Prologue #6
“Not anymore.” Gwythyr gave a feral grin full of teeth. Elouan could help him with that. One good punch and he’d grin toothless. “Urien is now king of High Reaches, as should’ve been his birthright, and Riven is Crown Prince.”
So, Urien wasted no time naming himself king, and cousin Riven wouldn’t reach maturity to rule one day, not with his sickly disposition. Still, the shock of the announcement sent freezing water through Elouan’s veins.
More footsteps pounded toward the cell. Elouan gritted his teeth, squeezing the guard’s throat harder. How many lives had this man stolen on the night of the massacre? Death would be too easy. All who aided Urien needed to pay dearly for their treachery.
Gwythyr grinned harder, though he’d already backed away a few paces. Guards gathered around him, pressing their way toward Elouan.
“Apologies, Prince Elouan,” the captain said, hanging her head. “Please release my guard and come peacefully. I’ve no wish to harm you.”
Elouan’s anger deflated. Gia was a good dragon and a better captain.
He’d heard stories of her bravery from Daire.
Her regret about the situation showed in every line of her defeated posture, and in her scent.
She’d even referred to Elouan by his title.
With a mate and the hope of an egg one day, to go against Urien now would likely put her or her family’s lives in jeopardy.
Perhaps both. Urien demanded total obedience. Not respect. Just blind obedience.
Elouan flung the guard away to lay gasping upon the floor.
Two guards took a chain each, nearly falling when they tried to tug Elouan forward. Elouan resisted a few more tries, just to remind the betas who they were dealing with. If he went anywhere with these men, it would only be because he chose to.
If only there were room enough to shift.
“That is enough!” Gwythyr snapped with a dramatic swipe of his hand. “You mustn’t keep your king waiting.”
“He’s not my king.” Amazing that Elouan only spat words, not fire. The sharp inhales of some guards said they agreed. Like the captain, they dared not speak out.
Gwythyr’s mouth dropped open. “Treason!” He gestured to the surrounding others, face purpling as he jabbed a finger in Elouan’s direction. Spittle flew from his mouth. “You heard him! Treason.”
Calling for witnesses? No one with any shred of decency would believe anything the arrogant little rodent said. Speaking of telling the truth…“Urien’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel for sycophants these days, isn’t he?” Elouan straightened, staring down the much smaller Gwythyr.
“How dare you speak so of your rightful king!” Gwythyr shrieked.
If Elouan couldn’t stab the man, at least he could get under his far-too-thin skin. The guards yanked the chains. Elouan snarled, grasping the chains over the shackles on his wrists, winding them until the four additional guards were within biting distance.
Their fear assaulted his nose.
Bite, bite, bite! came from his dragon.
“Highness, please,” Gia implored, voice low. She bared her neck for a brief moment, displaying obeisance. So not everyone would so quickly discount Elouan’s family. If the guards failed to bring him, she’d suffer. Enough dragons had paid the price already for Urien’s lofty ambitions.
Elouan’s dragon took the gesture as his due, pleased to have an ally.
Elouan kept his head down while exiting the dungeon, casting discreet glances right and left.
Where were his brothers? Were they locked in other cells?
The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach defied his resolve not to imagine them dead.
As the eldest son and heir, Elouan was his uncle’s biggest threat.
Daire and Anrai weren’t even alpha dragons and couldn’t claim the throne.
Would things have been different if Elouan had accepted and made a formal announcement to cast aside his personal wants in favor of a throne?
Settled down with a mate like an obedient little dragon?
Would Father still be alive?
They emerged from the dungeons into the night, lanterns pushing back the evening’s darkness. The roar of a crowd drowned out any conversation when Elouan emerged from underground: chanting, clapping, stomping. The bowl. They were going to the bowl.
So, Elouan’s fate had been decided and included public humiliation. How would he die? Stabbed? Beheaded? Tossed off a cliff with two broken wings? Urien might offer mercy if Elouan swore allegiance, mercy he’d never give to go with the allegiance Elouan would also never give.
He held his head high, every inch his father’s son. His skin tingled with the ancient magic imbued in the basin's stone at the center of the court’s lands. The magic had failed his father. How? Why? The last time Elouan had reluctantly come here, his smiling father had welcomed him.
Father would never smile again. The last image of him in Elouan’s memory was of his bloodied body, slack with death. Pain twisted Elouan’s heart as he fought back tears. These sick animals wouldn't see him cry. He’d show no outward signs of his hurt and feed the murderers’ egos.
Brightly clad men and women lounged on rocky ledges leading down to the open space at the center of the bowl.
They’d dressed for a festival. Bile burned at the back of Elouan’s throat.
Many likely raided the closets of those slaughtered during Father’s celebration, based on their ill-fitting finery.
How easy it would be to hate them, hate them all.
So many empty spaces where family groups used to gather for important events. Uncle Urien's mate and his two sons occupied Elouan's family's usual spot. The scent of blood permeated the stone. It might take ages for the scent to dissipate to a sensitive nose.
Still no sign of Daire or Anrai. Could Elouan hope they’d escaped?
Some spectators sneered as Elouan passed: a woman he’d rejected and a man he’d bested in the practice ring with a sword. Some shifted their allegiance to whoever offered the biggest share of a kill. Elouan didn’t need a share. He’d been hunting for himself since age ten.
“Damn you, Elouan Thorne!” one woman called.
“Bastard!” cried a man.
A rock struck Elouan’s chest with a solid thunk, sending him stumbling a few steps. He glared at the man who’d thrown the missile, baring his teeth in a dragon-like fashion, until the bravado fled and the man scurried into the shadows, terrified of someone shackled. He should be.
Elouan’s dragon pulsed a steady beat of Let me out, let me out, let me out!
Someone spat at Elouan’s feet. His guards did nothing to stop them—he’d lost sight of Captain Gia. He etched each sneering face into memory, especially those who’d simpered around his father, seeking favor, and now turned to lick Urien’s boots.
Let them. Their day would come. Elouan and his dragon licked no one’s boots. However, both were known to bite.
A makeshift throne now occupied the bowl’s center, a pretension Father never allowed. Father’s older, less admirable brother sat upon the throne, one leg crossed over the other, the picture of casual elegance. Like Gwythyr, he reeked of perfume.
Father’s golden crest hung from a chain around Urien’s neck. That he didn’t wear the traditional crown brought a sense of smug satisfaction. Could the old legends be true that only a worthy king could wear the ancient crown gifted by the Goddess of Fire?
Mother used to tell the story of how she and Father, and Father’s parents before him, entered the sacred mountain and returned with crowns and the Goddess’s blessing.
How Mother and Father ventured to the mountain again, retrieving Elouan’s egg, then later Daire’s, and later Anrai’s.
Urien received a sickly alpha fledgling and a bully of a beta.
Elouan tried to be kind to both of his cousins, but Urien allowed minimal contact.
Had the Goddess withheld her support from Urien?
The unworthy will never hold the court, Mother said often enough. Elouan missed her, though at least she avoided seeing her mate murdered and possibly her sons sharing the same fate.
Gwythyr took up position behind the throne. While younger than Sakaris—who wasn’t?—the mage’s wrinkled face had grown leathery with age and sun exposure, and a long, white braid hung over one shoulder. He’d donned purple formal mage robes.
Sakaris always dressed more simply. Power seemed to crackle around Gwythyr, even though the suppressive magic of the bowl should restrain him.
Was he powerful enough to overcome the ancestors’ spells?
He must be based on their suppression at the banquet.
Nervous tension crept through Elouan at the man's blank expression.
Elouan turned his head to study the crowd instead.
Many familiar faces appeared absent from the bowl. Had Urien killed them all or had they refused to acknowledge him as king and been banished?
No, Urien wouldn’t banish them—he’d make a bloody example.
Elouan’s jailers reached the bottom of the bowl, pressing hard on Elouan’s shoulders, forcing him to kneel. He could fight, even in chains, and win, leaving them humiliated. He dared not give Urien any excuse to punish him further through his brothers.
If they still lived.
Clanking chains pronounced Elouan's downfall. Bound on his knees, barely able to look into the face of his tormentor. Drum beats added to the doom, doom, doom.
"Elouan Thorne," came a thunderous, all-too-familiar voice that raised Elouan’s hackles.
"I sentence you to death for the crime of treason.
" Even without a visual, the gloating satisfaction in Uncle Urien's voice came through clearly.
Uncle Urien. King killer, who'd offered a hug, only to deliver a betrayal.
Elouan's heart hammered, breaths coming in panicked gasps. No! With him put to death, who'd protect his brothers, his court?
His father's memory.
Once more rage poured down on him. Elouan shrieked, “I’ll rip you to pieces, you spawn of a sewer rat!”