Page 8 of Davoren
The interruption came sharp, final, with a tone that suggested this truth cost him something to admit. Before I could process it, he turned toward the cave entrance and gestured with one hand. His arrival had obliterated the channel I’d squeezed through. In its place, a gaping entrance that let the sun and heat in.
"Watch."
The sound came first—leather and scale and wind. Then shadows blotted out the afternoon sun as three adult drakes landed at the cave mouth with impacts that shook dust from the ceiling. Not the babies I'd hidden with. These were fully grown, each the size of a horse, with teeth designed for rending and claws meant for killing.
Their golden eyes fixed on me with predatory intensity. The blood scent. My blood, painting the cave floor, soaking into my torn dress, calling to them like a dinner bell.
Davoren's entire body went rigid. The mark on his shoulder—our mark—flared so bright it illuminated the cave better than any torch. The light revealed every detail of the drakes' scarred hides, their flared nostrils, the intelligence in their eyes that was cunning but not wisdom.
"I cannot let them harm you." The words seemed dragged from him, each one a confession. "Cannot step aside. Cannot choose my own freedom over your life." He stood between me and death made flesh, and I could see the tension in every line of his body. Not the readiness of a warrior preparing for battle, but the resignation of someone bound by chains they never chose. "Even if you commanded me to let them pass, I would be compelled to refuse. The mark would override my will, just as it can override yours."
His admission carried a weight that made my rebellion falter. We were both prisoners, then. Both caught in magic older than memory, deeper than choice.
One of the drakes snapped at the air, jaws clacking shut with the sound of a bear trap closing. The message was clear: the intruder who had invaded their nursery would not leave this cave alive.
Not unless she accepted the protection of something far more dangerous than any drake.
The monsters moved like death given form, all sinuous grace and barely leashed violence. The largest one's jaw unhinged with a wet pop that made my stomach lurch, revealing row upon row of teeth designed by nature's cruelest architect. Not just for killing—for shredding, tearing, ensuring their prey suffered before the end. Behind it, the other two flanked wide, a hunting formation older than human civilization.
Davoren stepped fully between us, his back to me now, shoulders set in a line that spoke of absolute determination. When he spoke, the melodic draconic language poured from his throat like smoke and honey, all rises and falls that made my bones vibrate with impossible harmonics. The drakes responded immediately, not with submission but with increased aggression. Hisses and clicks, wing displays that made them seem twice their already impressive size.
"What are they saying?" My voice came out steadier than I felt, which wasn't saying much.
"They demand justice." He didn't turn, keeping his attention fixed on the lead drake as it prowled closer. "You entered sacred nesting grounds. I destroyed their roost. The penalty has been the same for a thousand years."
"Let me guess. Death?"
"Death." A pause as the second drake snapped at the air, testing. "Or . . ."
The word hung between us like a blade balanced on its point. I pressed harder against the cave wall, feeling my own blood sticky between my shoulders and stone. "Or what?"
"Or witnessing my true form and accepting the bond's protection." Tension ran through every word, like he was confessing to some unforgivable sin. "Once you see what I truly am, the mark completes its first binding. You become . . . recognized. Protected by ancient law as one who belongs to dragonkind."
"That doesn't sound so terrible—"
"No human has seen a Dragon Master's transformation and lived to speak of it." His shoulders drew tighter, if that were possible. "We are not like them." He indicated the drakes with a gesture that somehow conveyed both kinship and vast separation. "Not mindless beasts of instinct, driven by hunger and territory. We are older, deeper, more terrible than your kind can comprehend."
One of the flanking drakes tested his defenses, darting forward with jaws spread wide. Davoren moved faster than my eyes could properly track, catching it by the throat just behind the jaw hinge. The drake thrashed, hundred-pound body whipping like an angry snake, but his grip held firm. Not crushing—just controlling. When he spoke to it, his voice dropped into registers that made my chest cavity feel hollow.
The drake went limp. Not dead, but submissive in a way that suggested absolute recognition of superiority. He released it, and it scrambled back to its position, golden eyes now wary where they'd been hungry.
"They're not backing down," I observed, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.
"No. The eldest has lost two clutches to human raiders in the past season. She will not bend on this. Ancient law is ancient law." Blood welled where the drake's claws had scored his forearm, three parallel lines that would scar if he were human. But even as I watched, the wounds began to close. "You must choose quickly."
The eldest drake—the female—lowered her head. Not in submission but in preparation to charge. Muscles bunched beneath scarred hide. A predator preparing for the killing strike.
"Death by drake," Davoren continued, his tone conversational despite the tension singing through every line of his body, "or life bound to dragon. Those are your only options now."
Life bound to dragon.
The words should have filled me with revulsion, with rage at yet another choice being stripped away. Instead, I felt . . . what? The mark pulsed in time with my heartbeat, each throb sending warmth through my battered body. Not healing—not yet—but the promise of it. The promise of survival, of protection, of something I didn't want to name.
The female drake lunged.
Time slowed, molasses-thick. Her leap, all coiled power and murderous intent. Davoren's hand shooting out, impossibly fast, impossibly precise. The meaty impact of his palm against her throat, stopping several hundred pounds of velocity dead. Her jaws snapping shut inches from his face, close enough that her breath stirred his ash-pale hair.
"Choose quickly, little bride." He held her there, muscles straining but voice steady. "I cannot hold them off forever. Not without revealing myself. And once I begin that transformation . . ."
