Page 17 of Davoren
"Dragon's mint," Scarlet supplied, watching my reaction with what might have been amusement. "It encourages the bond's development. Master Davoren has it specially cultivated."
Of course he did. Everything here was specifically designed, deliberately chosen. Including me, apparently.
"Where is he?" I tried to sound casual, but the mark betrayed me, pulsing with obvious longing.
"Attending to territory disputes at the northern border. The Drake Lords grow restless when the mating season approaches—territorial challenges increase." She poured herself tea with economical movements. "He'll return by sunset for the binding ceremony."
There it was again—that casual reference to tonight that made my insides liquify. "What exactly does the ceremony involve?"
Scarlet's smile was knowing. "That's between you and Master Davoren. But I can tell you this—dragon binding ceremonies are unlike anything humans practice. They're more . . . comprehensive."
Comprehensive. What a delightfully vague way to describe what would happen to me tonight.
"The keep has seven levels," Scarlet continued, clearly changing the subject. "You're on level four, the guest quarters—though that designation will change after tonight. Level three houses the libraries, should you wish to research dragon customs. Level five contains the gardens, though I'd advise caution—not all the plants are friendly to the unbonded. Level two is servants' quarters and kitchens. Level one is the great hall and receiving chambers."
"And levels six and seven?"
"Master Davoren's workshop occupies level six. His private chambers are on seven." She paused, setting down her teacup with deliberate precision. "You're free to explore any level. Though some doors only open to those who bear the completed bond."
The way she said it suggested those doors hid things I both desperately wanted and feared to discover.
"I'll leave you to prepare," she said, rising with that same fluid grace. "Clothes have been provided." She gestured to a wardrobe I hadn't noticed, its doors slightly ajar. "Master Davoren selected them himself."
My cheeks heated at the implication. He'd chosen clothes for me. Decided what would touch my skin, what would display or conceal my body. The thought shouldn't have affected me so strongly, but my mark practically purred at the evidence of his attention.
After Scarlet departed, I approached the wardrobe with the caution of someone expecting snakes. Inside hung a single dress. Midnight blue silk that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, with a neckline that would frame my mark perfectly. The fabric was so fine I could see my hand through it, though somehow when worn it would probably be more suggestion than revelation.
Beside it sat soft leather slippers that looked like they'd been made for my feet specifically. Knowing Davoren's attention to detail, they probably had been. There seemed to be no end to his knowledge and capabilities.
I held the dress up to myself, studying my reflection in the volcanic glass that served as a mirror. The woman looking back seemed a stranger—wild-haired, mark glowing faintly on her shoulder, holding a dress that belonged to someone who'd accepted their fate rather than fighting it.
But hadn't I already accepted? I'd taken his hand. Ridden him. Come for him. And I’d agreed to tonight's ceremony before I even knew what it entailed.
I dropped the sheet and reached for the dress, silk sliding over my skin like water, like the first taste of a transformation I was only beginning to understand.
The library doors stood twice my height and opened at my approach without sound or visible mechanism, as if the keep itself had been waiting for me to seek its secrets. Inside, the air tasted of old paper with an undertone of sulfur that reminded me where I was—inside a volcano, looking at books meant for no human eyes.
The shelves stretched up beyond sight, disappearing into shadows that seemed too thick for natural darkness. Some books chained themselves to their shelves with locks that looked more like living creatures than metal. Others floated freely, orbiting each other in slow patterns that hurt to track with human eyes. I reached for one that seemed safe—bound in simple leather, no visible teeth or warning signs—and immediately regretted it.
The text swam before my eyes, symbols reshaping themselves every time I blinked. One moment they looked like ancient draconic script, the next like mathematical equations that described concepts my mind couldn't grasp. The harder I tried to focus, the more the words seemed to crawl off the page and burrow into my brain sideways.
"Temporal dynamics of geological shaping," I read aloud, and tasted copper in my mouth. The next line made my nose bleed. I shelved the book quickly, wiping away the blood with fingers that trembled slightly.
So. Dragon knowledge came with a price. Good to know.
The gardens on level five proved equally treacherous in their beauty. Here, Davoren had created an impossibility—a thriving botanical paradise inside a volcano. The air hung thick with perfume and humidity, steam rising from thermal vents that had been cunningly directed to create microclimates. Roses made of living crystal chimed when the heat-breeze touched them, their music almost forming words. Vines moved without wind, reaching toward me with an intelligence that made me step carefully.
It was the tree that caught me, though. Its fruit glowed like captured starlight, each one perfectly round and no bigger than my thumb. They smelled like every good thing I'd ever tasted—my mother's cardamom buns, spring water after a hard ride, the wine from my coming-of-age celebration. My mouth watered.
Scarlet had warned me about the plants, but surely one small taste couldn't hurt. The fruit came away easily in my hand, its skin warm and slightly yielding. I bit into it before I could think better of it.
The world exploded.
Not pain—pleasure. Every pleasure I'd ever felt condensed into a single moment that lasted . . . and lasted. My first kiss behind the summer pavilion, age fourteen and trembling. The perfect silence of dawn over the mountains. My mother singing while she brushed my hair. The moment yesterday when Davoren's scales had pressed just right and I'd shattered apart in the sky.
All of it, all at once, flooding through me with such intensity that my knees buckled. I found myself on the moss-covered ground, gasping, while the half-eaten fruit rolled away into the undergrowth. My mark blazed like a small sun, and through it I felt an echo of amusement that had to be Davoren, sensing my experimentation from whatever northern border he guarded.
Curious little one, whispered through the bond. Not words exactly, more like the impression of words, colored with fond exasperation.The starfruit is meant to be diluted. One drop of juice in wine, not eaten whole.
