Page 6 of Caress of Fire
The silence in the room answered her question, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
She looked everywhere, but nobody was in the room. Then anger slowly filled her, from that place inside her that was empty and dark and that spilled out every time she was reminded that humans were third class citizens, and her life mattered only as much as the uterus in her belly.
“Lord Aymond Haal?” Marielle called again, louder this time, not caring if she appeared impolite. “It’s Marielle Jansen… I’m here.”
A muffled noise came from up the steps and she froze. She looked up to the top of the that throne she could barely see, and a small part of her recognized the sound for what it was. It was the rasp of someone about to die.
Marielle climbed the stairs two by two, not pausing to think. Finally, she reached the top and stared at the grisly scene before her.
There, just behind the large stone chair, lay a creature she had only ever seen from afar, up in the skies, like angels of death with Gods on their backs.
A dragon, green as new spring leaves, lay on its side, its long neck extended back, its large head resting on the stone in an unbearable stillness. Its eyes were half open, and the milky crystalline that stared at nothing meant only one thing.
The dragon was dead.
Her breathing became heavy and fast, and Marielle’s head swam in a puddle of confusion. Dragons were impossible to kill, they lived for hundreds and hundreds of years, yet here this one was, right in front of her, dead as road kill.
“Lord Aymond?” she called again, but this time her voice was barely more than a whisper. Because she knew that wherever there was a dragon, his Draekon was close by.
What she didn’t know was what did a Draekon do when its dragon was dead?
Another raspy noise came, and this time, she could pinpoint the location of the sound and it made the hair on her arms stand up.
She carefully stepped around the dragon’s head, watching its dead, milky eyes as she put a foot beside the green snout in which she could see the gleam of long, white teeth. Sharp, long and deadly teeth. Teeth that could rip her to pieces in a few seconds.
Only this particular dragon wasn’t tearing anybody to pieces. As she stepped clear of the predator’s mouth, Marielle lifted her eyes to see the cause of that terrible sound.
There, right beside the dragon’s large stomach, lay a tall Draekon man.
Silver eyes locked on her, and the man lifted a hand in her direction. Marielle rushed to him, knowing without needing to be told that this was Lord Aymond Haal, ruler of Aalstad. Her future mate, and her brother’s salvation.
Carefully, she lifted the older man’s head and cradled him in her lap, holding his hand in hers.
Silver eyes closed, then opened again as he fought whatever was trying to suck the life out of him. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. Then his eyes grew wider and his back arched, pain etched on every inch of his face, terrible and sharp. Then the man coughed, and blood splattered Marielle’s face, chest and arms—so much blood, it filled her vision with red. Then the man fell limp on her lap, and she screamed.
She screamed until her voice gave out.
* * *
The silence feltlike a growing beast, spreading from inside his chest and coating the room in a thick layer of dark, noiseless void. His mind was a blank, no thoughts filtered through the haze of shock he felt at the news his aunt Isobel had just given him.
At her feet, her small dragoness, Hydrad, rubbed her fine head against Isobel’s legs. The beast was small, perhaps the size of a small horse or a large pony, her scales glistening a pure metallic green, two large yellow eyes flickering with intelligence settling on Nyra and Fedryc. Hydrad’s size was a direct result of a long line of inbreeding in the Draekon community, a birth defect which some saw as the reason why Draekon should never mate with each other.
Her dragoness’ size alone was not enough to excuse Isobel’s hostile, angry attitude towards Fedryc and Henron.
Lord Aymond was dead. Fedryc’s father, the man who had cast a dark cloud over his life since the moment of his birth, was gone. Behind him, Nyra’s presence was a red anchor, the only thing preventing him from losing himself to the storm brewing inside.
Fedryc closed his eyes against the memories threatening to fill his mind, but it was no use.
He was small, too small to carry the large suitcase to the hovering transport that waited for him at the bottom of the stairs, but he struggled anyway. His father’s eyes were set on him with all the warmth of a winter moon, betraying no emotion as he sent his son away.
Finally, Fedryc pulled the heavy case to the last step and he braced himself against the supple leather, panting heavily. Nyra slithered behind it, raising herself on her haunches, looking at him with her head cocked to the side. A playful lashing of her tail made a hollow noise on the stone stairs.
But Fedryc didn’t want to play. He wanted to cry and beg.
“Please, Father.” Fedryc turned to see Lord Aymond towering over him, his face as stony as the castle. “Don’t send me away. I promise, I’ll be good. I won’t hide in your office anymore.”
“This is an honor, my son.” Lord Aymond looked at Fedryc, then bent and lifted the suitcase easily, placing it in a servant’s hands. “The Emperor’s court is the best place for a young Draekon to learn to be a man.”
