Aidon growls under his breath. The others shoot him warning looks.
“Let her answer,” Riven says sharply, misreading all of it.
The camp quiets. They wait. Expectant. Heavy.
Feeling suddenly caged, I push myself upright. Jestin steadies me with a hand on my waist. Aidon’s grin widens, smug and insufferable.
“Will you take care of supper today?” Bane asks, mercifully redirecting. Jestin and Nulok roll their eyes at his politeness, but they don’t comment.
“Are you kidding?” I ask, feigning offense. “I’m afucking Queen. I don’t cook.”
“You can be a fucking Queen and still have basic life skills,” Aidon mutters.
I open my mouth to lift him up the nearest hill, but Riven smacks the back of his head.
“How didn’t I see that coming?!” Aidon rubs the spot, scandalised.
I snicker with Bane, who groans dramatically. “Fine.I’llcook.”
“Whose turn is it for a story?” I ask, eager to shift the mood.
“Anyone but Nulok,” Jestin groans. “If I hear one more story about how he met Samira, I’ll throw myself on that battle axe.” He gestures at Riven’s obsessively polished weapon.
We all nod, and I burst into laughter.
Storytelling has become our nightly ritual, the only softness we allow ourselves.
“Mine,” Riven says.
Silence ripples over the camp—Dragthralls always have the best stories.
I find myself buzzing with anticipation, so I cross my legs, resting my elbows on my knees, as I was doing when Grandma was telling stories in my childhood. Her stories about the first Fae were rocking, too. Riven looks at me, and I nod. He answers with a shy smile before sitting by the campfire, tucking in his wings.
“The world was different before,” he begins, his low voice carrying into the night. Even the wind seems to still, listening to the tale.
“Where now stands the Castle of Hanovel, there was once a Hatching Ground of dragons. They ruled over the land. Some creatures chose to avoid them, hiding deep within the Mystic Forest and building their lives in secret. Others, like my Vikan clan, were content to serve.”
He pauses, his gaze tracing the dark horizon. “We thrived under their protection, shielded from the unknown dangers of the ubiquitous forest. Peace lasted for ages. My clan cleaned their scales and tended their eggs. They provided food and safety. But a few among us resented the life of servants. Fed up, they left, settling as far away as the Peaked Mountains.”
He shakes his head, the movement casting shadows across his face. “For over a century, they caused no disturbances. But a life without purpose is not fulfilling. They missed the dragons’ protection, their magic. Jealousy festered, and in their narrow minds, they devised a plan to recreate the Dragons’ Sanctuary with new dragons and new rules. Under the cover of darkness, the First Baba Yaga stole an egg from the Hatching Ground.”
I feel a chill creep down my spine.
“We lost many. My mother died in that war, the macabre,” he says, swallowing hard before continuing. “One of the ruling dragons, red-scaled Melisa, was killed.”
Goosebumps rise on my arms.
“It had never happened before. Dragons can cross the veil. When bored of living on the continent, they pass into the Gods’ Realm.”
His hands tighten into fists. “The impact of Melisa’s death was catastrophic. The ground around her turned to scorching lava, destroying even the bottoms of the mountains and leaving them suspended in mid-air. The lava still burns hot to this day.”
I shiver at the thought.
“Her mate, Perus, lost in grief and rage, cursed the rebellious clan, severing their connection to magic.” He glances away for a moment, eyes dark with memory. “From what I have heard, Perus still rules.”
“The traitors, desperate for power, sought another connection but could not feel the beating heart of nature. Eventually, they found a benefactor who twisted their magic. They remain cursed even now.”
He exhales slowly, as if releasing a century of grief. “After the war, the dragons decided to leave the continent. My clan begged to follow, but they were done with us. They passed beyond the Mystic Forest, through the waters, and made a home there. As a last gift, they left us a drop of their power. Hence, our wings.
