Page 9 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

"And you claim Scalvaris warriors are responsible?" Zarvash leaned forward, his bronze scales catching the light.

"The survivors described the attackers clearly." Plaktish's gaze swept the chamber, finally landing on me. "Drakarn with the distinctive battle markings of Scalvaris. They even described a warrior bearing the Stone Fist emblem."

My blood froze. A direct accusation.

"Impossible." The word tore from my throat, rough-edged and dangerous. "I do not slaughter sleeping enemies."

And when attacked, I did not leave survivors to tell tales.

Plaktish's smile widened fractionally. "Yet here we stand, with six dead and witnesses who say otherwise." He turned back to Darrokar. "The High Council demands reparations. Blood for blood."

Darrokar's wings shifted slightly—the only outward sign of his tension. "What evidence beyond this do you bring? Battle talons prove deaths, not murder."

"Would you like us to bring the survivors to testify?" Plaktish countered. "They are prepared to swear on the Sacred Flame that they recognized Scalvaris warriors."

Karyseth stepped forward then, her ceremonial robes whispering against the stone floor. "The Temple would witness such an oath," she said, her voice like ancient stone.

Plaktish hesitated—barely a flicker, but I caught it. A sworn testimony before the Forge Priestess would be binding. False claims would mean punishment from the Temple itself.

"That will not be necessary at this stage," he recovered quickly.

Of course. His witnesses would crumble under the Temple's scrutiny. But why was he lying at all? It was true that Vyne and I had dispatched with Ignarath scouts, but with the rogues in the area, it would be impossible to prove. Still, he could try.

So why the ruse?

"What reparations do you seek?" Terra's voice cut through the tension, sharp as a blade.

Plaktish's gaze shifted to her, lingering a moment too long.

"Ah, the human voice of reason." His tone made my claws itch to tear into his throat. "Ignarath proposes a simple exchange."

"Explain." Darrokar's command was granite.

"We wish to know how many human slaves Scalvaris harbors. And we will take our fair share." Plaktish's eyes glittered with naked greed. "And we wish to … study them. Their abilities. Their technology."

The pieces locked into place. This wasn't about dead scouts. This was about the humans. About knowledge and power and the advantage they represented.

"Very well," said Darrokar, and a growl threatened to escape my throat before he continued. "We harbor no human slaves." Darrokar's voice dropped to a dangerous register that made even the stone beneath our feet seem to tremble.

"Do you call them citizens?" Plaktish's laugh was cold. "Allies? We've heard rumors of your strange … attachment …" He gestured toward Terra. "But surely you can't claim them all."

"The humans choose their own path," Darrokar replied. "They are free, not property."

"Free?" Plaktish's gaze swept the chamber, settling finally on me. "Is that what you call them, Stone Fist? I noticed your … fierce defense … of one particular human during our encounter. The dark-skinned female with the short hair." His smile turned predatory. "Is she yours?"

The question hit me right between the ribs.

Heat surged through my body, a molten wave that threatened to consume all reason. My fangs throbbed with a searing pain that radiated deep into my skull. Hawk's face flashed in my mind—her fierce eyes, the defiant set of her jaw, the way she moved like a predator despite her fragile human form.

Her scent. Gods, her scent haunted me even now, a phantom that teased at the edges of my awareness.

"Yes."

The word escaped before I could cage it, raw and absolute, echoing through the suddenly silent chamber.

Mine.

The word burned through my consciousness, bypassing reason, strategy, duty.

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