Page 57 of Cruelly Fated
I fell into a crouch, one fist pressed to the alloy, and let the shift consume me.
The first crack of my spine echoed off the steel plates, followed by the deep, seismic grind of bone restructuring. My breathing seized, then burst in a growl as fire lit my veins, old magic tearing through muscle, sinew, and my soul.
My skin hardened. Limbs stretched and joints twisted. My torso elongated as wings tore from my back, membranes unfurling with a leathery snap that vibrated through the air. Horns burst through my skull, curving back, the familiar weight reminding me what I was. What I had always been at my core.
My jaw split open with a shrilling snarl, reshaping into the tapered snout of the beast. Claws slammed against the dragonsteel, scattering sparks across the surface.
The wind caught under my wings as I rose to full height, towering against Avari’s sky. Smoke curled from my nostrils. The world smelled different in this form—more industrial and humid. A faint scent of burnt coffee drifted from a block over and I sneezed. Gods, I hated the black bean juice.
I gave the city one slow blink.
Then I roared and launched into the sky.
Beneath my wings, Avari stretched in all its pulsing chaos: skyscrapers clawing at the clouds with their glass mirroring each other, fae bustling along the streets, non-stop traffic… Hovercrafts wove between towers like fireflies.
I banked east, leaving the high-rises behind. The skyline bled into rolling hills, dotted with gated estates, mansions with helipads, and glowing pools. Then the land turned wild. No roads. No sign of life. Just jagged stone and forest shadows stretching for miles. And there, carved into the heart of a black mountain, loomed the dragon king’s stronghold.
My childhood home and a prison in its own right.
I hurled myself onto the guest landing pad, unsure of my standing. Was I still the king’s son? Or had we become strangers the moment he’d written me off? I was looking forward to finding out.
I shifted into human form and stepped into the waiting chamber, a butler at the ready with a crystal glass balanced on atray. I waved him off, shoved my hands into the pockets of my suit trousers, and paced the room lined with antique shelves.
They held treasures passed down through bloodlines: obsidian-bound tomes scrawled in ancient Draconic, carved jawbone chalices from conquered beasts passed between heirs during coronations, aether crystals said to contain the echoes of fallen dragons, even the last known sky pearl.
The chamber could pass for a museum, but that’d be a grave mistake. The display served as a message, a FAFO of sorts:fuck aroundwith the dragon king andfind out.
It meant to intimidate.
I’d seen it too many times in my life for it to have any effect on me…
The double doors, carved with the sigil of our bloodline—claws curled around a crown of flame—creaked open.
The dragon king stepped in.
Tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a bespoke black suit that fit his frame like dragon’s skin, he seemed to suck the air out of the room with his mere presence. Smoke curled faintly from his nostrils. His golden eyes gleamed like hot lava, always calculating. He didn’t walk so much as glide with purpose like a predator that never needed to pounce because its prey always surrendered without a fight.
“Ah, my son,” he said, his tone rich and effortless, yet colder than mountain stone. He extended a hand, and when I clasped it, he pulled me into one of his signature half-embraces. Hisother arm came around my back with the force of a clawed wing, swift and tight, then gone in the next breath.
I’d seen him do that before…to rivals. To diplomats he didn’t trust. To traitors whose heads he still ended up taking later. A show of dominance disguised as sentiment. So that was where we stood, then.
“I am mighty glad your innocence has been proven,” he said, turning away with a smile that never touched his eyes. “And I welcome you once more into my home. As my firstborn son.”
Bullshit.
I lowered my gaze, dipping my chin in a bow of forced deference. “I’m grateful for your generous welcome.”
He waved the words away. “No formalities needed between father and son.”
But he said it like a warning. The man knew how to play the long game of posturing. He always had.
He gestured toward the receiving room, and I fell into step beside him.
“I never doubted your loyalty to me,” he said as we walked, “but in these…delicate political times, I had no choice but to distance the crown from you. Optics, you understand.”
I understood perfectly. He feared weakness more than he feared war. And now, it seemed, he feared me.
We passed under the vaulted arch of the receiving room, the ceiling inlaid with cracked obsidian and aged gold. Dragonsteel sconces lined the walls, casting flickers of ever-burning flame.My father stopped by an arched window that overlooked the mountain ridge, with a small liquor bar beneath.
