Page 4 of Bound to Four Alphas

“You’re lucky nobody got seriously hurt,” he said, “and that Ronan has apologized for the actions of his wolves—a group of young alphas, apparently, keen to sharpen their claws. Not unlike a certain group I know.”

The young dragons glanced between themselves, eyeing Kaelen warily. No matter how many times he had admonished them, more and more fights had been breaking out between the younger members of the two clans. Nothing deadly—yet—but serious enough to concern the older nobles. They were just boys, but soon the young alphas would be fully grown.

All it would take would be one fight that went too far. One alpha sniffing after an omega from the other clan. One of the older alphas getting involved. These days, it seemed more and more like an inevitability. But the wolf alpha, Ronan, would do anything before letting war break out, and Kaelen was in no mood to weaken his own clan through a pointless battle.

He recognized the actions of the young, frustrated alphas for what they were—playground skirmishes. As long as it never went any further, he couldn’t bring himself to truly disagree with their desire to fight the wolves.

“Who won?” Kaelen asked, and the boys looked at him in surprise before Phane’s wings preened outwards slightly.

“We did,” he said, and Kaelen couldn’t help the pride that welled up. Phane was a fine young alpha, and would grow into a strong force for the clan. He was everything Kaelen wanted the next generation to be, everything he would want an heir to be.But Phane wasn’t his son, or his heir, and it was becoming an increasing burden to him that he still remained without.

“Iveir,” said Kaelen, and the general stepped forward. “Try and keep them under control during today’s drills, okay?”

Iveir nodded, and Kaelen sensed the amusement in his old friend before the great green dragon threw his head back and roared, shaking the very mountain. At the signal, the boys launched forward into the air, snapping at each other for primary position, followed closely by the general.

Iveir would keep them in line for now, and there was no doubt that Ronan was doing the same for his wolves. That would have to be enough for the time being.

Kaelen shook his head as the familiar crawling sensation of his transformation took hold, his scales rippling back into themselves, his claws and fangs retreating. Even in his human form he loomed large above his advisors and most of the other dragons, the nobility of his breeding lending him size, strength, and power beyond any of the other dragons. It had been a point of utmost pride in his youth, but with age and burden, he now shouldered it as the responsibility it truly was.

“My King.” One of his advisors stepped forward, holding out a letter. “Correspondence from the Fae.”

Kaelen took the letter as he strode past, deep into the tunnels of the volcanic palace, past various halls filled with his people as they laughed and ate and basked in the life he gave them.

“The Benellane Court?” he asked as he opened the thick parchment, sniffing it for any hint of magic before unfolding it.

“Yes, sire,” one of his men said. “It arrived this morning along with a dozen bouquets of roses.”

Kaelen rolled his eyes. “Burn the flowers, we don’t need a repeat of last winter.”

It had been a joke from Elian, the trickster lordling of the Benellane Court, who had thought it would be terribly amusing to enchant the flowers so that anybody who caught their scent danced for three days on end. It had taken nearly a week and one rather epic meltdown from Lady Agharri, whose mate was cursed into dancing with a serving girl, to work out what was going on.

The advisor nodded, and Kaelen skimmed over the letter. Thankfully, it wasn’t from Elian, who seemed to revel in trying to rile Kaelen up, but instead from his father, Lord Phaendar of the Marble Halls. Most of his words were pretty platitudes, wafer-thin well-wishes. Kaelen rolled his eyes. The Fae were completely incapable of just getting to the point; anything they wanted to say had to be wrapped up in at least six layers of misleading nonsense.

Eventually,there, he spotted the sentence that held the crux of Phaendar’s letter; innocuous enough at first glance, but Kaelen was well versed in reading between the lines.

“And, of course, we are so looking forward to the autumnal festivities near your lands. We do so hope that they will remain peaceful and undisturbed for our merriment.”

“Increase the number of patrols on the eastern border,” he said to one of his advisors, handing him back the letter, “Phaendar is concerned that some of Malek’s monsters might spill over from our territory to his.”

The advisor stumbled slightly at the mention of Malek, self-proclaimed king of the monsters that had sprung forth from the dark places in the wake of The Breaking.

“Malek wouldn’t dare let his monsters invade our lands, sire,” the advisor said warily. “You know we execute them on sight.”

“Even Malek cannot stop all of them from prowling the borderlands,” said Kaelen with a sneer. “Although next time I see him, I’ll remind him that it’s in his best interest to try harder.”

The advisor nodded, “Very good, sire. Should we respond to Lord Phaendar?”

Kaelen nodded back. “Yes, tell him that our side of the border will be—”

A great shift tore through him like thunder, rocking him to his core.

He bellowed in shock, falling to one knee, his magic rending in, turning itself inside out within him.

Not his magic, he realized with a start.

No, this was the magic of the land. The very forest itself, jolting to life, roaring in the agony of rebirth.

“Impossible,” he whispered, staggering to his feet.

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