Page 34 of Davoren
I waited, knowing there was more.
"I want to take you," he continued, his hand finding mine, fingers interlacing with the certainty of possession that still made my breath catch. "The city should see you, know you, understand what you are to me. And you should see them—your subjects, in a sense. The people who live under our protection."
Our protection. The word choice wasn't lost on me. Not his protection with me as an accessory, but ours, shared, together.
I felt the weight of what he was proposing. "My presence will cause a stir. Your presence will cause something more. Are you ready for that, little one? To be seen as what you are—the Dragon Lord's mate, claimed and marked and mine?
The dragon path opened directly into Ashfall's main plaza with a sound like the world exhaling, and we stepped from the mountain's secret passages into air thick with celebration.
The transition hit my enhanced senses like a physical force—spiced meat sizzling over volcanic vents, bodies pressed close in dancing crowds, the deep percussion of drums that used the city's glass architecture as resonance chambers. After the controlled environment of the keep, the sensory assault should have been overwhelming. Instead, my transformed bodycatalogued each input with predatory efficiency, filing away information faster than my human self could have processed.
Ashfall spread before us in terraced layers that followed the mountain's natural slope, and in the festival light, I finally understood why Davoren had built here. The city was a love letter written in volcanic glass and contained fire. Buildings rose from the black stone like they'd been grown rather than constructed, their walls incorporating natural formations of obsidian that caught the festival torches and threw the light back in rainbow fragments. Geothermal vents had been channeled into elaborate networks that powered everything from street lamps to the massive drums whose beat I felt in my bones.
The architecture was impossible—or would have been, without dragon fire to shape it. Bridges of pure volcanic glass spanned between buildings, so clear you could see the celebration continuing in the streets below. Towers twisted skyward in spirals that hurt to follow with human logic but made perfect sense to my transformed vision. And everywhere, everywhere, the integration of function and beauty that spoke of centuries of refinement, of a city that had grown under a Dragon Lord's protection and flourished because of it.
The moment we fully emerged from the path, the nearest dancers stopped mid-spin. Then the next ring of celebrants noticed, and the next, silence spreading outward from our position like ripples in reverse, pulling all sound back to its source until the entire plaza held its breath.
They knew him, of course. Even those who'd never seen Davoren in person recognized the Dragon Lord by the way reality seemed to reorganize itself around him, by the heat that radiated from his skin, by the ancient power that hung around him like a cloak made of inevitability. He wore formal robes tonight—black silk that seemed to absorb light rather thanreflect it, embroidered with thread that looked like captured flame.
But if they knew him, they didn't know what to make of me.
I'd dressed with deliberate intent, following Davoren's suggestions that had seemed like commands. The dress was architectural in its simplicity—a sheath of deep red silk that looked like liquid fire in the torchlight. The fabric was sheer enough that the golden lines tracing my skin were visible beneath, glowing with their own soft light that marked me as transformed, claimed, other. The neckline had been cut specifically to frame my collar, that deep blue dragon-scale that declared my status more clearly than any announcement could.
My hair was loose except for a few braids woven with silver thread, and I'd lined my eyes with kohl that Scarlet had provided, made from volcanic ash mixed with oils that made my eyes appear to hold flecks of fire. Every choice had been calculated to send a message: I am his, and I am not apologetic about it.
Davoren's hand settled on the small of my back, and the possessiveness in that simple touch radiated through the bond with enough force to make my knees weak. His pride was a living thing, prowling through our connection with the satisfaction of a predator displaying its finest kill. But underneath that ran something else—a protective fury that promised destruction to anyone who so much as looked at me wrong.
"My subjects," he said, and his voice carried despite speaking at normal volume, the words somehow reaching every ear in the plaza. "I present Lady Kara Lyris, my bonded mate, sealed by Caretaker Pact and Ancient Law."
The crowd's reaction was immediate and visceral. Some dropped to their knees in instinctive submission. Others pressed back, creating more space around us as if proximity to a mated dragon pair might burn. But most simply stared, their facescycling through expressions of awe, fear, and something that looked like religious experience. A Dragon Lord taking a mate was mythology made real, a story their grandparents might have whispered but none believed they'd witness.
We moved through the plaza, and the crowd parted like water, maintaining a precise distance that spoke of centuries of learned behavior. Close enough to show respect, far enough to avoid offense. Davoren's hand never left my back, his touch a constant reminder of his presence, his claim, his protection. Through the bond, I felt his attention split—part focused on me, part scanning for threats, part simply reveling in having his mate beside him in public view.
The festival tried to resume around us, musicians beginning tentative melodies that grew bolder as we didn't immediately incinerate anyone. Vendors called their wares in voices that cracked when we passed. Children peered around their parents' legs with the fearless curiosity of those too young to fully grasp what we were.
The city elders found us near the central fountain, a masterwork of engineering that channeled geothermal water through sculptures of dragons in flight. They approached in formation, five of them in robes that marked their status, carrying a chest between them that I could smell contained gold and gemstones—tribute, though Davoren needed neither.
"Lord Davoren," the eldest began, his voice remarkably steady for someone whose hands shook. "The city rejoices at your presence. And we welcome your—" he paused, clearly unsure of the proper address, "—your lady to Ashfall."
Davoren accepted their tribute with the kind of gracious condescension that somehow made them stand taller, as if being condescended to by a Dragon Lord was itself an honor. The formal words were exchanged, promises of protection renewed, loyalty reaffirmed. I stood silent at his side, playing the role ofornamental mate while my enhanced hearing picked up every whispered conversation in fifty feet.
"Is she human?" someone whispered.
"Look at the marks on her skin. Nothing human about those."
"The collar—dragon-scale. He's marked her as his."
"She's beautiful."
"She's terrifying."
Both true, I thought, and felt Davoren's amusement through the bond as he clearly heard the same whispers.
The ritual with the elders continued, and that's when I saw it—a stall tucked between a spice vendor and a weapon smith, its wares catching the light in ways that made my transformed vision sing. Crystallized lava jewelry, each piece a frozen moment of the mountain's fury transformed into wearable art. But more than that, several pieces looked almost identical to the solidified dragon flame of our claiming nest, and the recognition hit me with enough force to make me sway slightly.
The vendor was a young woman, maybe twenty-five, with burn scars on her arms that spoke of dedication to her craft despite the dangers. She was arranging her pieces with the focus of someone trying very hard not to stare at the Dragon Lord and his mate conducting business merely thirty feet away.
I touched Davoren's arm lightly, and he glanced down at me, one eyebrow rising in question.
