Page 33 of Dragons' Future

Before I can shout for him to stop, he clasps the bracelets around his wrists.

CHAPTER 19

Cyril

The bands snapped closed around Cyril's wrists with a palpable click, the runes inscribed on them flaring for a moment before disappearing. Immediately, an unfamiliar sensation coursed through his body. Not just pain—that much he’d been expecting— but a sudden, disorienting disconnection. Like something had been cut off. Amputated.

Cyril glanced down at his wrist, half expecting to find his hand gone. It was there. All his limbs were. And yet… Cyril’s stomach clenched as he understood. His magic. His dragon self. The bands cut him off from both. And yes, that was fear that was making his gut churn.

“Cyril!” Kit shouted.

True to his word, Emric had released his hold on her. No more convulsions. No more screams. She was already able to get to her knees.

“I’m alright,” Cyril lied. If this was the cost of releasing Kit from her agony, he’d pay it. “Just a sting. Nothing I can’t handle.” He curled his toes in his boots to ground him to the floor.

“Fool,” Ettienne said, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth.

Ettienne was probably right. But it little mattered. There had been no choice.

Kit climbed the rest of the way to her feet and started toward Cyril.

Emric put out his palm. An order to stay put.

“Your mate—you are mated are you not?—your mate is in no immediate peril,” the priest told Kit. “Whether he stays so is entirely in your hands. Observe.” With a subtle flick of his wrist, the bands around Cyril’s wrists jerked up, pulling on his arms. Up, up, up, until he was up on his toes, the bands digging into his flesh like manicals.

His shoulders ached with a familiar pain, and he fought down a shudder that threatened to rake through his body. The flashes of dread and fear. The Serpari queen, Nagaia, had hung him in much the same position when she’d held him in her dungeons. Both his shoulders had been dislocated then, his mouth dry from screaming.

But Cyril wasn’t screaming now. Instead, he forced a breath into his lungs and raised his chin, glaring at Emric. “Nice trick.”

Emric pulled a short blade out of his ample robes. “Observe.” He strode to where Cyril hung and drew a long shallow cut over Cyril’s abdomen. Tiny red beads welled up from the gash, taking their time in slithering down his skin. “The cut, as you can see, is minor. One that would usually heal on a fae warrior before it could be much of a bother. Unfortunately for your mate here, he no longer has access to his magic. Not to wield. Not to shift. Not even to heal.”

Kit swallowed, her face blanching.

“He is no better than a human now,” the priest continued. “An exhausted, injured human. Pathetic really. But don’t take my word for it. I will have him brought to you tomorrow. Depending on your progress, you can either watch as he is fed and tended, or lashed with a steel tipped whip.”

“No,” Kit whispered, her head shaking as if she could undo reality. The bond between them, mercifully still intact, overflowed with Kit’s devastation. That hurt more than anything Emric could do to him.

Cyril gripped Kit’s gaze. “It’s alright. I’m not afraid. The priest is too pathetic to warrant fear.” Even as he spoke, Cyril sent all his love down the connection between him and Kit. Telling her, even without words, that he was ready for whatever came. That none of this was her fault. That he was ready to die if it came to it. So long as she lived. “Don’t let him use me to -”

Emric backhanded him across the mouth.

The priest wheeled on Kit, his voice dripping with authority. "Start building. You will place each piece of wyrmwood as it was, and you will bind it with your blood. You will then retrace each rune to its charged state.”

Emric traced a pattern in the air and a gong sounded in response.

At once, four more priests entered through the same hidden door Emric had used earlier. They had their hoods down, their constellation tattoos evident on their skin. All had fewer marks than Emric, and the last priest in the procession—the one whose face still looked mortal—had only three. A rank structure.

"Take our guests to their accommodations," Emric ordered the priests before giving Kit one last glare. "What happens next is entirely up to you. You know your task. Rebuild what you destroyed.”

Kit rushed toward Cyril but the mortal looking priest grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back.

Cyril shook his head at her, telling her to stop struggling. It would do nothing just now except get her hurt. He just hoped she was smart enough to listen. Kit’s eyes glistened.

Don’t give in, Cyril ordered her silently as he memorized every beautiful line of her face. Don’t build anything for them. Don’t let them use me against you.

Emric snapped his fingers and the bands stretching Cyril’s arms above his head became limp. Fresh pain rushed into Cyril’s shoulders as circulation returned. He moved the joints tentatively, but not enough to give any sign of aggression.

There was a pained groan as two priests hauled Ettienne to his feet and dragged him out of the room. The forth priest took hold of Cyril’s neck and shoved him forward.

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