Her eyes shift to her dragon’s sapphire as she stares at the back of Hemlocke’s head, and I can see the predatory intelligence in that gaze. The transformation is subtle but unmistakable.
“You understood him?” Leander looks at me with shock, his eyes wide with surprise, then down at Hemlocke with growing amazement.
“The way he sounded was like he was protesting the idea of having the bit in his mouth and the leather on his face. Something about my dragon and a saddle?” She shrugs her shoulders casually, as iftranslating unicorn speech is perfectly normal. Hemlocke turns his head to look at her, and if a unicorn could look shocked, he definitely does.
“Um... how accurate was that? The look on both your faces says it was spot-on.” I ask Leander, my curiosity overriding my nervousness for the moment.
“She missed a few words but got the general idea of it. Can you understand other species’ languages?” Leander puts his hand up to the guard, signaling him to hold everything for a moment. The gesture speaks to the significance of this revelation.
“Just the ones I grew up hearing. Displacer, nightmare, basilisk, and of course dragon.” Raven’s casual response belies the extraordinary nature of her ability.
Azalea and Belle look at Leander with interest. “We understand displacer and dragon,” they say in unison, their voices carrying the harmony of twins.
Orpheus raises his hand next, like a student in class. “Basilisk and dragon for me.”
It makes sense that Raven spent the most time with her mother and all the hatchlings, absorbing the linguistic diversity of their family. Before I can question more about this remarkable ability, the massive double doors swing open with a deep, resonant creak.
The icy mask I’ve seen on Raven’s face during combat falls into place like a visor sliding down. The transformation is immediate and complete—from joyful young woman to heir apparent in the span of a heartbeat. Her spine straightens, her chin lifts, and her entire demeanor shifts to one of regal authority.
My mate is the heir apparent of the continent, and she apparently can understand the majority of the shifted species on the continent. The scope of her abilities and the weight of her destiny hit me like a physical force, making my chest tight with pride and possessive protection.
In two weeks, she’ll know what we are to each other. But tonight, I get to watch her claim her birthright and step into the role she was born to fill. The thought fills me with fierce pride and desperate longing in equal measure.
“Count to five, then go. That should give you enough space between the pairs,” Leander instructs, his voice carrying the weight of ceremony and tradition. The afternoon air is crisp with anticipation, and I can smell the mixture of perfumes, nervous sweat, and excitement radiating from the gathered crowd beyond the doors.
Abraxis and Lily move out first, their horses’ hooves creating a rhythmic percussion against the stone as they pass through the massive doorway. Sunlight streams through the opening, creating a rectangle of golden light that seems to beckon us forward.
Hemlocke heads out exactly at the count of five, his timing impeccable. The black unicorn’s movements are fluid grace incarnate, each step deliberate and powerful. With a gentle nudge of my knee, my mare transitions into the exaggerated prance that war horses perform in ceremony—front legs lifting high, neck arched proudly, every movement calculated to display strength and elegance.
Hemlocke sees the movement and steps in perfect time with my mare, their gaits synchronized like dancers following the same music. The coordination is flawless, speaking to his intelligence and awareness of ceremony.
As we clear the doorway and emerge into the brilliant afternoon sunlight, Raven holds her wings up high and half-open as she rides. The black membranes catch the light like polished obsidian, creating dramatic shadows that dance across the courtyard stones. The sight takes my breath away—she looks like a dark angel, beautiful and terrible in her emerging power.
Whispers ripple through the gathered masses like wind through wheat fields. I catch fragments of conversation carried on the breeze—amazement, speculation, and no small amount of fear.Raven’s scales have become a hot topic of discussion, and I can understand why.
Come to think of it, I’ve never really seen all of my mate’s scales. Just the few elegant lines that curve over the balls of her shoulders and halfway down her biceps, creating intricate patterns like living jewelry against her pale skin. But now, in the bright sunlight and with her ceremonial posture, I can see so much more.
We approach the royal box, and the procession comes to a halt with military precision. The crowd’s murmur intensifies, a low buzz of excitement and anticipation that makes the air feel electric. Raven breaks away from the formation, and it’s now that I see the wide strip of scales down her spine for the first time.
They start at the very edge of her hairline, dark and iridescent, then flow down between her magnificent wings to disappear beneath her silver gown. The scales form an elegant line that speaks to her dragon heritage more clearly than any royal title could. The sight makes my silver scales along my neck warm with recognition and desire.
When Hemlocke rears up with controlled power, his front hooves pawing the air with graceful menace, Raven spreads her wings wide in response. They are absolutely huge compared to the size of her body—another testament to the raw power of her bloodline. The wingspan is breathtaking, casting shadows that seem to stretch impossibly far across the courtyard.
The crowd falls silent for a heartbeat, awed by the display of strength and beauty before them. I can hear the collective intake of breath, the rustling of fabric as people lean forward for a better view, the soft clink of ceremonial armor and jewelry.
She accepts the roses from her mother with regal grace, the red blooms a striking contrast against her black wings and dark hair. Queen Mina’s golden eyes shine with pride and something deeper—a mother’s love mixed with the recognition of her daughter’s destiny.
Raven returns to the lineup, her movements flowing like water despite the ceremony’s formal constraints. Without hesitation, she offers me a rose, the thorny stem warm from her touch. The gesture sends heat racing through my veins, and our fingers brush as I accept the flower. The contact is brief but electric, making my silver scales shimmer involuntarily.
Then she takes another rose and braids it carefully into Hemlocke’s mane, her fingers working with practiced ease through the dark strands. The black unicorn holds perfectly still for her ministrations, and I can see the contentment in his otherworldly eyes.
Deep down somewhere, in a place beyond conscious thought, she knows what we are to her. Certainty settles in my chest like a warm stone. The way she offers gifts to both her potential mates, the unconscious claiming gestures, the comfort she shows in our presence—all of it speaks to instincts older than time.
The rose in my hand carries her scent, and I bring it closer to inhale the mixture of flower and female and something uniquely Raven. In just two weeks, she’ll understand what her heart already knows. Until then, I’ll treasure every gesture, every glance, every moment like this when she treats me as something precious without even realizing why.
Chapter 19
Raven
