Page 13 of The Rowan
The princess hesitates, then murmurs, “I didn’t want to share this information with you, but you have a right to know. Your mother ordered the contract. We neutralized the threat to you by blackmailing her in return, but there will come a time when she feels the reward is worth the risk. Be careful. You’re part of Arden’s destiny. Without you, I fear for her.”
She explains they don’t have any leads on the assassination attempts. Vargas and Callyx have both turned the Underworld upside down to find clues, but none have surfaced. Maybe, with my access to other courts, I can find some new leads.
Reeling, I barely hear the end of the conversation. All I can think about is the fact that my mother tried to have me killed. My beautiful, icy dark Fae mother, who rarely even bothers herself with my affairs. What could she possibly gain?
8
ARDEN
Abeast of a man waits for me in the training room. Arms crossed and stance wide, he takes up more space than any male I’ve ever encountered. He’s massive, this King of Dragons and legendary warrior. Awe strikes me mute while I pause to capture him and this moment.
His aura screams lethal predator. Even Vargas is in awe of this warrior. Callyx, too, although he would deny it. And nothing I’ve ever heard about him is exaggerated. If anything, the tales don’t do him justice.
I’m guessing he’s six foot seven at a minimum, and like I said, a beast. My eyes travel from his enormous feet, encased in shit-kicking black boots, along the tree trunks he probably calls legs, to a barrel of a chest capped with massive shoulders.
Where does he even find clothes to fit?I eye the jeans and shirt he’s wearing with skepticism.
His head swivels toward me, and he scowls.
I lock my jaw to prevent my mouth from dropping wide open. What they neglected to mention is how beautiful he is, but I guess it’s not a surprise, as tales of warriors are told by men.
My eyes trace his strong, masculine features. Sharp cheekbones, cut high on his cheeks, sit above a jawline hewn from granite. His tousled jet-black hair and amber eyes are frosting on a decadent cake. And those lips…Even with a scowl, his full pouty lips beg to be nibbled.
Hesitantly, I stare at him, then remember my manners. “Hello, King Valerian.” My voice breathless as I greet him, giving him a slight bow. “I’m Arden. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He glares at me and points to the track above us. “Five miles.”
Rude. “Thank you, but I’ve already completed five miles today. In fact, I run five miles every morning. I’m ready to spar, if that works for you,” I suggest sweetly. You catch more flies—or a grumpy king—with honey, right?
“I need to see what you’re capable of doing, first. Then I’ll tell you when we’re ready to spar. Got it?” he snaps, pointing to the track again.
Biting my tongue, I head up to the track and finish five miles in record time, my anger driving me to sprint at full speed.
“Done,” I call out with not even a hint of breathlessness. “What’s next?”
His lips flatten when he glances at the stopwatch. “Tell me about your training up to this point,” he demands.
“When I was a child, Vargas would bring in various masters to teach me different styles of fighting. I’ve accumulated brown or black belts in the various martial arts from Muay Thai to Krav Maga. Lately, I’ve been on a boxing kick, though. Nothing like punching a bag when frustrated, right?” I ask, grinning. Not an iota of response from him. Okay, then. “Vargas and I trained together almost every morning. If he was away, I’d train with Callyx, but he’s tougher than Vargas.”
He tilts his head to the side while he thinks through my words. “Well, I won’t be easy on you like Vargas, but I’ll try to be cognizant of your fragile human body,” he states. “Who’s Callyx, and why is training with him harder?”
I snort. As if Vargas would take it easy on anyone. Demon lords have little compassion or empathy. I don’t argue. He’ll see soon enough. “Callyx Karth is the son of Solandis and Vargas. He’s also Lucifer’s spy. Or assassin, depending on your point of view. Bastard uses unusual tactics, including a mix of shadows and illusion to fight.”
A look of interest crosses his face. That’s right. As the king of all dragons, he’s mastered all of their powers, including fire, ice, and shadows. “He glamours the shadows?” Incredulity colors his tone.
“It’s incredible. He can make shadows appear substantial. You don’t even suspect it until you try to grab an imaginary weapon or punch an imaginary bad guy and meet air. There are slight tells, but in the heat of the fight, it’s tough to recognize them,” I explain, my excitement and frustration apparent. I can see his mind racing with thoughts on how to put this tactic to use with his own shadow dragons. With a Fae in their ranks, this would give them a serious advantage in battle.
He waves his hand, simultaneously dismissing the discussion and calling a staff to his hand. “Let’s see what Vargas has taught you,” he commands. “I’ll take it easy on you until I’m sure you can defend yourself.”
Using a push of magic, my personal staff, its weight and length customized for me, appears. My hands grip the smooth wooden pole, while my feet adjust to fighting stance.
For the first fifteen minutes, we test each other’s skills, attacking and defending, parrying and thrusting. The staccato of the staffs meeting in battle and an occasional grunt when one finds its mark are the only sounds in our silent battle.
Until he decides he’s comfortable with my capabilities. Then he lets loose, and it’s as if fucking Ares himself is raining down war on me. If I’d had any other trainer besides Vargas, I’d have been destroyed in the first minute. Thinking fast on my feet, I realize I need to use more than my physical strength.
Using spells, I enhance the staff until it’s like a steel beam, each hit thunderous as it strikes his. Simultaneously, I pull up my battle shield and weave it around me, strengthening my protection from hits, spells, elemental powers, and whatever else he can dream up.
When I see a slight opening, my staff slips in and drops a lethal hit to his solar plexus. He grunts but doesn’t move an inch. Damn dragon must be made of concrete.
