Page 39 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

Karyseth and her acolytes swept out first, their departure leaving a chilly wake. The other Council members fragmented, hushed, urgent conversations breaking out. Lines were being drawn in the stone, allegiances hardening like cooling lava.

"You gather powerful enemies, Stone Fist," Zarvash murmured, pausing beside me, his voice low, meant only for me. "And powerful allies."

I gave a curt nod, my throat tight. "So has she." The name felt raw, scraped from somewhere vital inside me. Hawk. My vrakasha.

"Indeed." His gaze was shrewd, penetrating. "Keep her close. Whatever Plaktish truly seeks … I suspect your mate is pivotal."

My claws flexed, scraping against the polished stone. A low growl threatened again. "They will not touch her."

"Of that," Zarvash said, a flicker of something almost like a smile touching his lips, "I have no doubt. But blades alone won't win this fight. Stay sharp."

He moved off, leaving me standing there, the echoes of the chamber settling around me like chains. The political maneuvering, the veiled threats, the shifting alliances—it set my teeth on edge. It wasn't clean. Not like battle.

But at the heart of the storm, unwavering, was her. Hawk. My mate. The impossible human who had torn through the stone and scale I'd built around myself.

I turned, stalking from the chamber, feeling eyes track my exit. The tension of the meeting clung like suffocating ash, but beneath it, a different heat burned—fierce, absolute.

Let them come. Temple zealots. Ignarath shadows. Scheming Council members.

They would not take her.

13

HAWK

Sweat didn’t just slickmy skin; it plastered my shirt to my back, stinging where the rough training tunic chafed. Every muscle screamed—a familiar, persistent burn. I pivoted hard, the worn floor gritty under my boots, ducking the whistle of a practice staff aimed for my skull.

The kid—Trazek—let out a frustrated hiss, his dark scales rippling. He was young. Eager. Predictable.

I exploited the opening, sweeping low. His legs tangled, momentum stolen. He hit the stone with a surprised whump, air exploding from his lungs. Dust puffed around him.

“Balance,” I grunted, not offering a hand yet. I let him feel the impact. “Or height means nothing.”

A low chorus of clicks echoed from the shadows where other warriors watched—the Drakarn version of approval, or maybe just interest in the novelty. These sessions, snatched between whatever passed for shifts here, were less a distraction, more a necessary violence. A way to burn off the corrosive tension coiling in my gut since Vega’s accusation. Her disappointment was a physical weight, a phantom hand squeezing my ribs.

But charging into Ignarath wasn’t bravery. It was suicide. And I wasn’t done living yet.

Trazek scrambled up, ignoring my eventually extended hand. Good. Pride was useful. His eyes glittered with renewed fire. "Again," he demanded, stance resetting, wings flaring slightly.

I circled, letting my gaze dissect his form. It had been weeks of this—watching, fighting, learning. The subtle shift of weight betrayed a lunge. The whisper-faint rustle of wing membranes telegraphed a sideways dodge. The involuntary twitch at the base of the tail revealed his commitment. These were Drakarn tells. Different, but readable.

“Control your tail,” I said flatly, nodding toward the appendage that kept flicking nervously behind him. “It broadcasts every damned thought.”

His brow ridges furrowed. The struggle was plain—instinct warring with instruction. “How?” he asked, the question raw curiosity, not challenge.

“Lower center of gravity.” I dropped into a fighting crouch, demonstrating. “Core. Leverage. We break differently.”

A voice, rough as unpolished stone, scraped from the edge of the pit. “Physics remain constant, human. Only the weak fail to master them.”

My head snapped up. It was Elder Vraxxin. Copper scales dulled with age, streaked like old blood. Temple markings etched deep into his shoulder plate—Karyseth’s dogmatic mouthpiece. The contempt wasn’t even veiled; it radiated off him like a foul heat.

Before the necessary, calculated retort formed on my tongue, Trazek straightened, lifting his chin. He showed a surprising spark of defiance. “Her methods work, Elder. Three victories. She adapts.”

Vraxxin’s nostrils flared. A dry, dismissive hiss escaped him. “Skills forged on a world without fire-breath or scaled hides. Games.” He turned, addressing the watchers, his voice rising, deliberately pitched to carry. “While you indulge this … curiosity … the Council splinters. Stone Fist defies wisdom, defies tradition!” His gaze sliced toward me, sharp and accusing. “All to shield these outsiders.”

My blood turned to ice water in my veins. Stone Fist. Khorlar.

“The Temple demands censure!” Vraxxin’s voice cracked like a whip. His fangs flashed. “Plaktish’s warnings cannot be ignored! Stone Fist courts open war—for a human female!”

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