Chapter 15 Drayke
FIFTEEN
DRAYKE
Ifind her by following the fire.
The claiming mark pulses in my chest—faint, subdued, but unmistakable. South. Underground. Every wingbeat carries me closer, and with each mile, the thread grows stronger. Brighter. More desperate.
Pain bleeds through. Not mine. Hers.
Sharp and rhythmic. Blade cuts. Each one sends a jolt of agony through my bones, makes my dragon howl with rage. They’re hurting her. Right now. While I fly through cold night air, they’re carving into my mate’s skin.
My wings beat faster.
We’re with you, brother. Zyphon’s voice cuts through my rage, steady and lethal. He flanks my left, obsidian scales gleaming with violet cracks. Auren takes my right, gold-white wings slicing through the night air.
Rurik?
Following. Slower. Auren’s response is clipped. Head wound. He insisted on coming anyway.
Of course, he did. The Brotherhood doesn’t abandon its own.
The rogue stronghold rises from a mountainside like a scar—ancient stone carved into cliffs, torches flickering in crude windows, guards patrolling ramparts that haven’t seen real war in centuries. They’ve grown complacent. Lazy. Confident in their hidden fortress and their numbers.
Good.
I don’t slow. Don’t circle. Don’t plan.
Four hundred years of discipline, of control, of measured responses—gone. Burned away by the echo of Selene’s pain in my chest.
Zyphon, east wall. Auren, west. I’ll take center.
And when Rurik arrives?
Tell him to leave no survivors.
I hit the outer wall at full speed, roaring loud enough to shatter stone.
Bronze scales slam into ancient masonry, and the impact sends guards tumbling from their posts like broken dolls.
Fire erupts from my jaws before they can draw weapons—a wall of flame that turns three rogues to ash before they finish screaming.
To my left, Zyphon crashes through the eastern battlements, shadows swirling around him like living weapons. To my right, Auren’s precision strike takes out a guard tower in a single blast of golden fire.
MATE. FIND MATE. KILL EVERYTHING BETWEEN.
My dragon isn’t interested in strategy tonight.
Neither am I.
I shift mid-landing, feet hitting stone as scales recede. Two short swords appear in my hands—weapons I’ve carried for three hundred years, forged in dragon fire and quenched in mountain springs. They sing as I draw them, hungry for the blood of those who took my mate.
The first rogue comes around a corner and dies before he sees me. The second manages a shout that ends in a gurgle. The third tries to shift, bones cracking as his dragon emerges—
I take his head before the transformation completes.
Blood sprays across ancient stones. The fortress erupts into chaos around me—shouts echoing through corridors, footsteps pounding, alarm bells clanging somewhere in the depths.
Heavy resistance on the east side. Zyphon’s mental voice carries dark satisfaction. They’re trying to flank you. I’m cutting them off.
West corridor clear. Auren, cold and efficient. Proceeding to lower levels. I’ll secure your exit route.
Good. Let them handle the stragglers. My path is down—to her.
The claiming mark burns hotter with every step. Closer. She’s closer.
Four rogues block a stairwell leading down. They’ve had time to prepare, weapons drawn, scales rippling beneath human skin as their dragons surge toward the surface. The largest sneers as I approach, confidence born of numbers.
“Guardian King,” he snarls. “You’re too late. The Relic wakes. Your mate’s blood—”
I don’t let him finish.
My blades become a blur of bronze-edged death.
The first rogue’s sword arm separates from his body before he can swing.
The second takes steel through the throat, blood fountaining as he collapses.
The third tries to breathe fire—I’m already past him, blade buried in his spine, turning as he falls to face the fourth.
He turns to run.
Smart. Not smart enough.
My thrown sword catches him between the shoulder blades. He crashes down the stairs, and I retrieve my weapon from his corpse without breaking stride.
Down. The mark pulls me down.
The corridors grow older the deeper I descend. Rough-hewn stone gives way to carved pillars, torchlight to phosphorescent moss that clings to walls in patches of sickly green. The air turns cold, then hot, then cold again—temperature fluctuating with the pulse of ancient magic.
The Relic. I can taste its power on my tongue, feel it pressing against my mind. A presence vast and hungry, stirring from a sleep that should have been eternal. It whispers at the edges of my consciousness—promises of power, of dominion, of control.
I ignore it. Push it aside. Focus on the golden thread leading me deeper.
Drayke. Zyphon’s voice cuts through. I’m at the lower levels. Parallel corridor. I can feel the Relic from here.
Converge on the central chamber. That’s where they’ll have her.
Six rogues emerge from a side passage. Two shift to dragon form—cramped quarters, wings scraping stone as they try to maneuver in the narrow space. I kill them anyway, claws erupting from my hands without conscious thought. Partial shift. Dangerous. The line between man and dragon blurring.
I don’t care.
One of the shifted rogues catches my shoulder with a talon, tearing through leather and flesh. I barely feel it. Another’s tail sweeps my legs—I roll, come up slashing, open his belly from hip to ribcage.
Selene’s pain crashes through me in waves. Each pulse of agony makes my vision flash red, makes my dragon claw closer to the surface. She’s weakening. Fading. The claiming mark fights to keep her alive, but it’s not enough.
I’m not fast enough.
FASTER. My dragon roars. MOVE. SHE’S DYING.
Rurik’s here. Auren’s update comes through. He’s clearing the upper levels. No one’s getting out.
The massive doors at the corridor’s end are reinforced with dragon-forged steel, covered in warning runes that pulse red with the Relic’s influence. A lesser dragon would hesitate. Read the warnings. Fear the power beyond.
I hit them shoulder-first without slowing, and they explode inward with a shriek of torn metal.
The cavern beyond steals my breath.
Cathedral-high ceiling lost in darkness. Pillars carved with symbols that hurt to look at, glowing with sickly red light. At the center, a black stone altar pulses with power—ancient, terrible, awakening. The air itself thrums with magic, pressing against my lungs with every breath.
And there. Chained to the wall. Bleeding.
Selene.
The sight of her stops me cold.
Her arms are covered in shallow cuts—dozens of them, precise and cruel, blood dripping into carved channels that feed the altar. Her head hangs forward, hair matted with sweat and crimson. The skin around the magic-suppressing manacles is raw, blistered where she must have struggled against them.
But she’s alive. The claiming mark on her chest glows faintly beneath her torn shirt, fighting the drain with stubborn persistence. Still burning. Still hers.
Still mine.
HURT OUR MATE. THEY HURT HER.
The shift takes me before I can stop it. Claws burst from my fingertips. Fangs distend, jaw cracking as it reshapes. Scales ripple across my shoulders and down my arms, bronze armor emerging from flesh. Partial transformation—enough to kill, not enough to lose myself completely.
Every instinct screams to go full dragon. To let the shift complete, to burn this entire fortress to ash with Selene cradled in my claws. But the cavern’s too cramped. The risk of bringing the ceiling down on us too high.
So I stay caught between forms, half-man and half-monster, and I’ve never felt more myself.
“Guardian King.” Veylor’s voice echoes from the shadows near the altar. He steps into the red glow, scarred face twisted with cruel satisfaction. One-armed, one-winged, one eye—and still radiating the kind of menace that makes lesser dragons flee. “I wondered how long it would take you.”
A dozen rogues materialize from the darkness around the chamber. More than I can fight alone while reaching Selene. They’ve been waiting. Using her as bait.
Then a side passage explodes inward, and Zyphon steps through, shadows writhing around him like living weapons.
“You didn’t think he came alone?” Zyphon’s voice carries dark amusement. His violet-cracked scales pulse with power as he surveys the rogues. “I’ll handle these. Get to your mate.”
“Your protective instincts are admirable,” Veylor continues, circling closer to the altar as if Zyphon’s arrival means nothing.
“Predictable, but admirable. We knew you’d come.
We knew you’d abandon strategy for emotion.
Dragons in love make such easy targets. You’re too late,” he adds.
“The Relic wakes. Her blood has unsealed the first barrier. Soon—”
I’m already moving.
Zyphon crashes into the nearest cluster of rogues, shadows swallowing three of them before they can react. His presence draws their attention, splits their focus—exactly what I need.
The first rogue who tries to intercept me goes down with my claws through his chest, ribs cracking around my fingers.
The second loses his head to a horizontal slash.
I tear through them with calculated fury—not berserk, not mindless.
Methodical. Efficient. Every strike serves a purpose: clear the path to Selene.
Veylor shouts orders. More rogues pour from side passages, scales glinting in the altar’s red light. Fire blooms in the darkness as dragons shift, claws and teeth seeking my flesh.
Zyphon and I kill them.
A rogue’s tail catches me across the ribs—scales protect me from the worst, but pain flares bright. I ignore it, spin, open his throat with a backhand slash. Another’s claws rake my shoulder. Blood runs down my arm, hot and slick.
Doesn’t matter. Keep moving. Keep killing. Get to her.
Bodies pile up around us. The stone grows slick with blood—theirs, not ours. Most of it, anyway.
The Relic’s power hits me like a wall.