Page 32 of King of Pride and Talons

Breya’s voice cut through like a dagger and stopped the king in his tracks. It was startling, the way the wall of heat had hit him, her voice accompanying it like some kind of haunting mirage.

Breya?

Help me, Thorne! The sorcerer!

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts and comprehend what was happening. Usually, only shifters could speak to one another telepathically, and it was only when they were in their animal forms. But Breya was a mighty and powerful witch, and he had learned from Cassia earlier that her kind was capable of the mind-to-mind communication.

What alarmed him even more, though, was the sheer terror in her voice. She shrieked through his skull, calling to him loud enough to shoot through his bones and make them tremble.

He looked around the streets and observed how much it looked like a ghost town. Visitors were scattered, just as they had been after the earthquake, having run for cover from some dismal occurrence.

A hot breeze flapped through his shirt, and the king’s eye line trailed down to a crude black skid mark that had stained itself upon the cobblestone. With his heart nearing thumping into his ears, the king sniffed the air and picked up the undeniably commanding smell of death.

He didn't exactly know what that meant in relation to the sorcerer—the most studious one that popped into his mind was that of Nyfain Ramexne, the rat of a man. His gut twisted with the thought that the bastard had taken his beloved.

Realizing his true feelings for her with the rush from her being taken almost sent him reeling. But his mate needed him and he wasn’t going to let her down.

Breya was in danger, and there was really only one thing the king had left to do.

Thorne shifted into his magnificent lion form, his mane sprouting outward from the ponytail that had held desperately throughout the day’s sweltering temperatures. His bones cracked, and his muscles swelled. It was a painless process by that point.

The rubbery suit he wore under his clothes shifted with him, having been cast with a transitional spell by witches on the royal council. The rest of his clothing burst into tiny threads, raining down like colorful worms as he dashed out into the Savanna desert.

Despite the personal implications of the threat, the king was razor-focused. One of the key elements of his upbringing had to do with military strategizing and battlefield etiquette. When he failed at the podium, he was vicious in a fight. That was the truth that charged his limbs as he galloped on, following the panicked zest scent of his darling mate.

Thorne was not surprised when he arrived at the sorcerer’s lair, an abandoned mining shaft buried beneath two opposing kingdoms in the Wildwoods. There had been some contention about who the property the old mine belonged to, leading eventually to a stalemate. The king himself had forgotten all about it but wasn't surprised to find that someone like Nyfain had taken advantage of it.

He kept sprinting, sweat blurring his vision. He spotted Vale and one of the enforcers in their lion forms battling it out with beings he couldn't quite make out yet. Then as he got closer, he noticed that some of the people they were fighting didn’t have faces at all, merely sallow sockets and skin so thin it may as well have been burned off. They reeked a foul, fear-reaching stench, musty and mothball-like.

It made the king's eyes water more than the sight of their gruesome faces—some with fleshy flaps of skin waving in the wind, the color of a ballooning infection.

It was all incredibly repulsive and confusing, but Thorne didn’t have time to unravel that mess. He had to save his men and get to Breya.

“Thorne!”

Her voice was no longer in his head. She was there, ahead of him, waving him down with one hand. The other was pinned behind her back as Nyfain tried to drag her into the mouth of the mine.

“Stay back!"

Vale and his other enforcer seemed to have the situation under control with the undead creatures, but they would not come out of it unscathed. It was likely that the sorcerer had summoned them, and while doing so, gave them supernatural strength.

Kill them then set them on fire! Vale shouted in his mind.

The other enforcer followed suit, killing his attacker with a swift kick to the jaw. If they were undead, it was harder to kill them again. Fire made sense.

Thorne had nearly made it to Breya. Nyfain, though, was a slippery, cowardly son of a whore. The moment the king leaped into the air and pounded the ground with a tremendous clatter, he fled into the dark of the cave.

Thorne was enraged, but he could not chase him. He stood by Breya’s side, watching from all corners as his men finished off the rest of the undead horde.

“Thorne,” she said, voice shaking. "I don’t know what happened. I'm sorry…”

She had begun to sob, her knees crashing against the hard desert ground. Thorne watched his men annihilate what was left of the dusty bags of bones, then ventured into the mine to retrieve torchlight.

What of the sorcerer? Vale asked, out of breath as the enforcer set the various bodies ablaze.

Thorne shook his head. Throw the torch into the mine. If he survives that, then we will deal with him.

Vale carried on his duties. The king went to Breya, nudging at her cheek. She lifted her head, eyes empty and sorrowful.

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