Chapter 21 Easton
Easton
If my bird squawks any louder in my head, I swear the others will hear him soon enough.
He's warning me of the danger we're about to walk into.
If I'm being honest with myself, I'm ready to ignite at the first sign of danger and torch anything that stands in my way.
The open four-horse-drawn carriage glides through the cobbled streets, an imposing spectacle that demands the attention of every onlooker.
The queen is doing this on purpose.
Feray, poised in the center, sits between Diaval and Khal, an ethereal vision in her white elvish gown that occasionally flutters with the whims of the breeze. The three-piece gunmetal gray suits worn by the dragon-kin duo lend an air of formality to the entourage.
Torben, despite the discomfort etched on his face, navigates his own three-piece suit with reluctant elegance.
It's a humorous sight, seeing him squirm within the confines of formal wear—a stark contrast to the accustomed ruggedness of his usual attire.
The mystery of how Diaval found a suit accommodating his formidable, muscular frame remains unsolved.
Somehow, the ensemble adds a layer of refinement to the otherwise imposing figure.
Seated in my slightly lighter shade of gray suit, I find camaraderie in our matching attire. The carriage glides beneath the rhythmic clopping of the horses' hooves, the sound reverberating against the cobblestone streets.
Townspeople, alerted to the approaching spectacle, emerge from their residences, curious faces peering out from behind half-closed shutters. The eyes of the townspeople follow us, their collective attention transforming the carriage into a moving centerpiece.
The weight of scrutiny presses upon us. So many eyes fixed upon us sends a shiver down my spine, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
Feray maintains a regal composure. Her gaze, unwavering, seems to meet the eyes of those who dare to stare.
Diaval and Khal, flanking her on either side, exude an air of protective authority.
Torben, despite his discomfort, manages a wry smile.
His presence adds a touch of authenticity to the otherwise formal procession.
As the carriage moves through the town, I catch glimpses of faces in the crowd—wide-eyed children, elders with weathered faces, and curious shopkeepers who pause their activities to witness our passing.
The medieval castle, with its brooding architecture carved into the face of the mountains, looms ahead—a silhouette against the backdrop of the darkening sky.
It's a fortress that seems torn from the pages of a Bram Stoker novel, its towering spires and imposing walls exuding an air of ancient mystery.
The surrounding atmosphere vibrates with an undercurrent of anxiety, a palpable tension that seems to seep from the very stones. The closer we get, the more the fear intensifies—a crescendo of collective unease that threatens to engulf us all.
Feray, seated between Diaval and Khal, senses the mounting tension.
The sleeves of her ethereal gown billow weightlessly in the breeze as she rises, a figure bathed in the soft glow of twilight.
In a moment that freezes time itself, Feray raises her hands, her eyes shifting to the brilliant yellow glow of her wolf form.
The air stills, as if she has harnessed the very essence of the atmosphere.
The oppressive weight of anxiety that had gripped the townspeople—and us—dissipates.
It's a soothing balm, a Luna gift woven into the fabric of her being.
The transformation is both visual and visceral.
Furrowed brows of worried onlookers smooth, and lines etched with fear soften.
The air, once thick with tension, becomes lighter, and the collective breath of the townspeople releases in a sigh of relief.
I watch in awe as older residents, some with tears in their eyes, gaze upon Feray with a mixture of gratitude and wonder.
In this moment, she stands not just as my beloved but as a beacon of solace for the town.
Her ethereal glory is a sight to behold—a radiant presence against the darkening backdrop of the castle.
I see her as my beautiful flame, embracing her birthright with a grace that resonates with the ancient power flowing through her veins.
Feray, her task accomplished, gracefully takes her seat once more.
I watch her in silent admiration, my heart swelling with pride for the strength she's displayed.
She has not only brought peace to the town but has demonstrated the potential of her Luna gifts.
"When we enter the castle gates, we need to present a unified front." Diaval looks at each of us before continuing. "Myra will use her gift of intimidation on you. She will try to drive you into submission. Hopefully, now that Feray has bonded with me, my protection will extend to each of you."
"What do you mean, your protection?" Torben looks puzzled.
"My scale will negate the effects of her intimidation." Diaval arches a brow and smirks. "Then again, Feray can probably shield you." He shrugs and goes back to watching the road.
"My wolf said something about being able to shield." Feray does that head tilt that indicates she truly wants the answer.
"It's a common Luna gift for the ones that have larger packs or more powerful packs." He cocks his head, waiting to see if he's answered her silent question.
Feray bites her bottom lip as her brow furrows. Her eyes lower to her hands, then she looks up at me. "Do you think I can do it?" Her question catches me off guard, and I really have to think about how I'm going to answer her.
"At this exact moment? No." I raise my hand to stop the others from chiming in. "I believe that when you need it, you will do it without realizing you did it. It should be more of a defensive reaction." I pull out my pocket watch and glance at it for a moment before looking back at her.
"I hope you're right." Feray leans forward and grasps my hand briefly before sitting back again.
Passing through the towering gates, Feray's gaze sweeps across the imposing surroundings. I sense the internal battle raging within her—a silent struggle between the instinct to flee and the readiness to confront whatever challenges lie ahead.
Across from me, Feray sits in the open carriage, her posture a reflection of the dichotomy within.
One half of her yearns to escape, to run into the embrace of the unknown and hide from the looming shadows.
The other half, emboldened by the whispered counsel of her wolf, stands ready for battle—shoulders squared and eyes fixed on the foreboding castle.
I watch as Feray engages in a silent conversation with her wolf.
There's a nod, a subtle affirmation that whatever counsel has been exchanged has left her determined.
The look in her eyes shifts, a spark of resolve igniting within.
It's a fire that catches on the feather I gifted her, flames dancing in the gentle breeze.
"Settle down, sparky," I tease, breaking the tension with a playful tone. Her blush, a subtle bloom of warmth against her fair skin, speaks of the connection we share. "A wolf with a flaming feather in her hair may spook everyone a bit."
She chuckles, a musical sound that dances in the air. "It may be a good thing?"
Diaval, ever the protector, takes her hand and tucks her under his arm.
The gesture is both reassuring and possessive, a silent declaration of solidarity.
Together, they move toward the foreboding castle doors.
The doors swing open with an eerie creak, revealing the dark expanse within.
A blast of warm air, laden with an ancient scent, hits us in the face.
Diaval takes the lead, Feray at his side, their figures silhouetted against the dimly lit grandeur of the castle's interior.
The clicking of our dress shoes on the polished marble floor echoes through the vast hallways, a stark contrast to the silence that seems to wrap around us like a shroud.
Despite the opulence of the surroundings, an unsettling chill runs down my spine.
It's a sensation that screams of danger, an instinctive warning that we are not as safe as the grandeur might suggest.
My gaze remains fixed on Feray, a silent promise echoing within me. If it comes to it, I would burn this place to the ground to ensure her safety.
As we traverse the echoing halls, I catch glimpses of towering statues and paintings that watch our progress with eyes that seem to follow our every move. The castle becomes a labyrinth of mystery, and every step feels like a deliberate dance through an unseen tapestry of power.
Feray's determination remains unwavering, her gaze fixed ahead.
The flame on the feather in her hair flickers in response to the air currents, a symbolic beacon of her resilience.
I find comfort in the sight, knowing that her strength paired with our unity is a formidable force against the shadows that threaten.
The herald's voice reverberates through the grand hall, announcing each of us by name with a formality that underscores the weight of our presence. The echoes of our names seem to linger in the air as we await permission to enter the throne room.
At the far end of the hall, a regal figure sits upon an alabaster throne, a stark silhouette against the ornate backdrop.
Raven hair cascades over bare shoulders, falling in a sleek river that mirrors the rich ruby of her gown.
The queen's ample curves are accentuated by the form-fitting fabric, and her stony gaze pierces down the carpeted aisle, scrutinizing our approach.
Diaval gives Feray's hand a reassuring pat. With a nod, he takes the lead, guiding her down the aisle. Khal remains at her other side, a steadfast presence, while Torben and I bring up the rear.
The queen's voice slices through the silence as we traverse the aisle, a sound that carries a hiss of disdain. "Brought me a snack, handsome." Feray's back stiffens at the queen's comment, and I catch the muscles bunching beneath the delicate fabric of her gown.
"No. This is my mate, Feray." Diaval declares with unwavering conviction. The weight of his words is underscored by a tender kiss pressed to Feray's temple, a display of affection that seems to irk the queen. His gaze, adoring and resolute, never wavers from Feray. "My eternal."
The queen, Myra, regards them with an icy stare, and the tension in the room tightens like a coiled spring.
Feray's presence, her connection with Diaval, is a challenge to the established order, and Myra does not take kindly to it.
"What is this blasphemy?" Myra abruptly stands, her regal stature commanding attention.
Feray's gaze turns to her, a steely determination in her eyes that seems to give the queen pause. Despite the regality of Myra's presence, something in Feray's stare makes her hesitate. She sits back down, a move that carries a hint of uncertainty.
"Dragons don't mate with her kind," Myra states, her words cutting through the air with icy precision.
Feray doesn't flinch. "My kind is exactly what his drake wanted, not some overgrown, self-righteous lizard."
The flame on the feather adorning her head blazes to life, a visual manifestation of her anger.
I catch a glimpse of the fiery intensity in her eyes, and a knot forms in my stomach.
Now is not the time for her to challenge the queen openly.
The throne room, with its aura of power and hostility, is no place for insubordination.
The air crackles with tension, and I exchange a wary glance with Torben.
The delicate balance of the situation is teetering on the edge, and I can't shake the feeling that one wrong move could set off a chain reaction.
Myra, angered by Feray's defiance, eyes her with a mix of disdain and calculation.
In this moment, surrounded by the grandeur of the throne room and the weight of centuries-old traditions, we stand on the precipice of a dangerous confrontation.
Feray's courage is commendable, but I fear her boldness may be met with a fire far more perilous than the flames dancing on the feather in her hair.