"When we enterthe castle gates, we need to present a unified front." Diaval looks at each of us before continuing. "Myra will use her gift of intimidation on you. She will try to drive you into submission. Hopefully, now that Feray has bonded with me, my protection will extend to each of you."
"What do you mean, your protection?" Torben looks puzzled.
"My scale will negate the effects of her intimidation." Diaval arches a brow and smirks. "Then again, Feray can probably shield you." He shrugs and goes back to watching the road.
"My wolf said something about being able to shield." Feray does that head tilt that indicates she truly wants the answer.
"It's a common Luna gift for the ones that have larger packs or more powerful packs." He cocks his head, waiting to see if he's answered her silent question.
Feray bites her bottom lip as her brow furrows. Her eyes lower to her hands, then she looks up at me. "Do you think I can do it?" Her question catches me off guard, and I really have to think about how I'm going to answer her.
"At this exact moment? No." I raise my hand to stop the others from chiming in. "I believe that when you need it, you will do it without realizing you did it. It should be more of a defensive reaction." I pull out my pocket watch and glance at it for a moment before looking back at her.
"I hope you're right." Feray leans forward and grasps my hand briefly before sitting back again.
Passing through the towering gates,Feray's gaze sweeps across the imposing surroundings. I sense the internal battle raging within her—a silent struggle between the instinct to flee and the readiness to confront whatever challenges lie ahead.
Across from me, Feray sits in the open carriage, her posture a reflection of the dichotomy within. One half of her yearns to escape, to run into the embrace of the unknown and hide from the looming shadows. The other half, emboldened by the whispered counsel of her wolf, stands ready for battle—shoulders squared and eyes fixed on the foreboding castle.
I watch as Feray engages in a silent conversation with her wolf. There's a nod, a subtle affirmation that whatever counsel has been exchanged has left her determined. The look in her eyes shifts, a spark of resolve igniting within. It's a fire that catches on the feather I gifted her, flames dancing in the gentle breeze.
"Settle down, sparky," I tease, breaking the tension with a playful tone. Her blush, a subtle bloom of warmth against her fair skin, speaks of the connection we share. "A wolf with a flaming feather in her hair may spook everyone a bit."
She chuckles, a musical sound that dances in the air. "It may be a good thing?"
Diaval, ever the protector, takes her hand and tucks her under his arm. The gesture is both reassuring and possessive, asilent declaration of solidarity. Together, they move toward the foreboding castle doors. The doors swing open with an eerie creak, revealing the dark expanse within. A blast of warm air, laden with an ancient scent, hits us in the face.
Diaval takes the lead, Feray at his side, their figures silhouetted against the dimly lit grandeur of the castle's interior. The clicking of our dress shoes on the polished marble floor echoes through the vast hallways, a stark contrast to the silence that seems to wrap around us like a shroud. Despite the opulence of the surroundings, an unsettling chill runs down my spine. It's a sensation that screams of danger, an instinctive warning that we are not as safe as the grandeur might suggest.
My gaze remains fixed on Feray, a silent promise echoing within me. If it comes to it, I would burn this place to the ground to ensure her safety.
As we traverse the echoing halls, I catch glimpses of towering statues and paintings that watch our progress with eyes that seem to follow our every move. The castle becomes a labyrinth of mystery, and every step feels like a deliberate dance through an unseen tapestry of power.
Feray's determination remains unwavering, her gaze fixed ahead. The flame on the feather in her hair flickers in response to the air currents, a symbolic beacon of her resilience. I find comfort in the sight, knowing that her strength paired with our unity is a formidable force against the shadows that threaten.
The herald'svoice reverberates through the grand hall, announcing each of us by name with a formality that underscores the weight of our presence. The echoes of our names seem to linger in the air as we await permission to enter the throne room.
At the far end of the hall, a regal figure sits upon an alabaster throne, a stark silhouette against the ornate backdrop. Raven hair cascades over bare shoulders, falling in a sleek river that mirrors the rich ruby of her gown. The queen's ample curves are accentuated by the form-fitting fabric, and her stony gaze pierces down the carpeted aisle, scrutinizing our approach.
Diaval gives Feray's hand a reassuring pat. With a nod, he takes the lead, guiding her down the aisle. Khal remains at her other side, a steadfast presence, while Torben and I bring up the rear.
The queen's voice slices through the silence as we traverse the aisle, a sound that carries a hiss of disdain. "Brought me a snack, handsome." Feray's back stiffens at the queen's comment, and I catch the muscles bunching beneath the delicate fabric of her gown.
"No. This is my mate, Feray." Diaval declares with unwavering conviction. The weight of his words is underscored by a tender kiss pressed to Feray's temple, a display of affection that seems to irk the queen. His gaze, adoring and resolute, never wavers from Feray. "My eternal."
The queen, Myra, regards them with an icy stare, and the tension in the room tightens like a coiled spring. Feray's presence, her connection with Diaval, is a challenge to the established order, and Myra does not take kindly to it. "What is this blasphemy?" Myra abruptly stands, her regal stature commanding attention.
Feray's gaze turns to her, a steely determination in her eyes that seems to give the queen pause. Despite the regality of Myra's presence, something in Feray's stare makes her hesitate. She sits back down, a move that carries a hint of uncertainty.
"Dragons don't mate with her kind," Myra states, her words cutting through the air with icy precision.
Feray doesn't flinch. "My kind is exactly what his drake wanted, not some overgrown, self-righteous lizard."
The flame on the feather adorning her head blazes to life, a visual manifestation of her anger. I catch a glimpse of the fiery intensity in her eyes, and a knot forms in my stomach. Now is not the time for her to challenge the queen openly. The throne room, with its aura of power and hostility, is no place for insubordination.
The air crackles with tension, and I exchange a wary glance with Torben. The delicate balance of the situation is teetering on the edge, and I can't shake the feeling that one wrong move could set off a chain reaction. Myra, angered by Feray's defiance, eyes her with a mix of disdain and calculation.
In this moment, surrounded by the grandeur of the throne room and the weight of centuries-old traditions, we stand on the precipice of a dangerous confrontation. Feray's courage is commendable, but I fear her boldness may be met with a fire far more perilous than the flames dancing on the feather in her hair.
