Page 24 of The Forbidden Dragon King
Beeswax candles flicker on a large table, casting light and shadows across the rest of the tent.
The space is simple and uncluttered with just a single bed, the table that is covered with what looks to be a wooden layout of a battle plan, low stools around it, and a carved chest in the corner.
The chest stands out because it is heavily ornamented with flames of gold on each of its sides like it’s being perpetually burned but never turns to ash.
I struggle to keep my breathing even to not alert anyone that I’m awake now.
How long have I been unconscious?
A flood of memories hits me: The Mate Hunt, running, discovering that Bard truly was my Alpha before he broke our bond, then the Golden Dragon swooping down and snatching me into the air and flying me away into his army camp.
Is that where I am now?
I crush my nails into my palms.
King Aurelius must think that I’m his ally like King Ulf is. He doesn’t know that to me, he’s my enemy. Especially, if he’s about to attack King Daire.
That gives me the advantage.
Who says that Alphas will always win in games of war?
Yet Aurelius built me a nest. I’m surrounded by his scent. Why is this so confusing?
All of a sudden, I hear someone shifting behind me. Startled, I turn on the bed.
At the back of the tent stands a small, beautiful silver shrine. It’s shaped like a silver dragon with their wings out. A crown with twin dragons rests in front of it, as well as a single candle.
The shrine isn’t as beautiful, however, as the person who kneels in front of it with his head bowed.
His golden curving horns are glorious.
He is dressed in golden armor like dragon scales. His shoulder pads are decorative. Over his chest, the plated armor is engraved with dragons.
A metal band is clasped around his waist over leather strips. The strips hang down and are studded with gold.Leather is molded to his legs and stomach, defining his powerful muscles.
He wears gleaming dragon scale armlets on his wrists and tight on his biceps. A dagger is sheathed at his waist that draws my attention, as if it’s darkly whispering to me.
My skin goosebumps.
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
Power…temptation…shadowed death.
I stare at the dagger in shock. It’s cursed. I’m sure of it.
My fingers itch like they do when I want to steal something. Every good thief gets the tingly feeling in the presence of the right object.
It’s all about survival.
I press my fingers over the shameful scar on my wrist. Haven’t I been taught a thorough lesson in that?
Don’t dream for pack or bonding. Take what you want instead. Rely on only yourself.
No one else will truly protect you. Trusting that they will, can only lead to having your heart ripped out.
The dagger’s scabbard is covered in glittering scales. The hilt is heavy, antique gold; it is molded into a snarling dragon’s head, trailing shadows like the sun’s rays behind it.
The man also has a crown resting on his head.
