Leaning my head back, I see Abraxis explaining to my birth father and Corvis what happened, his scarred hands gesturing as he speaks. The sight of Corvis makes something twist in my chest—part longing, part frustration.
Before I can say anything, my birth father steps forward and wraps my mother and me in his massive wings, gripping us against his warm chest. “My baby, someone tried to kill my baby again.” His voice breaks slightly as he kisses the crown of my head, his beard scratching gently against my hair.
“With every mate you take, you will become stronger.” I hear my mother’s voice, muffled against my shoulder. I open my wings slightly so I can look into her gold eyes.
A soft laugh escapes my lips. “I’m very hard to kill, given who my parents are. I’m one of the first progeny born of a great wyrm. Only one other can boast that, and he’s my brother.” I smile affectionately between my parents, drawing strength from their presence.
Dad kisses my forehead, his lips warm against my skin, and smiles. “You’re a chip off the old scale. Burn anything and everything to saveyourself. I’ll clean up the mess.” He looks at my mother with eyes full of understanding.
“I know what it’s like to be hunted,” Mom says as she reaches up and brushes my hair away from my face, her fingers gentle against my cheek. “It got easier when my mates made themselves known. Don’t be afraid of letting someone in.”
I pull free of both my parents and start pacing, my boots grinding against the scattered gravel. “I’m not afraid of letting anyone in.” I bare my teeth as I growl, looking at those gathered around us. My eyes lock on Corvis, and I feel my heart break into a million pieces before I pull my sword free from the corpse with a wet sucking sound. “I don’t want to find out if the one I’ve loved for longer than I can remember isn’t mine.” A guttural growl escapes my lips as I stare down at the blood-soaked ground, the metallic scent filling my nostrils.
My father moves in front of me, blocking my view of everything else. “Who do you want? I can petition for a marriage for you. Name him, and I’ll ask.”
I stare up into my father’s sapphire eyes, seeing my reflection in their depths. I know what he fears—he’s afraid I’ll go insane because that’s what happens to female black dragons when they go unclaimed. I’m damn near a war machine as it is now. Shaking my head, I just stare up into his eyes. “No. I will not force someone to love me.”
Stepping away, I look at Balor, who’s already recovering from the earlier shock. “Get in the ring, Dad. I need to fight.” The words come out harder than I intend, but I need an outlet for this burning energy.
Without another word, I reach back into my pack and pull out my gloves, sliding them on with practiced efficiency. The leather is supple from years of use. I tie my hair up in a tight knot and look over at Abraxis, then my mom. “Get ready.”
My eyes focus on Balor as we both draw our twin swords, the familiar weight settling in my hands like extensions of my body.
“Begin,” Ziggy says, his voice cutting through the tension.
Balor comes at me, one blade high, the other low—a classic opening. I parry both blows, feeling the vibration of steel meeting steel travel up my arms, before striking on my own. My scales lift and shift under my leather armor, responding to the rising heat of battle.
We strike back and forth several times, each exchange faster than the last. The sound of our blades meeting rings like church bells across the courtyard. Sparks fly off our weapons when I finally send one of his swords spinning away, the metal catching the sunlight as it arcs through the air.
Growling, I lunge forward. Instead of using both blades, I use one to block his remaining sword and strike out with the pommel of the other, connecting with his temple. He drops like a stone, unconscious before he hits the ground.
Growling, I spread my wings wide, looking for my next challenger. To my surprise, my birth father steps into the ring, his massive frame casting a shadow over the sand.
“Let’s see how much you’ve improved, little one.” Dad holds his long sword with casual grace and waves for me to attack.
I know his tricks. I fake going right, and when he moves to block, I slap his ribs with the flat side of my blade—a touch that could have been lethal if I’d used the edge.
He arches a brow, looking at me with pride. “Very good.”
This time he charges, his blade coming at me along with the spike at the tip of his wing—a move that’s killed countless enemies. I raise both swords to block his blade and drive my wing down, using the bone to deflect his wing spike. My wing spike darts toward his leg, and I manage to graze him, drawing a thin line of crimson.
He smiles proudly as he looks down at the small wound. “That’s twice you could have ended me.”
“Stop toying with me, Dad, and really fight.” I drop into the stance he taught me, muscles coiled and ready to attack or defend.
“I’m not holding back, Raven.” He puts the tip of his blade into the sand with a soft whisper and drops to one knee, resting his forearms on his other leg. Slowly, he spreads his wings wide. “There’s nothing left for me to teach you.”
My father—a great wyrm, one of the most powerful beings alive—just lowered himself to me. The courtyard falls silent, everyone staring at us with expressions of awe and disbelief.
I honor my father by laying my swords at his feet, the metal ringing softly against each other. I rap my fist against my chest armor three times—the sound echoing like a drumbeat. I drop to one knee like he is and lower my head below his, spreading my wings to full extension. The position leaves me vulnerable, completely exposed, but it’s necessary for the ritual.
I fold my hands over each other and rest my forehead on them. It’s a traditional way to honor your sire when you’ve mastered all they have to offer. Historically, it’s sons who are trained like I have been. I am his heir apparent, first of his name, of this bloodline.
My mom’s soft crying catches my attention, but I dare not stand until my father touches my shoulder. His hand is warm and heavy, a comforting weight.
“Rise, daughter.” I feel two hands on me—one being my dad, the other being Klauth. I look from my birth father to my nest father, confusion written across my face.
“You honored your father in the most ancient rite. You will be my successor, not my son Allister.” Klauth shifts his left hand and plucks a scale free from his arm—the action accompanied by a small hiss of pain. He motions to my forearm. “I will plant one of my scales as proof of the line of succession. From this day on, you are my daughter as an honor of your sire.”
