Then he’s gone.
We left this dae with a storm cloud big enough to soften Slátra’s journey across the plains, a parchment lark fluttering around Kaan’s sleep space for when he returns—stating that I’d enjoyed our time together, but that Tyroth’s a more gifted sire and everything I need if I’m to breed healthy younglings to maintain my family line. To maintain our ability to protect the Aether Stone.
I’ve never felt so vile. So rattled by the poisonous lie that I’m certain my heart solidified.
Kaan may never know he’s everything to me. That I’d fall just to watch him fly.
He may never know the youngling I carry is his or that I’m pitted with a fear that I won’t survive long enough to find a way to make this right.
Pah thought I was remarkable, and once, I believed it.
Now, I can’t stand to look at my own filthy face.
B O T H A I M
Idrop onto a barstool, the Velvet Snog alive with the whistle and drum of a small band perched on stools in the corner of Bothaim’s infamous inn. A place of comings and goings, of sealed deals and neutral agency.
You never know who you’re going to find here. Or what.
Exactly why I like it.
I cut a glance around the space, the irregular ceiling held up with stumpy stone pillars that remind me of rock trolls. Sconces reach from the wall like metal claws, casting the space in a bronze light that offsets the many dark corners folk like to fuck in.
Another reason why I like it.
Nothing better than a hot meal and a good show to get me in the mood for eating pussy and spilling blood.
My two Arithian escorts settle on empty stools to my right, shucking off their silver cloaks and draping them on the bar. To my left, the male whose mount I caught a ride on the back of barely fits on his own stool—his chest a barrel, legs and arms the size of trunks. A brown bead hangs from one of the braids in his black wiry beard.
Terros. Decent guy. Bit quiet, but I like that. Nothing worse than feeling like you’ve gotta talk to the cunt carting you across the kingdom on the back of his mount like a fucking priss.
Sniffing, I catch a lingering whiff of ashen musk clinging to my cloak. The scent of the dragon I’ve taken a liking to.
Hard to resist. Terros’s large Moltenmaw performed so beautifully during our long journey here from The Burn’s capital. Never once tossed his head or complained.
Unlike the feral mutt I left in Dhomm.
Líri couldn’t travel long distances. Couldn’t travel past Bothaim without a fucking mask or squirming from a bit of sun. Moonplumes are supposed to be swift, cunning, and disastrous to their opponents, but all Líri gave me was bad attitude and twitchy heels. The bitch.
Fucking glad to be rid of her.
I’ll be even more glad once I charm Bruus—the strong, sturdy mount. He bears thick ruddy plumage that can ward off both the biting chill of the south and the harsh rays of the north, and he’ll be mine once I slit Terros’s throat.
But first, I’ll let the Dhomm male have one final meal. Let him take one of the Velvet Snog’s famous whores and fall into a sleep he’ll never wake from. If there’s anything I learned from Pah’s regular whippings, it’s that manners are of the utmost fucking importance.
Terros looks sidelong at me, raising a dark brow.
“Hungry?”
He nods.
“Good. It’s on me.” I gesture to the barmaid to get her attention. “Two Molten Meads and two colk steaks, the thick ones still on the bone, and with a side of canit slaw.” I lean closer to Terros, dropping my tone as I ask, “How do you like yours cooked?”
“Still bleating,” he grunts out.
“Nice.” I pull a smoke stick from my stash before relaying the details to the lusty-eyed barmaid. “I also want a whore sent to my sleepsuite. Blue eyes.” I reach into my pocket for a small sack of bloodstone, dumping the lot on the bar. “And I want the entire floor cleared out so I can make the bitch squeal without others listening in.”
“Of course.” She sweeps the sack off the table, pocketing it, then serves our meads and disappears through the back door.
The four of us sit in silence, drinking while I watch a male finger a moaning whore who’s draped across the bar with her tits out—jiggling with each rough thrust of his hand.
It’s tempting to jerk my hardening cock as I drag on my stick, blowing smoke rings skyward, listening to the hungry moans and conversations tittering around me. Picking for threads on Princess Kyzari’s whereabouts.
She knows I love to chase. That I fucking feed off it. I’ve decided that’s why she chose to hand herself to the Creators.