Chapter 69 Theron
THERON
I don’t know what the fuck is going on.
One minute I’m walking through the gates, trying to keep Elowen in sight, and the next I’m on my knees on hard stone, my head ringing from those damned bells and a deadly bouquet of spear tips shoved right in my face.
The points glint in the torchlight, close enough that if I so much as breathe wrong, I’m going to end up skewered.
I freeze. Not because I’m afraid—but because I don’t understand the rules here, and I don’t want to make a bad situation worse. My Drake is already restless under my skin, coiling tight, ready to lash out if I give him the slightest excuse.
Then a voice cuts through the tension.
“Let the lad go!”
It’s old—but not weak. There’s command in it, the kind that doesn’t need to shout to be obeyed.
The spears pull back and I lift my head, my gaze traveling up the wide stone steps to the throne above to see the Old King standing there.
He’s dressed in rich, flowing robes—gold and crimson spilling around him like molten light with his long white beard trailing over his chest. His face is lined with age, but his silver eyes are sharp—too sharp for a man who looks this worn.
And then I see that he has horns on his head—curving around the golden crown he wears.
My eyes go wide with surprise—he’s a Drake, like me!
Though I’m sure the dragon living inside him is much more respectable.
Not an Ash Drake, like mine. Though my other half hasn’t been acting like an Ash Drake lately…
I push the inconsequential thoughts aside and try to focus. What the fuck is happening here?
A ripple of unease goes through the crowd as he rises from the throne.
Advisors move at once, reaching for him, but he brushes them off like they’re nothing more than flies.
Slowly, deliberately, he makes his way down the steps, the entire Court falling into a stunned, breathless silence as he approaches me.
“Rise, lad,” he says when he reaches me. “You may stand in the presence of your King.”
Warily, I push myself to my feet, keeping my movements controlled. My eyes flick to the guards, to the spears still angled in my direction, and then back to him.
“Look, your Majesty,” I say, keeping my voice steady even though my nerves are starting to fray. “If this is about the alarm, I didn’t take anything. I have no need to steal—I’m a smith. I make my living honestly with my own two hands.”
I hold them out in front of me to show him—callused, scarred, and marked by years of work at the forge.
For a moment, he just looks at them. Then—to my surprise—he takes them in his own.
His grip is firm. Stronger than it has any right to be for a man his age. His fingers close around mine, rough and sure, and he lifts his gaze to my face, searching my eyes like he’s trying to find something buried deep inside me.
And then something strange happens—I feel it before I see it. Something happens between us—it’s like two puzzle pieces clicking into place and the King begins to change.
It starts in his hands. The veins beneath his skin begin to glow with a deep, molten light that pulses outward like living flame. It travels up his arms, spreading through him in a slow, inevitable tide of dragon fire.
And then it happens to me.
My breath grows ragged as heat flares under my skin, my own veins lighting up in answer—the same burning glow racing through me like it’s been waiting for this moment.
My Drake roars inside me and it feels like something in his is changing too. It feels like he’s waking up from a long slumber and deep inside me I can feel his sense of recognition.
“HOME!” he roars and the word echoes through me, deep and undeniable.
“My boy!” the King breathes, and when I look at him again, there are tears in his silver eyes, so much like my own. “It’s true—blood calls to blood and like to like. Finally…you have returned.”