Page 37 of Daghel

Daghel’s face tightens with fury as he glares at the door, but I just barely resist giggling at his angry expression and I pull him down the hallway with me as we make our way back to our rookery.

“What did you say to him?” I whisper the moment I am certain that we are far away enough that there is less chance of someone overhearing.

A cold smile tugs at Daghel’s mouth. “I merely stroked his ego—which is as over-inflated as his enchanted prick and twice as useless.”

My lips twitch in response as I quicken my pace as we continue to hurry down the hall. He glances at me again as his smile widens further.

“I merely pointed out to him that with his iron control over the mountain, that chieftains would be too frightened to offend him and his commanders. Logically, they would wish to make a consolidated camp far from the villages where they would be less likely to be noticed and easier to overlook.”

I frown skeptically. That makes sense, but it seems too easy. “Whenever we’ve had rebellions, there was always a stronghold within the cities themselves from which the operations are staged.”

“Of course, but with his ego it is much easier for him to assume that they are like rabbits in the snow, quivering far away from the eyes of everyone as they plot,” Daghel explains. “There will be minimal casualties this way if an attack does come, but itmeans that we need to be prepared for long, brutal flights in the cold.”

I nod in agreement and quicken my pace to a trot at his side, eager to return to our rookery and wash the filth off me from simply being in Vorn’s presence.

At length we return to the rookery, silent but touching each other in small ways that convey more than words ever could. Drisk looks up as we enter the main room, his amber eyes narrowing with interest as we share with him all that happened in Vorn’s private room. The wyvern stretches like a cat in the cream, but he does not remark upon it. Instead, he hums thoughtfully and surprises me by asking how I enjoyed seeing the festivities of Glas Village.

I stare at him for a moment at the sudden shift in the conversation. “It was really lovely. All the rich traditions were very charming. The only thing that was missing was a Yulen tree and it would have looked like something every child from the streets of Zyl dreams of.”

“What tree?”Drisk asks and glances back at Daghel, searching for support. My other male simply shrugs back at him so that Drisk eyes me suspiciously.“Why would you wish to have a tree? There are plenty outdoors.”

“A Yulen tree,” I correct with amusement. “It is a custom to decorate a tree for the holiday with many shiny and handmade ornaments, to bring festive cheer into our homes and lives to share with our loved ones. It represents all the hope and joy of the season—a special magic that comes to life.”

“By putting stuff on a tree?”

“Yes, it is a Yulen tradition,” I confirm as I begin to laugh.

The wyvern proceeds to roll his eyes as he grumbles, making me laugh harder at his antics. “Ridiculous elvish custom.”He peers at me and back over at Daghel for a moment before grunting at his blatant amusement.“Very well. When theweather calms, I will fetch this ridiculous tree when we are returning from one of Vorn’s equally ridiculous tasks.”

Delighted, I throw my arms around his neck and hug him tightly, fully aware of the way I am pressed against the rigid and defined muscles of his chest. Finally, a Yulen tree! Even as a courtesan, I hadn’t been able to afford such an extravagance! Not to mention that it was heavily frowned on to indulge in such things that might appear too homey to gentleman clients seeking an escape and outlet from the domestic seasonal bliss.

Well, fuck all those old rules. I am now enjoying my domestic seasonal bliss, and I’m going to do it right.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

DAGHEL

Ido not look at the gathered gathol as I lead my female out to the assembly, the spot where all coordinated flights take off from the various rookeries along the peaks. There is a thrum of excitement among the wyverns as the gathols look to me expectantly. Several are mated with a female, and I feel a burst of pride at the sight of them standing between their mates. Among the females there are many more orcs than there are humans, but I am saddened to see that their total number together still only belong to a third of the regiment.

“Vorn is interfering with the ability of the gathols to mate,”Drisk informs me along our connection, catching the direction of where my thoughts rest.“Some wyverns have informed me that he keeps them far from the villages and only transporting warriors such as we were assigned to do, allowing only the briefest contact with females and only in well-guarded company. They see our wyva and they yearn.”

My mouth tightens grimly. This situation is unthinkable. Gathols have been among our prized and cherished, lauded for what they sacrifice for the clans. All I ever wanted to be in myyouth was part of a gathol and yet now our kind is being forced to the precipice of extinction by Vorn’s selfish whims. He and his supporters do not consider what they will do when the last of us are gone. And while they can sacrifice young males to the duties and seek to constrain him with their laws and regulations, without mating, the wyverns will eventually disappear from our clans. The chances of another like Drisk coming from the depths of the mountains is so rare that his presence is looked to by the clan with a certain amount of respect and pride despite their considerable fear of him.

My gaze skims over the males and females that I will be flying with, and their gazes meet mine with trepidatious respect. Drisk hums behind me and the other wyverns take up the hum, their throats expanding as an energy flows through all of us, connecting us. Ajek stands at my other side, his expression tight with obvious distaste.

“All right, knock it off,” he barks as is strides forward into the gathol circle, cutting a sharp look at Drisk. The wyvern shows his teeth and the general’s gaze whips away to scowl furiously at the others. “This is not a social gathering. Over the next weeks, days, months, or years, you will be on daily maneuvers, scouring every inch of Fang Peaks. Because Vorn is not without kindness, there will be a rotation of four days on and one day off. We are charged with locating any encampments of any rebellious factions that would attempt to destroy the fabric of the Cold Fang Clan.”

“What about Gehl?” a grizzled orc demands, gently brushing off the small hands of his human mate as she urgently grabs at his arm in an attempt to silence him. “Gathols have always had the days of Gehl free with the rest of the villagers, to spend days of merriment with our families.”

“Fuck Gehl,” Ajek barks.

The gathol exchange glances and an unhappy grumble goes up among them. A young wyvern barks, throwing up a small ballof fire harmlessly into the air at his bonded’s displeasure. Ajek whirls toward him and launches his javelin at the male. It spins with a deadly speed, impacting the young wyvern with a chilling thud as it burrows into the sensitive spot between the thick muscles of his chest and neck. The male collapses and the sound of anguish coming from his bonded—a lone orc barely twenty summers old—as he drops to his knees to drag the wyvern’s head into his lap pierces me with pain. It does so with such violence that my right hand curls furiously into a tight fist at my side. Damned Ajek and his cruelty. The wyvern’s body heaves and flops in its death throes, vomiting and spilling blood even as his bonded clings to his head in an attempt to hold him to him and calm him while the spark of fire slowly fades and dies within the wyvern’s eyes.

A hush falls over the gathol, and Ajek straightens with a hard smile as he glances among them. “Any more dissenters who wish to betray Vorn’s kindness? As merciful as our prince is, his retribution is swift.”

Several of the gathol shake their heads in response, but they glower heavily as their mates frown at their sides. Unanimous agreement. None will contest. None wish for an outright war against their clan and families.

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