Page 26 of Dragons' Future

I trace my finger over the picture, my hand trembling. “Not complex enough apparently,” I whisper. “The brand is used all the time in the human lands.”

“An approximation, not the rune itself I imagine.” Cyril pulls me against his chest, the warmth of his body seeping into me and soothing my nerves. He looks at the book over my shoulder, flipping the pages to reveal more identical looking variations of the mark. “The brand design was likely inspired by ancient magic, but it isn’t something one approximates. The humans’ marks were just that. Marks. Yours had to have been done by someone who knew what they were doing. Someone your mother trusted.”

My mother. I shudder, shoving the grief behind the same wall that’s protecting me from the eggs’ desperate pleas. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out though. And even if I could, I don’t want to. “We need to get to the eggs.”

“Ah, yes. We were just getting ready to leave when you woke up,” says Ettienne.

Ignoring him, I get to my feet. “There must be a way out of here. We just have to find it. And once we do, we will?—”

“We will get the hell out of the priests’ stronghold and return with a pack of trained warriors,” says Ettienne. “Or better yet, with an army. The eggs will need to wait until we have a chance of living long enough to get them out.”

“You want to run?” I spin toward him, my hands curling into fists. I’m not sure when I decided that going toe to toe with the king of Massa’eve was a good idea, but maybe that’s the point of it all. It doesn’t matter what Ettienne thinks about this. I’m the one hearing their distress call. I’m the one who must answer it. Who will answer it. My spine straightens, my heart thumping against my ribs with a steady, primal beat that echoes in my bones. “The dragon eggs are alive. They are scared and they are begging for help. Now. I’m not leaving them.”

"And I am not leaving my mate." Cyril puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it. It’s a small gesture but it changes everything. You are not alone anymore, it says. You have mates. A pack. A purpose. Cyril’s voice hardens to steel that he so rarely lets anyone see. “Protecting Massa’eve is your duty, Ettienne. Saving the dragons is Kitterny’s destiny. We all do what the stars have dealt us."

Cyril’s words hang in the dusty air, settling heavily between us. Finally, Ettienne curses so colorfully that even Cyril raises an impressed brow.

“Have it your way then,” the king says once he’s exhausted his extensive vocabulary of unflattering words. He sheathes his sword down his back. “Let’s go get the eggs. Have you solved the problem of getting out of this room, my lady savior, or is that also one of those details you don’t wish to concern yourself with?”

I don’t respond, mostly because he is right. I don’t have a plan. Not yet at least.

Cyril surveys the windowless space, his lips pursed as he settles his attention on the pile of stones from the collapsed ceiling. “Clearing this rubble will take days, and there is no guarantee that whatever passage we end up in connects with the greenhouse chamber.”

“We don’t have days.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“How did you know where to go last time?” he asks.

“I didn’t. I was led.” Which means I can likely be led again. “I need to stop shielding myself from the song though.” From the pain that comes with it. I don’t say the last part, but Cyril understands.

“Do what you must,” he whispers, the bond between us stroking me like a soft paw of a cat. “I’m here with you. And not just me. The whole pack is. Even if they aren’t here.”

Nodding, I take a fortifying breath and open myself to the call.

The pull is immediate and hard. I’m walking before I realize what I’m doing, my fingers tracing the ancient stone walls, feeling their cold, rough texture. A stark contrast to the warmth of Cyril's presence behind me. Each bump and uneven crevice speaks of centuries past, of the songs and screams of those who’ve walked the citadel grounds before us. People were hurt here. People are still being hurt. A sob chokes my chest just as the tips of my fingers catch on an anomaly in the stone beside the ornate shrine the occupant of this room has maintained.

“Here.” The word comes out as a croak as I brush a small, almost imperceptible indentation, hidden in the shadow of an overhanging torch bracket. I press against the stone. It's colder than the rest, with a smoothness that's out of place. More importantly, it sinks slightly into the wall with a soft click. The surge of relief I feel is swifty swept away in the storm of emotions that flood my blood. Please, not so loud, I beg the eggs. You are hurting me.

I don’t think they hear me though. Or can’t help themselves if they do.

"This way," I say unnecessarily and step into a dark, shrouded passage. The air is thick with the mustiness of disuse and the corridor is just wide enough for us to pass through single file, the walls brushing the males’ broader shoulders. I wonder whether the occupant of that study even knew this walkway existed. I wonder too where in all hells the walkway is leading, but the song’s pull provides little in the way of previews.

I’m pulled along a serpentine path carving its way into the heart of the fortress. Behind me, I hear Cyril counting our steps and turns under his breath. After some time, the passage widens and torches appear along the walls. It’s familiar, and not just in a phantom way. I’ve been here before.

“We are close,” I whisper. “One more turn.”

“Not as close as you imagine,” Ettienne mutters, drawing the sword sheathed at his back, Cyril already doing the same. I recognize the sounds of approaching footsteps a moment after the males do, their bodies taking up defensive stances just as flickering torchlight reveals the silhouettes of three priests of Orion.

CHAPTER 16

Cyril

Cyril pushed Kit behind him as three priests spilled into the corridor.

Fire exploded from Ettienne's hands, the ball of flame heading directly into the humans. There was no cover for the priests to take, no time to rush back into the passage they’d come out of, even if they’d been so inclined. A heartbeat and three charcoaled bodies fell to the stone.

Cyril hadn’t seen his father fight outside a training ring, but nothing about the king’s brutal efficiency came as a surprise.

“We are almost there,” Kit panted, turning her head away from the bodies. “The chamber is just to the right. If we?—”

---