27. Dragonhold
Dragonhold
M eeting with my father after what happened in the Retreat was almost more than I could bear.
But as the dragons trailed behind me in the corridor leading to my chambers, Lenn was already waiting outside the door of the receiving room.
The dark look on his face was enough to tell me that my father was already within.
I slowed to a halt before my Thane, keenly aware of the dragons’ closeness.
Lenn was quiet for too long, anger brewing in his eyes. Finally, he said, “Did you know about this?”
No point in lying. There were enough secrets weighing down my heart as it was.
“I received word a couple days ago. He’s here for the feast.” Behind me, Corbyn shifted closer.
“And why did you not tell me?” Lenn asked, his voice tight. He was furious, that much was evident. But I sensed the pain underlying the words as well.
I drew in a deep breath. “Because I knew this would happen. The last time you saw my father, you nearly snapped his neck. And as much as I hate the man, I care about you more, Lenn. I’ll not have you doing anything stupid.”
“Vor—”
I raised my hand to silence him. “Please,” I said softly, “do not ask me to watch you lose your head. I will let him stay for the feast and no longer, I swear it.”
There was more he wished to say locked behind his tight jaw. But he took a step away from the door, watching me with what I could only describe as a mixture of pride and pain. Lenn jerked his head to the dragons behind me.
“At least take them with you,” he grumbled. “I don’t trust the bastard.”
Carting those two in there with me when there was such tension between us right now was the last thing I wanted to do. But it was a compromise I was willing to make, for Lenn’s sake.
I looked over my shoulder at Corbyn, finding his stare as hard as ever. He gave a small nod and glanced at Trygg.
Looking back to Lenn, I placed a hand on his arm before sweeping past him and into the receiving room, keeping my shoulders straight and my gait even.
The dragons stayed close by. At our entrance, my father turned from where he stood looking out the windows, his eyes narrowing at the sight of my companions.
Lord Emund Stendahl was, by all accounts, a remarkably handsome man.
With slate gray hair—pushed back from his face and flowing down his back in a straight sheet—and hazel eyes set beneath a strong brow, he had a proud, dignified look.
Not especially broad, but not waif thin either, he’d always been able to hold his own in a fight against anyone. Well… anyone except Lenn.
I could almost feel my Thane’s fury seeping into the room from the hallway. It was killing him to let me come in here without him. But I couldn’t risk Lenn doing something he’d regret. I’d lost enough already as it was.
My father stepped away from the window and gave the slightest bow I’d ever seen. “Your Majesty,” he muttered.
I motioned to one of the chairs along the left side of the table without a word and stepped past him to my seat at the head.
Corbyn moved in front of me to pull out the chair, shooting me a concerned look.
He knew better than most what a rat-bastard my father was.
I tried to reassure him with a small smile as I sat down, and he pushed the chair in.
He settled in at my right shoulder, while Trygg posted up at the left, like my own mismatched pair of wings.
Narrowing my gaze at the man across from me, I said, “What can I do for you, Lord Stendahl?”
He sniffed at that, running a quick hand over his white goatee. “Are you always so cold with your kin, girl?”
The Shadow, silent and still until now bristled like an angry cat, letting out a low hiss. The gall of this man, she growled. I never liked him.
A sentiment we shared.
“I have not considered you kin in some time, Lord Stendahl,” I said to him, keeping my voice cold and neutral. “So again, what do you want?”
“You always did have a mouth on you.”
The words were a viper’s hiss, and it was a fight to keep my face calm. A task made even more difficult by the twinging of the darkthread in my chest. Seems I wasn’t the only one rankled by that comment.
Trygg shifted at my left, drawing my father’s stony gaze. He looked the prince up and down without masking his disdain. I probably should’ve warned Trygg what my father was like before we came in here. Too late now.
“I will give you three more minutes of my time, which is very valuable these days. You might want to get to the point.”
The corner of his mouth pulled up in a sneer. “I hear you’ve broken it off with the Aberg boy.”
A shiver of awareness snaked down my spine as both dragons went deathly still. The Shadow, too, settled into a state of wariness. So much for keeping that a secret until after the feast.
“Who told you?” I said, my brows furrowing. The only ones who knew were Lenn, Vilke, and Lukas himself. And Vilke was the one who cautioned me to keep quiet for now. Who else might Lukas have told?
“You think I don’t have people to keep me apprised of the goings-on in Kjarra, girl?” my father scoffed. Always treating me like a foolish child. “How I know is immaterial. I want to know why.”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.” Was this really all he came here to talk about?
“A broken betrothal is a serious matter, Asvoria. I’ve seen clan wars start over less.” He clenched and unclenched his fist upon the table. As if he really cared about my well-being or the state of my reign.
“I’ve already spoken with Freya Vilke,” I explained as calmly as I could. “There will not be any clan war.”
“Aye, maybe not now. But that old hag won’t be Jarla forever, and the man you’ve slighted will take her place. You really think he’ll let it go so easily?”
I couldn’t help the scoff that escaped my lips. Pushing back from the table, I stood, making to leave. Emund rose to cut me off but dropped back a bit when the dragons closed in behind me.
“Your time is up, Lord Stendahl,” I seethed, not even bothering to hide my anger anymore. “Enjoy the feast. After that, I think it’d be best if you returned to the north, where you belong.”
“You need an advisor, girl. Someone to steer you back on the right path before you make another stupid decision.”
Of course. That’s all I’d ever be to him: a stupid little girl.
“And you think I’d ever choose you for that position?” I spat, making the Shadow flinch.
Careful, Asvoria, she whispered.
“Who else?” he said haughtily, holding his arms out at his side. “I’m your father.”
Fighting past my clenched teeth, I replied, “I already have someone to guide me, Lord Stendahl. A better advisor—a better father —than you’ll ever be. I expect you to be gone in two days’ time.”
Without letting him have the last word, I brushed past, feeling stronger than I had in the last two weeks. No more letting people tell me what I could do or what I needed.
No more acting like I wasn’t the gods-damned queen.
This time, I knew it was a dream from the start.
There was no question—no inklings of reality woven into the fabric of my mind.
I didn’t have to wonder whether I was awake or asleep.
Because I’d never laid eyes on the Dragonhold of Ilfa Esari in my waking life, yet that was undoubtedly where I now stood.
Towering walls of dark, fire-blasted stone glittered all around me, soaring to unimaginable heights.
There were no windows, only torches that spiraled up to where the walls met in a sort of rounded point.
The floors sloped downward beneath my feet, leading to a circular dais in the middle of the room.
It was like being inside some kind of petrified egg—or tomb—and I was utterly alone.
“Hello?”
My voice bounced back to me like marbles scattered across the floor.
No reply. Not even a whisper of wind. Only silence, crushing me in its inescapable cocoon.
I spun slowly, searching for any sign of an exit.
There were doors all along the wall where the floor briefly leveled out, but each of them was blocked by a roiling, seething darkness.
Dread flashed through me as I gazed into that abyss and I found myself moving away, fleeing from whatever horrors I innately knew lay beyond.
“You’re here.”
The voice echoed from the center of the room. My head whipped around to find its source.
Where the dais had been empty a moment ago, now stood a figure, clothed in a fine tunic and pants, midnight black from head to toe.
His raven hair swept back from his sun-kissed face, and the scruff I’d become accustomed to was gone.
Glittering wings—somehow an even deeper shade than his clothing—stretched out magnificently from his broad shoulders.
Everything about him screamed raw, terrifying power.
From the way he stood stiff as a board, to the wicked spikes extending from the apex of his wings.
But those eyes…
I stepped toward him, my feet moving soundlessly over the roughhewn stone. It was not the sloping angle of the floor that propelled me now. That yearning ache in my bones pulled at me, quickening my approach.
Trygg’s gaze remained steady, watching me with predatory focus.
When I reached the dais, he stretched out his hand in silent offering.
I grasped it without hesitation, sensing that power emanating off him, and stepped onto the platform.
Looking down, I realized it was actually a slab of fireglass.
And behind Trygg sat a wide, fireglass bench, curling up at either end into vicious spikes like the ones on his wings.
The Burning Seat.
“What—?”
“You’re here,” he said again, his voice strangely distant. With an insistent tug on my wrist, he pulled me into the warmth of his chest, eyes never leaving my face.
I gazed up at him, craning my neck to account for his height. We were closer than we had been earlier this afternoon, but there was none of the fear or trepidation I’d had in the Retreat. Standing here—ensconced in the strength of his arms and the shadow of his wings—felt natural. It felt… right.
“What’s happening?” I breathed out, my fingers grabbing at the sumptuous fabric of his tunic. Silver thread stitched along his collar flashed in the torchlight as he tilted his head.
“You came to me.” Unfettered, carnal longing dripped from each word, seeping into my skin and coiling tightly in my stomach.
I pressed in harder, his strong, capable hand splaying across the small of my back. My blood pumped wildly, rushing through my ears and throbbing between my thighs. Every inch of my body sang in response to the feel of him, tightening in anticipation of release.
My hands moved up the taut expanse of his chest, ghosting over his collar and cupping the back of his neck.
He felt so solid beneath my fingers, even though I was distantly aware this was all some fantasy fueled by our encounter earlier.
I hadn’t been able to satisfy this consuming desire pulsing through me then, so my mind had created a new scenario to accomplish it.
One I would gladly indulge in.
A soft moan escaped my mouth as I pulled him to me, crushing my lips against his. Fire ignited in my bones. It hissed under my skin as it consumed me. His hand on my back tightened, pressing me harder against him as the other cupped the back of my head.
Natural. Right. Natural. Right.
The words bounced back and forth through my head, over and over as my mouth moved against his, teeth skating across his bottom lip.
His fingers threaded through my hair as I opened up to him, allowing the kiss to deepen.
He tasted of heavy spices, and the smell of pine and spring air filled my nose, digging into my senses.
Every part of me burned, the tension building and bubbling beneath the surface.
He broke away, pulling lightly at my hair and exposing my throat. “This is what you want,” Trygg growled. It was not a question. He already knew the answer.
His mouth latched onto my neck, biting down sharply. A heady mix of pleasure and pain drew a low cry from my lips.
“Yes,” I moaned through the cry, eyes closing at the multitude of sensations. He bit down again, and warmth flooded my core, pulsing with the beat of my desire. It was no longer a question of want, but of need.
He pulled back an inch, his breath sending shivers down my neck and chest. “But you can’t have it.” The deep rumble of his voice echoed through my hollow chest.
Another statement. Another unequivocal truth.
“I can.” I was panting now, threading my fingers through his silky hair. He kissed the spot where he’d bitten me, working his way up slowly to trail kisses along my jaw. “I can like this,” I continued raggedly.
“Dreams,” he muttered against my neck. “Dreams are the empty meals of the dark. They leave you wanting and hungry in the light of day.”
A light nip at the shell of my ear, his breath ghosting through my hair. Another shudder of aching pleasure rushing through me. More… I needed more.
“Please,” I begged in a throttled whisper. I needed to touch him, every inch of unexplored skin. Had to experience what it was like to shatter beneath that storm cloud gaze and knit back together in his arms.
He looked at me long and hard, liquid silver swirling amongst black and gray smoke. I wanted to drown in those depths, where I wouldn’t have to breathe or think. Only to feel.
“Take what you want,” he growled, a vicious edge slicing along each word. He jerked me tighter against his chest. “ Take. It. ”
A rush of awareness battered against me—the crushing weight of hundreds of eyes. I looked over my shoulder at the space around the dais, finding it crowded with people.
With dragons.
Every shade of the rainbow and in between glittered off their wings, fractals of light bouncing in the torchlight.
They stared, unblinking, at the two of us where we stood, looking somewhere between bored and amused.
Up above, shadows streaked along the walls, slithering in and out of the darkened openings.
When I looked back at Trygg, I had to squint against the wall of flames that suddenly roared to life behind him. His gaze remained as steady as ever.
Angling away from me slowly, one arm still wrapped around my waist, he stretched the other out to the fireglass bench, now wreathed in orange and yellow flames.
The light seeped down into the dark, translucent stone, illuminating it from within.
I might as well have been staring into the depths of hell—at the throne of Jorund himself.
A muscle feathered in Trygg’s jaw, his eyes insistent. “Take it.”