Page 4 of Taken By the Dragon Prince (Dragon Lords 4)

Seizing on such a priceless opportunity, Khalstorm casually leaned one shoulder against the cold bars of his cell and cleared his throat for attention. “Garnath is a labyrinth, you know. Easier to get lost than to find your way. No’ good when witches are about.” He studied grime under his nails. “You’ll do well to take a guide with you.”

Rayu gazed at the ceiling and groaned. Orik pinched the bridge of his nose.

Xanthia asked, “You know your way around Garnath?”

Khalstorm grinned.

In a rueful tone, Rayu enlightened her. “Meet thebona fidePrince of Garnath, heir to the ruined throne.”

2

Celeste’s chains rattled as she rolled over on the old lumpy mattress that smelled of mold and decay. Something had awakened her—the clop, clop, clop of boots echoing down the corridor.

She sat up with a start.

Rathmort was approaching. Here for his infusion of power?

Outside her cell, torches along the corridor burst to life, heralding his arrival and illuminating the grimy stone walls. Through the bars, she eyed the set of metal keys dangling just out of reach. They jangled mockingly as Rathmort snatched them from their hook and slipped the larger one into the lock of the cell door. It creaked open and he stepped inside.

She stood resolutely, having lost her will to fight years ago. Now she just waited patiently for him to get it over with.

“Celeste, you look lovely this evening.”

She was caked in grit and grime. her hair tangled and matted. Her clothes were worn and threadbare. Yet he always gave her such compliments. To irritate her, she assumed. She’d once been adorned in the finest fabrics, draped in priceless jewels, and perfumed with the sweetest fragrances. Her life had once been a dream. Now it was a nightmare. An endless, dreary existence from which there seemed no escape.

“Thank you, my lord,” she managed to force through her dry, cracked lips. She feared his wrath if she didn’t feign gratitude.

He gave her a cruel smile. “Come here.”

Reluctantly, she approached. The two feet of chain that linked her bound wrists rattled, the attached manacles expertly enchanted to suppress her magic.

“One day I will free you from all this. I will welcome you back into the coven. Would you like that?”

She swallowed her scoff. She neither expected nor wanted to be part of his corrupt coven again. Not anymore. There was a time when she’d wanted that. A time when she had looked up to Rathmort and saw a leader, a hero to her people. A man who wanted to safeguard them from the scourge of dragonkind. But those were the beliefs of a naïve young woman who, as a child, had been fed scary stories of dragons swallowing children whole and decimating villages with their fire breath just for fun. Stories meant to manipulate and brainwash her.

“Look at me,” Rathmore muttered softy but she recognized it as the command it was. When she glanced up into his cold, heartless eyes, he said, “Give me a smile.”

Gritting her teeth and forcing a placid expression, she parted her lips and pulled them back at the edges.

Rathmort cupped her cheeks then. “This will only hurt for a minute.”

Fire exploded along her temple as Rathmort began to siphon her power.

* * *

Clenching the end of a small stick between his teeth, Khalstorm shoved the other end under the cuff on his left wrist and groused, “These things itch. Could you just take them off for a minute?”

Rayu added another log to the fire. Sparks danced upward into the dark sky before fizzling out. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Khalstorm turned his head and spit the stick onto the ground. “Well, that’s a stupid question.”

Six tents had been pitched in the moonlit meadow: five smaller tents surrounding one larger one. The main tent was for Khalstorm, Xanthia, Rayu, and two guards. Each of the smaller tents was to be shared by two others from their group. Staggered throughout camp were three fire pits that provided warmth for the whole brigade. Khalstorm counted twelve individuals aside from himself, Rayu, and Xanthia. All told, there were fifteen in the party. He wondered if it would be enough.

Nibbling on berries she’d found in the forest, Xanthia plopped down on a chair she’d created from a thick fallen log—literally created—with the use of her magic . . . to everyone’s dismay. Most dragons were wary of magic in general. This lot especially.

Rayu sat on a convenient tree stump and Khalstorm resigned himself to the cool ground, indulging in his surroundings: the sight of the stars, the texture of dirt and grass, the intoxicating scent of fresh air, burning wood, and damp soil. He almost felt free.

“So, you’re a prince,” Xanthia’s curious voice broke the silence.

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