t know how the pair got past his hoard, and he didn’t care. Their foolhardy suicide mission ended in their deaths, ruby-red blood splashing against Fenix’s metallic claws as he slashed.
He savored the thrill of the kill for a moment, and then it was gone in an instant, replaced by his hardening resolve.
Fenix would almost be home if not for the soldiers of fortune descending on his caravan in the dead of night. They had protected the civilians at great cost. But, if he missed the Lunar Carnevale, only the Goddess Solara knew if Empress Gloria would provide his reward.
His future, and that of the alpha’s whole clan, hinged on an overwhelming victory against King Cassian’s werewolf territory, the complete and utter surrender of the last shifters who did not pledge allegiance to her holy throne. That meant bringing the long-lost wilderness of Wolveria Forest back into the Kindred Empire’s fold. These werewolves would not stop him from his ultimate goal.
“Luna! To your left!” Fenix shouted, charging forward and sinking his claws into the guts of two soldiers, making quick work of their delicate bodies, sliced into pieces on the hard gray stone separating the cliff from the forest floor.
His emissary and personal assassin barely dodged the arrow hurtling towards his head, the arrowhead nicking his chin. Luna flipped backward and landed gracefully on his transformed clawed feet.
Unlike the rest of their company, Luna stood upright when partially transformed, appearing more like a blood-sucking vampire than a blood-thirsty dragonborn. He showed gratitude towards his alpha with a mighty roar that rocked Lunaria and pierced the heavens with the force.
Fenix grinned, returning his roar as he stood on top of a pile of dead werewolves, raising his blood-stained claws to the night sky stained in a mist of blood and smoke.
In that moment, they were Gods to the cowering mutts who attempted to flee their slashing claws and snapping fangs.
Their pitiful spells and accursed moon-metal could do little against them. The new era their ancestors had fought for, died for, and dreamed about for so long was upon them. Peace through strength. Fenix could taste victory in the air, and he could smell their fear.
He could smell something else, too, mingling with the blood, sweat, and foul stench of piss and shit as the werewolves’s bowels let loose in death. Fenix scented something sweet among the horrifying scents blasting his senses.
Yes, the sweet scent co-mingling with the wolves nearly forced Fenix to his knees, barely repressing his baser instincts.
Fenix’s mind finally emptied itself of the war, his duty to the empire, and his hatred of those who refused the reunification of the kindred to keep their petty noble titles while keeping their subjects enslaved. Everything but the scent prickling the back of his nose and lighting his flesh on fire fell away.
...Omega.
Where?
Mine!