Page 1 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

PROLOGUE

Khorlar

The echo of grunts and impacts reverberated through the training caverns, each sound a percussive slap against the rough-hewn walls. The air hung heavy, thick with the tang of sweat, superheated rock, and the acrid burn of overworked leather from strained armor.

I stood perched on a rocky outcropping, arms crossed. Below, trainees sparred with varying degrees of competence, most displaying defensive formations as porous as the atmosphere above Volcaryth. A flicker of impatience ignited in my chest—an almost instinctive urge to snarl corrections or bark orders. I suppressed it. Not yet. Let them taste failure, scrape their hides raw. They’d learn more from bruises than lectures.

My gaze moved restlessly between sparring pairs, weighing their intent against clumsy execution. Bad habits, unchecked now, would bleed them dry later. A head thrown too far back during a strike, a tail dragging where it should provide balance … my patience frayed, but remained, for the moment, intact.

Then my gaze drifted, pulled across the cavern to the far side: the humans.

They weren’t sparring Drakarn today. Their exercise centered on scaling the treacherous rock faces, navigating the uneven terrain with a painstaking focus. Boots scraped against sharp edges and loose rubble, their small, strange hands finding purchase along jagged holds. Where my kind relied on tails for balance and powerful wings for controlled descents, the humans compensated with an unnerving precision, gripping tighter, crouching lower. It wasn’t natural—it couldn't be, for them—but they were relentless.

One caught my attention.

Red hair pulled back under a utilitarian leather band, a face that radiated composure despite the exertion evident in every controlled movement. It wasn’t unusual for me to observe the humans as they moved through the caverns; curiosity was simply practicality draped in the guise of observation.

But this one … she was singularly focused. Intent.

She studied the rock face before her as though it were a puzzle to be solved, not merely an obstacle to overcome. A sharpness edged her gaze, darting and aware, registering movement and depth in ways I hadn’t noticed in the others.

Without conscious intent, I edged closer to the platform’s edge, my breath measured as I watched her ascend. She was precision incarnate … until she wasn’t. One of those leather boots dislodged something loose, a hairline crack spider-webbing across the rock face in an instant.

Then everything happened almost too fast for reaction.

The crack widened, a series of sharp pops and snaps that broadcast disaster as physics caught up. Her hand shot upward, grasping for a higher hold. She didn't scream, didn't freeze, but some instinct drove her to try and stabilize as the rock beneath her gave way.

First, loose stones slammed against the cliff face, falling in an uncontrolled cascade. Then, her body followed, moving too fast. She twisted mid-air, clawing desperately for purchase, but collided hard against another outcropping several feet below. Another slip, a mere inch more, and she’d have plunged off the ledge into oblivion.

The rockfall wasn't stopping. Dust clouded the dim light, obscuring her small, curled form.

"Damn it." The words were a low growl, ripped from my throat.

Instinct surged, burning white-hot, obliterating every other thought. My claws scraped against the rock as I launched myself forward. Survival demanded timing, precise calculation—not reckless action—and yet there I was, abandoning calculation entirely.

My kind did not make mistakes on terrain like this. My hands gripped the heated rock, tighter than iron, carving a path downward with an unforgiving mix of force and control. The stones that had crumbled toward her still rained around us.

Her scent hit then. Even amidst the acrid chaos of dust and falling debris, it struck me like a whip. I refused to acknowledge the sensory jolt, the sudden hypersensitivity that flared on my tongue.

Everything sharpened, refocused, like a lightning bolt had struck me.

Her scent was closer now: crisp and alien, deceptively light, yet sharp enough to draw blood. Beneath the atmospheric noise of the cavern, I could almost hear the frantic beat of her pulse—faint but rapid, defying her outward composure.

The last few feet were the most treacherous. Sharp, jagged stones forced an awkward perch, wings momentarily extending for balance as dirt and gravel shifted. Any lesser warrior would pause, regroup, resist the urge to charge blindly.

No time for that.

Seconds mattered. Less than that.

Then she was there—fingers white-knuckling a warped, unstable ledge that offered no real security. A smear of blood at her knuckles. A precarious overhang threatened to collapse near her left leg. I landed close, but not close enough, not yet at her side.

This place offered no kindness, no quarter.

"Don't move!" My voice thundered, an imperative, not a request.

Everything else dissolved as I extended my clawed hand to her. Any sweetness lingering beneath her scent was ruthlessly ignored, my focus narrowing to raw efficiency as I sought a more secure foothold. The chaos subsided, leaving lingering instability in its wake.

I pulled her away from the ledge.

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