Page 8 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

Without a word, he straightened and held it out.

His hand hung in the air between us. Large. Rough-scaled. Warmth radiated from it, surprisingly intense. The gesture was … nothing. Simple. Neutral. Just my tool, held steady.

My breath hitched. Hesitantly, numbly, I reached out. My fingers brushed against his scales. Rougher than they looked. And hot. Like stone left under a desert sun. A tiny shock, sharp and distinct, jumped between us. Static electricity. Had to be.

His eyes—yellow depths, slitted pupils narrowing slightly—met mine. Just for a second. An eternity. Nothing readable there. Utterly alien.

Then he straightened fully, turned without a sound, and stalked away to bark orders at the trainees.

Leaving me kneeling in the dust, multi-tool clutched tight in my suddenly trembling hand, the ghost of that warmth, that unexpected jolt, still singing under my skin.

He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t threatened. He’d just … picked up my tool.

What in the seven hells wasthat?

The ground felt unsteady beneath my knees. The distrust was still there, cold and hard in my gut. But now … now it had company. A swirling, confusing eddy of … something else. Something I didn’t have a name for.

God damn it, this couldn't be good.

3

KHORLAR

The Blade Councilchambers devoured sound like a starving predator ate its bloodied prey, the ancient stone drinking in every whisper until only the thundering of my pulse remained in my ears. Obsidian pillars stretched toward the vaulted ceiling where light from heat crystals pierced the gloom.

I stood rigid. Claws flexing. Every muscle coiled tight with the effort of restraint. The Council sat in their carved stone seats, a half-circle of Scalvaris's finest warriors, their faces carved from the same unforgiving rock as the chamber itself.

Darrokar's obsidian scales caught the sparse light, crimson undertones pulsing with each measured breath.

Beside him sat Terra, his human mate who had somehow earned her place at his side. Her face betrayed nothing, but the slight tension in her shoulders spoke volumes. She understood what was at stake.

The Ignarath hadn't come for peace.

They'd come to test our weaknesses.

And they'd brought an audience.

My nostrils flared at the unexpected scent of sacred oils—Karyseth, High Priestess of the Forge Temple, her silver-streaked scales gleaming, flanked by three silent, yellow robed acolytes. Their presence made my scales itch. The Temple rarely involved itself in Council matters unless blood or blades were involved. But in the past year, things had changed.

They sensed weakness. And the temple wanted power.

Plaktish prowled the center of the chamber, his posture a calculated insult to every warrior present, his scales catching the light like poisoned honey. Four Ignarath warriors flanked him, each bearing ceremonial arms—another insult veiled as tradition. His smile was all fangs, his eyes cold and calculating as they swept over us.

"We appreciate Scalvaris's prompt response to our … concerns." His voice slithered through the chamber. "The High Council of Ignarath values our tenuous peace."

"State your grievance." Darrokar's low rumble cut through the pretense.

A flash of irritation crossed Plaktish's features before the mask slipped back into place. He gestured sharply.

One of his warriors stepped forward, unrolling a blood-stained cloth.

Six Ignarath battle talons. Severed at the joint.

"Six scouts." Plaktish's voice hardened. "Slaughtered in our territory. Mutilated."

Murmurs rippled through the Council. I remained stone-still, watching. There was always violence in the Western Crags—contested land where blood had been spilled for generations. Then again, I looked sidelong at Vyne, who was scowling at the delegation.

A few weeks ago, he and his now mate, Selene, had secretly journeyed to the Harrovan Mountains in Ignarath territory to retrieve a plant to heal the sick. And they had dealt with Ignarath scouts. I'd been there to see some of it.

---