Prologue #5
Elouan lay on hard stone, one thin blanket and torn clothing, stiff with dried blood, offering little protection against the chill.
His body usually ran hot like all dragons. Without adequate food and movement, bodily processes slowed, particularly in the cold. If he’d been a primitive ancestor, he’d have fallen out of a tree by now.
He reached inside for his dragon. There, but sluggish, and too starved to shift even if there hadn’t been warding on his cell.
How long had he been here? Was it day or night? Were they going to leave him in this prison forever, with no sight or sound, his only contact with others the food tray occasionally left outside his door with no rhyme or reason?
Did anyone know his whereabouts, or was everyone who’d once cared now dead? What was happening in the world outside?
A cruel image replayed in his mind over and over: the shock on Father’s face, him crumpling to the ground, Uncle Urien’s arrogant smirk.
The guard striking the killing blow. Elouan’s heart gave a painful squeeze each time, and tears he thought he’d exhausted filled his eyes, burning hotly down his cheeks.
Father. Dead. Until the Goddess chose a successor, Elouan was a dragon without court ties. Where once his people's essence lived near his heart, now only emptiness remained. No court existed without its king.
Sorrow turned to rage. Urien did this. He would pay.
If Daire and Anrai still lived, Elouan couldn’t feel them.
Please let there be an enchantment in these stones that stopped the connection.
Father never used the cells beneath the castle.
Based on the moans and wails echoing through the caverns, they were very much in use now.
Dare Elouan hope his brothers escaped Uncle Urien’s coup?
Teron would die before letting anything happen to Anrai. But what if he, too, lay dead?
No. Elouan couldn’t imagine a world without his brothers, his friend. Yet only a few days ago he couldn’t imagine life without Father.
Elouan lay in darkness, the trickle of water over stone sounding excessively loud, along with the scuttling of bugs in the dark, and his own heartbeat. But wait! What was… The gradually increasing tap, tap, tap couldn’t only be in his head, nor were the murmured words.
So, someone finally decided to come at last. Hope flared to life in his chest. But wait. The footsteps were too slow and regular: a procession, and the voices lacked the excitement of someone with liberation on their minds.
The sounds outside the door grew closer, at least four pairs of footsteps tromping over the worn stone floor. Elouan lifted his head, scenting the air. Four. An unusual number. Not enough to come and gloat, yet too many to bring his meager rations for the day.
Keep him weak and helpless. Or so they thought. It would take a lot more than starvation to bring Elouan to heel.
Two sets of footsteps walked heavier than the others, likely guards in full armor.
Only two? And betas by their smell. If Elouan were at full strength, two wouldn’t be a problem.
The third set of steps was light, slippers scuffing over stone, perhaps someone of high rank who didn’t know better than to wear delicate footwear to a dungeon, or with so much coin in their pocket they didn’t care about ruining expensive footwear.
This person, while male, wore too much perfume to determine his rank.
The perfume registered a moment later. Urien’s lapdog Gwythyr, always cringing for scraps from his master’s table.
The last set of steps was a mere shuffle. Someone who didn’t want to be here, perhaps. Gwythyr’s overpowering perfume also hid their scent, but not for long.
The footsteps slowed, the voices quieting as someone approached the door.
No easily recognizable tones, like Elouan’s brothers.
Lantern light came into view, piercing Elouan’s eyes.
He’d been in darkness for too long, another move designed to put him at a disadvantage.
He blinked hard a few times, determined not to show weakness.
Whoever came could see him, might even scent the first hint of fear.
Elouan mustn’t show fear. He lifted his chin, pretending to look these gawkers in the eye.
His vision cleared after a few hard blinks, though the light still stung.
The first two men held lanterns and wore full helms, swords strapped to their sides.
Elouan recognized them by their bearing, though the helms hid most of their faces.
Troublemakers he’d disciplined before who held no love for him. They weren’t here to help.
Neither was the withered old man with the snowy beard, bushy eyebrows, and self-satisfied smirk.
He wore a golden satin stole around his neck; the ends hanging down his chest over a heavily brocaded tunic, a garment normally reserved for a chief advisor.
Had Uncle Urien named Gwythyr to such a lofty position?
Who should Elouan feel sorry for? Uncle Urien, or this strutting little peacock of duplicity?
Neither. The two deserved the treachery they’d get from each other.
The fourth man wore a hooded cloak to hide his face. He, too, Elouan knew. Did they think the vile stench of the dungeon and Gwythyr would mask their scents once they grew close enough for a good whiff? Not much got past an alpha dragon’s nose.
Sakaris, Father’s court mage.
Anger seethed through Elouan. Sakaris, a beta dragon and mage who’d conveniently been absent at Father’s betrayal, and hadn’t been there when needed the most. Had he known?
He’d usually been so gentle, Father’s most trusted confidant.
How could he have betrayed the family? Were all Elouan’s former kind thoughts about the mage a lie?
Elouan sat casually upright on the stone floor as though he might not face death in the coming moments.
He himself was a source of some of the stench, as guards had thrown him in there at least three days before and hadn’t given him water to wash.
His hair hung in lank, greasy strands around his face, and grime now marred the blood-stained finery he’d worn to the fete thrown to honor Father.
Father.
Not a fete, after all, but a bloodbath.
Images came to mind: friends and colleagues cut down before they could fight back, blood mingling with rich red wine on the floor. Blood spilled by cowards.
Faces came to mind as they had since the night of the slaughter: the young woman who’d hoped to entice Elouan, Anrai’s latest suitor….
Had Teron survived?
So many gone for no other reason than their loyalty. Elouan still heard the peals of laughter changing to horrified screams before being cut off for good. Someone must make the evildoers pay.
Sadly, the man in the hood likely came to ensure any vengeance wouldn’t come from Elouan.
Gwythyr wandered close to the door, though he kept a distance, so he wasn’t totally blind to the truth about whom he dealt with. “You are to come with us,” he demanded with all the fake authority he could muster.
Some people arrived in the world great; others became great through hard work and dedication.
Gwythyr was nothing but opportunistic, thriving on the misfortune of others, like some carrion bird feeding from corpses.
He hardly qualified as a beta. Of course, no self-respecting alpha or omega would behave so badly either.
“Where are we going?” Like Elouan didn’t know. He braced himself, gripping the chains of his shackles and rising to his feet to create a bit of slack.
“To your trial.” No one did smug like Gwythyr, except for the man who pulled his strings: Urien. There would be no trial. A little humiliation interspersed with a bit of bragging, perhaps, but no trial.
One of the helmed guards unlocked the barred door, swung open the heavy panel, and stepped forward, an audible gulp sounding in his throat.
His hands shook when he hung the lanterns on wall hooks and unclipped Elouan’s shackles from the overhead beam.
They weren’t trusting enough to let Elouan’s hands go.
Smart move. Elouan flexed arm muscles too long disused, finally free.
One guard held each chain loosely. Elouan yanked. The startled guards flew right into his fists. Crunch. Their helms fell to the floor. The first guard screamed and went down, clutching his face. Blood gushed from between his fingers.
Primal bloodlust rose in Elouan’s alpha dragon at the scent of blood and the sight of a defeated foe at his feet. The dragon wanted to rend, to feast. Elouan’s nostrils flared, the smell of fear urging his alpha on.
Elouan grabbed the second guard, winding the chain around his neck and hoisting him back to collide with Elouan’s chest. Through bared teeth, Elouan growled, “I think you should’ve brought more guards.”
The man thrashed, scrabbling at the chain with his fingers, legs flailing. Elouan’s instincts screamed Prey! urging him to rend.
“Stop!” the hooded figure commanded.
While prickles ran over Elouan’s skin, the magic behind the order wasn’t sufficient to deal with a desperate, angry alpha fighting for his life, especially not one of the rightful king’s line.
Magic didn’t work well when aimed directly at the royal family, except for the ancient wards on the bowl, cast by more powerful mages ages ago and regularly replenished since.
Despite what others might wish, fate made Elouan a prince, and he remained a prince.
He squeezed harder, making the guard choke out a strangled cry.
The other guard nursed his injury, but didn’t come to help his fellow guard.
Cowards. Both of them.
“Guards!” Gwythyr screamed.
“Stand down, Elouan,” the cloaked man growled. Once more, power tickled along Elouan’s skin. A warning, nothing more.
Elouan straightened to his full height, a head taller than the guards. “That’s Prince Elouan to you. Son of King Locryn of High Reaches Court, Crown Prince of the Thorne line.”