Chapter 38
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
Ash called lightning to her fingertips, ready to flank, but Race planted himself in front of her.
“Change of plans,” he barked. “Everyone behind me. Now.”
Attor, Koal, and Rhaedra complied, swords braced.
Attor caught her arm and yanked her clear. “No. Too dangerous.”
Soldiers, not guards, flooded into view at the far end of the grand hall, a jagged wave of steel and armor. They paused, momentarily surprised by the intruders. Then steel flashed. They charged, roaring, great rolls of flame spewing free.
No! Ash tore free of Attor’s hold and unleashed a gale-force wind at the surging front line, forcing their fire to rebound into them. Scales erupted as they semi-shifted for protection.
Race flung fiery orbs that split midair—a white-sparking net of flame seared through the enemy ranks. Screams tore through the hall as soldiers caught alight, collapsing in agony—not even their scales shielded them from Race’s devastating fire.
When the last body fell, silence crashed down. Heat shimmered in the air, and the smell of burnt leather and charred flesh stung her nose. Ash pressed a trembling palm to her belly, her gaze locking on her utterly dangerous, powerful mate.
The storm tethered to her power shuddered. Instantly, she reached for the clouds she’d summoned through their mental link.
Stay, she sent up to them, soothing their urge to break free.
Race glanced back. “Let’s go.”
He strode through the smoke, bypassed the charred remains, and threw open the massive, arched bronze doors.
Ash hurried after him and stumbled to a halt at the entrance, just behind Race. The others moved past her into the circular chamber vast enough to cradle dragons, but the devastation there strangled the breath in her chest.
Massive columns lay split and blackened, scattered like bones across the mosaic floor.
Race reached back, his fingers finding hers, and he drew her inside. She sidestepped a fallen column, her gaze sweeping around.
The ceiling arched high above them, a great domed vault supported by horn-like pillars that funneled wan daylight through their gaps. Twisted chandeliers hung from broken chains, scattered crystal shards crunching underfoot.
Once-glorious murals of dragons soaring through flame and sky were marred by claw marks and scorched black, reduced now to ghostly tatters.
Thunderous trumpets split the air. Dragons wheeled beyond the shattered colonnade—Braxion’s squadron, their metallic earth tones flashing through the storm—copper, rust, and navy wings glinting in the haze—fire spilling from their throats in searing jets.
Ash stopped at the threshold of the balcony, the sheer scale of it making her dizzy. The city far below smoked, burned in places, and embers crawled across rooftops like molten veins.
Malcarion’s dragons drove into the enemy, their roars bellowing—
Someone nudged her arm. “You shouldn’t stay so close to the edge. A flame could catch you.”
Rhaedra stood beside her, her features tight.
Ash nodded, turning back toward the chamber. Her gaze caught on the dais and the two thrones, or what remained of them, and her breath hitched.
Dear Lord, such hate.
The king’s seat bore a jagged crack down its spine, deep scars carved across the padded backrest. The queen’s one had toppled sideways, its winged crest broken, half buried under a fallen beam.
Dust still hung heavy in the air. The wounds on the stone looked fresh.
This must have occurred after the forge fell.
The air stank of scorched stone and iron. It lay thick in her lungs, and Ash shivered, every nerve alive with the sense that Malcarion’s fury still lived within these walls.
Her gaze found Race. He stood at the center of it all, staring at the thrones. His jaw locked, shoulders rigid, waves of his anguish and fury swamped her, as sharp as broken glass.
Ash crossed to him. Without a word, she slid her arm around his waist and held him, her head resting briefly against his chest. He didn’t look down, didn’t move.
“I’m here,” she whispered, not sure if it was for him or herself.
His chest rose on a slow breath, the smallest shift of weight leaning into her touch for a moment. Then his focus snapped forward again.
Ash summoned her obsidian dagger and slipped the weapon in her boot, just in case.
Koal grunted, heaving the fallen queen’s throne upright. “Where the hell is the bastard hiding?”
“There are many hidden passages off this room,” Attor muttered, from the far wall, his expression grim. “He could be in any of them.”
“He can hide. But I have his scent. I will find him.” His features carved in granite, Race leaped onto the dais, bypassed the thrones, and began working his way along the rear wall, fingertips gliding over the stone with slow, deliberate care.
Ash’s tension returned in spades, every nerve alert, every shadow threatening, as she waited. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the scrape of measured steps as Attor and Koal paced the perimeter, keeping watch. Rhaedra waited just behind Ash, motionless.
Footsteps sounded beyond the room, heavy and uneven, drawing closer.
Ash’s head snapped toward the archway, shadows shifting beyond the threshold.
From the dust-choked corridor, Skaldr emerged, his face blood-splattered, his sword sheathed at his back, and his clothes stained with blood.
He had his arm wrapped around a tall, slender woman with long, bright red hair.
Her pale blue gown hung in filthy tatters, as if she’d been dragged through wreckage.
She clung to Skaldr, her cheek pressed to his chest, her sobs tearing through the silence. Even tear-drenched, her profile was chiseled perfection.
But her sheer terror wrenched Ash’s heart.
“I found her,” Skaldr rasped, his voice raw, almost breaking. He held her as though she were something precious he’d almost lost forever.
Ash’s gaze rushed to Race. He stared at the woman, his face pale, expression unreadable. At the sudden quiet in their bond, her chest tightened.
But she steadied herself and waited.
The woman turned her head, her eyes brimming with desperation. Her gaze darted around the room—and stopped on Race.
“My prince, Eracier,” she gasped, a sob breaking loose. “You live.”
She tore out of Skaldr’s arms and ran, her matching silken slippers scattering rubble as she sprinted to where Race stood like an unmoving pillar amid the wreckage near the thrones.
Ash’s wariness spiked as the she-dragon stumbled up the steps to the dais and collapsed against Race’s chest, clinging to him like he was her only salvation.
Her tangled red hair spilled across his leather jacket, her words breaking into raspy breaths.
“He-he said that once the spell lifted from you, you ran off and that I didn’t matter,” Vaesarra choked out.
“Then he trapped me here. Please, don’t hate me.
I’ve waited for you through all these anguished millennia. ”
A growl rumbled free. Not Race’s. Skaldr’s. His face was carved from stone, fury blazing in his eyes. “Vae. Don’t.”
A tic pulsed on Race’s jaw before he gently, deliberately removed her arms from him, his voice low, controlled. “You are free now. Skaldr?”
The male bounded up the steps and gathered his sister close, his face softening in a way Ash had never seen, grief and anger entwined together.
Race’s expression gave nothing away as he turned to the wall behind the ruined thrones. No, nothing would get in his way of finding and obliterating Malcarion.
Quiet sobs drew Ash’s attention back to the woman. For a she-dragon, she seemed too fragile, too docile. But her eyes—those luminous amber eyes—clung to Race with desperate worship.
Something hot and fierce twisted through Ash’s chest.
Lightning pricked her palms, begging to spark.
Oh, no, you don’t. You had him once, and you lost him. Don’t you dare look at him like that now.
She forced her fists to unclench while the storm burned in her veins.
But unease stirred low in her gut. So much anguish, so much to unravel.
All of it, dangerous to Ash.
Race searched the walls behind the throne for seams, but Vaesarra’s sobs disrupted his focus. Skaldr got her out safely from wherever Malcarion had her trapped, but something scratched the back of his mind—he glanced over at his ex-lover.
She clung to Skaldr, broken.
Race frowned. The faint reek of burned resin and decaying moss clawed at his senses. He had to find Malcarion before he vanished.
He cast a quick look at Ash, making sure she was okay, and found her watching Vaesarra with narrowed eyes as Skaldr ushered his sister out of the throne room.
She is no threat, my heart, Race telepathed.
Oh, I know. She’s about as seductive as a Venus flytrap, isn’t she?
Only his Ash.
A smile started, then he shook his head. Didn’t care. Vaesarra wasn’t his problem.
Race turned back to the ruined wall behind the destroyed thrones and skimmed his palm over the cracked stone. An icy draft wafted through—a breath of air heavy with the stench of gore.
Fuck!
He stepped back. Whatever was behind that wall, he didn’t want Ash caught in its path. The bastard would have traps laid out, and it would likely harm everyone here. While the shifters might survive, his mate was human.
“Attor?” He turned to the one male his sire had trusted, and now did he—the one who always put Lemuria above all else. “She’s yours. Protect her with your life.”
“What? Race, no!” Ash yelled.
He leaped from the dais and, in three strides, reached her. He cupped her face, her striking champagne eyes wide with distress. I need you safe, my heart. You are my life. I fear that if Malcarion so much as scratches you, I will lose my mind. Lemuria might not survive me.
“I will handle this alone,” he said aloud. “Here…” He dragged off Ash’s beanie from his head, his hair spilling loose. For a heartbeat, he let his gaze soften as he put the hat into her hand. “Hold onto this for me.”
Ash took it, her eyes dark. Please, be careful.