Chapter 22
Feray
Diaval's warningabout the cold and calculating nature of his ex proves to be more than just cautionary words. As we stand in the grand throne room, Myra's presence exudes a serpentine aura. The strong angles of her face give her a regal yet menacing appearance, and her stance radiates defiance—a queen unyielding in the face of perceived threats.
The hostility directed toward me is palpable, evident in the sharp glint in her eyes and the curl of her lip. Myra's disdain is laid bare for all to see, and it stings despite my attempts to remain composed.
"The mutt doesn't deserve a dragon's scale," she sneers, her words laced with venom.
In a swift motion, her hand shoots out, attempting to snatch the pendant containing the scale Diaval gave me. I instinctively jerk back, evading her reach. Something hot and defiant flares in my chest. How dare she?
"I may be a mutt to you," I declare, my voice steady despite the roiling emotions within me, "but I am his mate, as he is mine. He bears my mark, and I bear his."
With a deliberate movement, I sweep my red hair aside, revealing the obsidian scale on my chest—the tangible proof of our bond. The pendant and the scale harmonize, twin symbols of a connection that transcends the rigid boundaries of dragon society. Myra's eyes narrow as she takes in the display, a flicker of uncertainty momentarily crossing her features.
Good. Let her see.
Diaval, standing at my side, places a protective hand on my shoulder—a silent gesture of solidarity. The court is a silent witness to this confrontation, watching with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.
"I see you've chosen a companion far beneath your station," Myra retorts, her voice dripping with disdain.
I take a steadying breath, refusing to let her words pierce the armor I've built around my emotions. "Love knows no station." The words come out quieter than I intended, but they ring with conviction.
Myra remains undeterred. Her gaze flickers to Diaval, a silent challenge in her eyes. "Is this what you've become, Diaval? Lowering yourself to the level of a mutt?"
Diaval's jaw tightens, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he reins in his anger. "I've found happiness where you only found power games, Myra." The exchange between them is layered with history, a past I'm only beginning to understand. The court, caught in the crossfire of this emotional battlefield, watches with bated breath.
Myra's eyes narrow further, and a dangerous glint surfaces. "You'll regret this," she hisses.
Khal steps forward,a formidable presence that shields me from her cutting gaze. His hand rises to his sunglasses, an unexpected detail that adds a layer of mystique to the moment. I watch, my breath caught in my throat, as he addresses Myra.
"Do you know what I am?" Khal questions, his voice carrying the weight of ancient power. His hand presses me protectively behind him.
"A basilisk." Myra's voice is a hiss that echoes through the grand hall.
Khal's posture reflects readiness, but his fight isn't with her. He presses a kiss to my cheek, a brief touch that carries a multitude of unspoken emotions. His free hand rests on my hip, grounding me amidst the brewing turmoil.
"My fight isn't with you," Myra asserts, redirecting her attention past Khal to Diaval. "I want what is owed to me." The intensity of her gaze sends a shudder through Diaval, a reaction that doesn't go unnoticed. My wolf stirs, a low growl building in the depths of my consciousness—a primal reaction to the perceived threat against my mate.
"I don't owe you anything, Myra." Diaval's firmness cuts through the tension. He angles his body, pulling me closer—a silent declaration that he stands resolute.
"You owe me a clutch, just like any male I choose to be worthy." Myra hisses through gritted teeth, her words rooted in the rigid traditions of dragon society. The weight of her expectation hangs in the air. She wants to breed him like livestock. The realization hits me like ice water, and rage—pure, undiluted rage—floods through my veins.
No. Absolutely not.
Diaval's jaw tightens, and I feel the conflict radiating from him through our bond. He spent centuries running from this woman, from this fate. And she thinks she can just claim him? My wolf stirs with a fierce loyalty that transcends boundaries. He is ours. Not hers. Never hers again.
An elder draped in flowing blue robes steps forward. His kind smile is a balm to the charged atmosphere, and I lean my head on Diaval's shoulder, seeking solace. "My queen, a true mate claim supersedes any claim you may have had on him," the elder declares with a deep bow. The significance of his words ripples through the court, challenging Myra's authority. There's a moment of tense anticipation as he gracefully retreats.
"Nonsense. My claim trumps everything. You will give me what is owed." Myra growls, her voice taking on a feral edge. The transformation begins. Her fingernails morph into talons, bone plates shifting beneath her face. The ancient power she wields becomes more evident, a display of formidable force.
Something within me snaps.
It's not a thought. It's instinct—a surge of protectiveness that floods through my veins like wildfire. Time slows as I raise my hand toward her. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how I'm doing it. An unseen force emanates from my outstretchedhand, knocking Myra back with unexpected strength. The court gasps in collective astonishment.
I stare at my hand in wonder, a mix of confusion and awe coursing through me. Did that come from me? The power still tingles in my palm, foreign and familiar all at once. "Did I do that?" I whisper to Diaval, seeking confirmation.
He nods proudly, his gaze filled with admiration and love. "There's my little Luna." The term of endearment resonates with a depth of meaning. In that instant, I realize the power that lies within me—a force connected to the celestial bond we share, to the pack I didn't know I had.
