Page 7 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

“Demanding another clan’s people …,” Khorlar bit out the wordpeoplelike it tasted strange, “is not a solution. It is insult.”

Each syllable was flint striking steel. He surged forward another half-step, crowding Plaktish, the sheer difference in their bulk suddenly overwhelming. Beside his comrades, Plaktish was overwhelming. Next to Khorlar, he looked almost small. “You have no claim. No evidence. Take your accusations to Scalvaris. Appeal to the Blade Council. If youdare.”

My breath caught in my throat. I could almost picture what would happen if this went wrong—Plaktish calling the bluff, the roar, the clash. Vega was practically vibrating beside me now, radiating pure kill-intent. My hand clamped firmly down on her arm. A silent, desperatehold.

We had the numbers, but most of the Drakarn with us were trainees, and new trainees at that. A fight now could not go well.

Shockingly, Plaktish hesitated. His gaze flickered—Khorlar’s immovable presence, the wary readiness of the trainees, the small knot of human women armed with knives and sheer, stubborn fury. Weighing the odds.

A fight here? Against Khorlar? Not a sure thing. Provoking Scalvaris without solid proof? Bad politics, even for an Ignarath snake.

I wasn't positive of the dynamics. This was so far from Earth. But people were people, even when they weren't human.

The slimy smile resurfaced, colder this time, dead in the eyes. “Very well, Stone Fist. Your …protectiveness… is noted.” He spat the word like poison. “Wewillappeal. The High Council expects satisfaction.”

One last look swept over us—overme.

It felt like something crawling under my training leathers, leaving a trail of slime. My fingersachedfor my gun, a sharp, physical yearning to wipe that look off his face. I forced my hand open, palm sweating, forced my breathing into a semblance of evenness.

Reaction equals death. But the image … oh, the image was satisfying.

With sharp, angry beats of powerful wings, the Ignarath launched themselves upward, kicking dust and grit into our faces. Five dark silhouettes against the blinding double suns. They circled once—a final, contemptuous assessment—then banked sharply, heading for the jagged silhouette of the cliffs etched against the horizon.

The tension didn’t break. It just … shifted. Became something heavier, colder.

“Break camp!” Khorlar’s voice wasn’t just a command; it was a physical force, shattering the brittle silence. Absolute. No room for anything but obedience.

He pivoted, his dark gaze sweeping over the trainees, then snagging on us. On me. “We return to Scalvaris.Now.” He stabbed a thick, clawed finger at a younger Drakarn, her scales like polished night. “Bryshe! Fly ahead. Warn the Council. An Ignarath delegation approaches. They're claiming raids. Demanding recompense.” He paused, his voice dropping, hardening. “They want the humans.”

Bryshe nodded. Then she launched herself skyward, a powerful downbeat of wings catching a thermal, soaring away with a grace that punched me right in the chest.

I watched her go, my eyes tracking her ascent until she was a disappearing speck against the harsh, unforgiving glare.

And the ache hit me. Physical. A hollow space under my ribs, a phantom weight in my hands that should have been a flight stick. God, thesky. Rushing past, the world tilting below, the sheerfreedomof it. Missing it felt like missing a limb, a constant, dull throb under the surface of everything.

Being grounded here … it was like being buried alive.

But there were no planes on Scalvaris. No gliders. No way to take to the sky if you weren't born with wings.

I shook my head, forcing the feeling down, locking it away. No time. Checklist. Water. Rations. Medkit. Knife secure? Yes. Survival mode engaged. Automatic. Efficient.

I knelt, hands moving mechanically, securing the straps on my pack. Keep busy. Don't think.

Don'tfeel.

Then a shadow fell over me.

My muscles went rigid. Every nerve ending screamed. I didn’t need to look. The sheerpresencewas enough, a weight pressing down on the air. And the scent … faint, almost scrubbed clean by the wind, but there.

Ozone and hot stone. Khorlar.

Was this it? The dressing down? The warning about Vega? About the Ignarath looking at me like a piece of meat? His face, when I finally risked a glance up, was carved granite. Unreadable. As always.

He didn't speak. Just stood there. Watching me. The silence stretched, thin and tight. Then, he bent, a slow, deliberate movement, his massive frame blocking the harsh sunlight. His clawed hand reached down.

My own hand flew to my knife hilt. Pure reflex. As if I had a shot against a monster like him. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

But he wasn’t attacking. His claws—sharp, scarred, lethally practical—closed around something small and metallic glinting in the dust near my boot. My multi-tool. It must have fallen.

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