4. CHAPTER 4
Sorin
That was the most fun I’d had since we had stormed into that brothel in Scaldryn to find our youngest brother, Valerian, with a woman twice his age.
The expression on that sniveling Prince Kallias Ashbourne, standing at the gates of the palace with his father, King Faris, by his side—it was a face worth remembering.
Maybe they would think twice before sending Gothryn a set of terms. As if they had the upper hand in this negotiation.
As if my brothers and I couldn’t bring war straight to their doorstep.
Between Valerian, Emrys, and myself, we could likely defeat the entirety of King Faris’s army.
With King Mavros and the rest of the Shadowed Order? Easy.
Almost too easy.
The only reason we hadn’t initiated war to begin with was because my father was already growing weak, victim to an illness even our most practiced healer couldn’t identify. He should have lived another few centuries, but it wasn’t looking promising if a cure could not be found.
Vireth fae might live long lives, but not as long as the Veytari.
Vireth were lucky if we saw ten centuries, where Veytari lifespans were easily double that.
It was part of the curse the god of death, Mordecai, inflicted upon us.
If we didn’t drink blood, we would grow weak and die.
Even with it still, our lifespan was far reduced compared to our kin in the east.
Vireth and Veytari aged physically at the same speed, the only grace Mordecai’s curse permitted. We aged to our thirties similarly to humans, then the physical aging vastly slowed for both the Vireth and Veytari, where for humans it did not.
Humans had their place in Gothryn as feeders and servants, but as time passed there were fewer and fewer of them remaining. It’s true that Vireth can survive off fae, human, and animal blood alike beneath Mordecai’s curse, but we had always craved the taste of human blood most of all.
The fact that Myros thought they could demand we marry off the first princess born to our bloodline to unite our kingdoms was preposterous.
They hated Vireth as much as we hated Veytari, so what were they playing at?
It was laughable that King Faris Ashbourne thought he could make any demands of us, let alone a claim against the Blackwater bloodline.
Emrys slapped me across the back as we stormed toward the throne room doors.
The dark wood was nearly black with age, framed by pale carved stone that curled around them, twisting as if they were frozen flames.
Delicate vine work traced the arch above the doors, two torches burning on either side.
The amber light flickered over the faces of the guards as they pulled the ornate obsidian doors wide to allow us to pass through.
The Gothryn castle was cast in shadow as the sun made its slow ascent beyond the horizon.
The only light to see by was the torches lining the stone corridor of the throne room.
Valerian trudged behind us, his mind elsewhere.
Valerian didn’t understand the importance of what we had done today.
That we needed to put Myros in their place but not wage war just yet.
Not until I took the throne, at least.
The throne room stretched wide, vast cathedral ceilings carved from bleached stone and steeped in shadows.
Towering columns rose in graceful arches, their surfaces etched with the Blackwater dragon crest. A long runner of deep blue and silver cut through the polished floor, drawing the eye to the arched windows beyond the two thrones that sat atop the dais.
Banners in the Blackwater navy adorned the walls, a grand chandelier overhead offering flickering candlelight. Lit pillar candles swathed the steps of the dais before the king and queen.
The hall was empty, every footstep an echo as we approached the raised dais.
Emrys’s gaze held a mischievous glint as he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. He had wanted to lead the charge today, and it had been him who had set flame to Majur. Father had instructed us to merely scare them, not to attack.
I knew deep down that Emrys would never stop challenging me.
Never.
Not even when I sat on the throne.
I was the firstborn, but a bastard son of King Mavros. My mother, Melantha Devoe, was human. To my brother—despite the love we held for each other—I would always be less than. I would always have the tainted blood of a halfling, and therefore, would be unsuitable to take my father’s place.
The youngest, Valerian, couldn’t care less. He was too busy fooling around. Valerian had his vices; he was always filling his bed with new women every night and falling deep into his cup at the tavern by day. He was third in line for the throne—his priorities lay elsewhere.
King Mavros caught my eye as we approached.
I bent to kneel before the throne, tucking my soot covered wings tightly behind my back as I bowed my head deeply.
It took a long moment for Emrys to follow suit, then finally, Valerian.
I remained that way for an exaggerated moment before rising to stand on the plush runner before him.
I inclined my head at King Mavros, a sign of respect.
The people of Gothryn often whispered that I would have been cast out of the kingdom altogether if I hadn’t been the king’s favorite son.
That if he hadn’t been head over heels for Melantha, I would have been nothing more than the bastard son of the king and likely disposed of.
No title to my name.
As it stood, I was the strongest of his three sons, despite my half human lineage.
My ears were pointed only just. If I retracted my wings fully and wore my hair a little long, I could easily pass as human.
My features weren’t as severe as that of the Vireth fae.
They were softer, tamer. I took after my mother in that regard.
But my wingspan was the largest of the Shadowed Order, including King Mavros himself.
The entire purpose of the Shadowed Order was to keep dragon shifter blood pure. That Vireth shifters needed to mate with only their own. Dragon shifters mating with fellow dragon shifters was largely preferred, but they would allow a dragon shifter to mate with Vireth, too.
There were more dragon shifter males than females, forcing their hand in allowing the union with women outside the shifter lines. They allowed it because dragon shifter blood was dominant. Queen Odessa was proof of that, having birthed two powerful dragon shifters without being one herself.
But humans? Humans mixing with the fae weakened them. To say they were surprised when I turned out to be the strongest heir would be an understatement.
One hundred and thirty-seven years after my birth and they still had not accepted me into their order of elite dragons. Still, they had not disbanded their antiquated beliefs that dragon blood must remain untainted.
The Blackwater bloodline wasn’t the only dragon shifter line, but it was the strongest. As long as our bloodline was on the throne, the Shadowed Order had no choice but to follow my father.
When power transferred to me—that was another story.
It was a bridge we hadn’t needed to cross yet.
They didn’t believe a halfling would dare claim the throne until they saw it with their own eyes.
“Sorin, what is this I hear of the markets of Majur being cast aflame with dragon fire?” Mavros asked, gripping the throne with his pale, veined hand.
My eyes traveled slowly from his feet, up his frail, thin body. Over the thin, gray skin that clung to his aging hands. The prominent blue veins that protruded from his neck. Up the set of his jaw to his wan completion and narrowed, brown eyes.
I cleared my throat. “Father—” But he cut me off before I could even begin to explain.
“Was it not my instruction to simply remind the Ashbournes what we dragons can do? Did I not specifically order a peaceful show of power?”
I lowered my chin.
I could see Emrys smirking out of the corner of my eye, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe that grin clean off his face. That would have to wait until later. I would be in a hell of a lot more trouble if I spilled blood on the throne room floor, especially in front of Queen Odessa.
She hated me enough as it was.
She wanted her own blood to sit on the throne.
She might not be a dragon shifter herself, but she was powerful and formidable in her own right.
It was the only reason the Shadowed Order had blessed the union between her and the king.
She would never stop whispering in Mavros’s ear that it needed to be Emrys to claim his crown, not me.
But Emrys was rash and unpredictable. Immature.
If nothing else, today proved that.
“Yes, Father. My deepest apologies.”
I made no quarrel against my brother. Casting blame in his direction would only catch the ire of Queen Odessa and my father both. I was the eldest, and therefore I was in charge. Responsibility would fall squarely on my shoulders.
As it always did.
I had almost forty years of experience on Emrys and close to sixty on Valerian. How old was he now? By my calculations my baby brother had to be almost eighty.
It was difficult to believe that much time had passed since Mavros’s queen birthed their last dragon heir. There might be only three, but the Blackwater princes carried a reputation that preceded us.
A shock of pain ran up my side so formidable that it had my knees buckling beneath me. I tried my best to hide it, grasping my abdomen tightly with my hand and rubbing the skin to attempt to soothe the sting. I knew what I would find there later, when I stripped off my vest and tunic.
The curse was spreading. I was running out of time.
Mavros narrowed his gaze on me for only a moment longer before it fell on Emrys.
“Reports of a crimson arrowhead have already made their way to my ears. It was not the black swordtail who breathed dragon fire upon Majur.”