CHAPTER TWO
IDALLIA
Bale is a force of nature. Flames and wind, heat and strength. His black scales shimmer with red undertones, his inner fire seeping out on a blaze of shadows. Hot, amber eyes brighten a dark auburn face shaped by horns and spikes and scales. He flies straight at us, fangs hidden, a fiery rumble resonating in his throat. His huge, sinewy body blots out the light from the windows as he swoops toward the Elite Wing pillars. His crimson wings beat the air like a tempest on the horizon, and my heart thuds against my ribs, echoing the heavy, powerful thumping of the opaque membranes.
My breath catches as he nears. It’s inevitable, and I’m not the only one. Even the warbirds stop calling, and their flight slows. Bale’s line is ancient and mighty. He’s the Dragon King, born of the stars and Cealastra’s own choosing. He unfurls blood-red talons for landing, his tail whipping a lethally spiked line behind him. Bale touches down and transforms so smoothly he doesn’t even pause as he strides toward us, smoke still curling from his nostrils.
Nerves twist in my belly, and I lift my chin as Bale takes in our formation across the pillars. His decisive footsteps echo in the huge cliffside space, our silence total. The rhythmic beat gets louder the closer he comes, and that shiver I was holding back ripples over me. He might be even more impressive in his common form because he still exudes effortless power and dominance without claws or fangs or fire.
Tawny eyes flash over us as he stops, a hint of the same deep crimson in his scales giving his dark-brown hair a smoldering undertone. My skin tingles, my blood a flash flood in my veins. At only a decade shy of six hundred years old, the Dragon King is everything he should be and more. As handsome as he is frightening. As terrifying as he is fair. As big as he is brutal.
As powerful as he should be—the king who holds the center of the world.
The whole of Ellonrift used to be one, with the six kings and queens constantly disputing the boundaries of their goddess-given territories, and who could do what and where. Now Torridaig, at the heart of it all, belongs to Bale Cinderheart, and peace is just the short way of saying we’re not literally at war.
Clearly defining a sovereign kingdom for each ruling bloodline—human, fae, werebeast, vampire, and dragon shifter—was supposed to encourage better relations and enable the different populations of the land to gather with their own if they preferred. Centuries later, we all know how well that went—and still goes. No one was forced to leave their homes, and edicts were put into place to protect any who stayed, but separatists quickly became a problem, voicing their venom against anyone who didn’t see things their way.
In the center of Ellonrift, Torridaig has always been a land of different peoples, although there are many more dragon shifters than anyone else. Vampires can live peacefully in Torridaig as long as they abide by Torridaig’s laws. Same with humans, weres, and fae. Vampires who bite without consent had better move to Bloodwold, though, before edict primis catches up to them. We don’t tolerate blood thieves here.
But nothing worked out as planned, and true sovereignty and equal Council votes just gave every ruler of Ellonrift more power to fight only for themselves. Now, blood-trafficking vampires plunder our villages in the northeast. Radical werebeasts slash at our northern towns. On Torridaig’s eastern border, desperate fae will glamour their way through unsuspecting settlements, leaving victims aged by decades in their wake. There’s mostly peace to the south, because humans are scared of the populations around them and need Bale’s kingdom as a buffer between them and the nightmares everywhere else.
Personally, I don’t discount the sorcerers. No one else seems nearly as scared of them as they should be, but I have dreams that tell me a human magic-wielder can do as much damage as any other beast.
Bale’s posture finally relaxes, his hands settling on his hips. The phoenixes grow excited again. They chirp in greeting, and their inner glow lights their vibrant feathers, turning them into circling chandeliers. Looking up, Bale warms for them. Flames lick through his eyes, and the firm set of his mouth softens in a way it only does for his firebirds. He’s breathtaking this way, unguarded and visibly proud, but when he lowers his focus back to us, his expression loses all trace of paternal softness.
His piercing gaze hits Kellan first. He nods, his dark hair sweeping forward with the sharp acknowledgment. He has his right wing, with Wade and Danica positioned behind Kellan.
He looks to the left wing next, giving Maia a cool but approving glance. His gaze slips to me behind her, and his amber eyes visibly darken. His rich, centuries-deep voice resonates inside my head. “Do better.”
I stare back at him, heat and frustration and a chest-cramping distress tangling through me. At least he didn’t say it aloud. The others can’t hear what Bale says only to me, but they won’t miss the tenebrosity seeping from his lightly tanned skin, and the shadows forming an almost solid layer of reddish-black dragon scales over him. The shadow scales quickly lose form and fade, though his magic still lingers in the air like ink blots on parchment.
I can’t answer him without everyone hearing, so I keep my mouth shut. Besides, what would I say? Kellan pushed me? I’ll die a thousand grisly deaths before I resort to tattling.
Or admit to losing because I fell.
My unsettled blood rushes through my body, and I force slow, steadying breaths until Bale’s eyes finally shift to Arran behind me. His stare goes as icy as a werebeast’s den in winter, and I swallow. At least I’m not left and last.
Except…his flinty gaze quickly swings back to me. “What’s wrong with this picture?” he asks in a deceptively soft voice. The question is for everyone, but his eyes never leave my face, and my stomach hollows so fast it hurts.
The team stays silent. I just stare back at Bale, my pulse beating violently.
He moves so fast he’s next to me in less than a heartbeat, a shadow trail marking the air he cut through. He’s slow and deliberate, though, when he reaches up and slides his fingers into the hair at my nape, gripping it firmly, then steadily tips my head, bending me sideways until I’m unbalanced on the column. His free hand comes up to circle my neck, his big, hot palm over my throbbing jugular.
Our eyes lock. “Why is your hair down, Idallia?”
My lips part on a shuddering breath. I know this is going to be bad, and it’s even worse when the inevitable heat of arousal thumps between my legs. I ruthlessly drive it away before anyone can scent it. I’m not sure I succeed. Bale’s gaze flickers ominously as he draws us almost nose to nose.
“An oversight,” I admit, wishing his nearness didn’t throw my entire body into turmoil. Even in his common form, his senses are too sharp to miss the heat blasting off me, only part of which is due to being singled out in front of everyone.
I pull against his grip, gaining a measure of space between our faces.
“Do you want to give a Bloodwold vampire a convenient handle to jerk your head to the side and expose your throat?” His hand tightens in my hair, keeping me from moving again.
“No.” The word vibrates against his palm, strangely intimate, and I force myself not to think about how Bale’s touch might feel under other circumstances.
His focus drops to my neck. “You know the rules.”
I nod, the movement jerky under his hand. We either keep our hair up or short. And if it’s not up, we take the time to put it up. I like my long black hair too much to cut it off, and part of me is terrified that Bale is going to whip out a knife right now.
