The throne isn’t just made of gold—that would be too simple,Iguess.It’salso shaped like a great coiled dragon, its wings rising behind the seat in a display of power and dominance.Andseated upon it is theOldKing.
He’s older thanIexpected—far older.Hishair is long and white, falling past his shoulders in thick waves, and his beard matches, flowing down over his chest.Hisface is lined with age and weariness, his shoulders slightly bowed beneath the weight of years.
But there’s nothing weak about him.Powerclings to him like a second skin, heavy and unmistakable.Andrising from his templesIsee horns.
My breath stutters in my chest.He’saDrake!TheKingis aDrakeShifter.WhydidInever know this before?Maybebecause communication between theCityof theKingand my little village isn’t very good.Ittakes weeks to walk or ride the distance—unless you have aDraketo fly on likeIdid whenIwas withTheron.
The realization barely has time to settle before the guards reach the base of the throne and shoveTheronforward.Hestumbles, dropping hard onto one knee at the foot of the steps leading up to the marble dais.Theguards immediately level their spears at him, the sharp metal tips gleaming as they hold him in place.Theydon’t speak but they don’t have to—the message is clear.
Don’t move.
Finally the paralysis that seems to have come over me eases andIfindIcan move again.IfTheronis being accused of something,Ineed to come to his aid.Ican’t do much but speak for him, but that’s certainly better than just standing here watching like a ninny.
Pushing forward into the crowd,Islip between bodies, ignoring the annoyed looks and muttered complaints asItry to get closer.Thepress of people is thick here—the air warm with too many bodies packed into one space.Thescent of sweat and perfume and polished leather mingles into something overwhelming, butIbarely notice.
Theron is frozen in place, his eyes flicking between the guards and the throne, his big body tense with barely contained violence.Ican feel it from here—his anger and confusion and the instinct to fight his way free.
My chest tightens asIedge closer, my fingers curling into the fabric of my skirts.Idon’t know what he did—or didn’t do—but this isn’t good.Noneof this is good.
What if he offended theKing?Whatif he said something wrong, or looked at someone the wrong way, or?—
My thoughts spiral, each one worse than the last.
What if they kill him?
No.No, they can’t!
ButIdon’t know that.
I don’t know the laws here, the customs, the punishments.Idon’t know what happens to someone dragged before the throne like this.
AllIknow is thatTheronis down on one knee with spears pointed at his chest, and theKingis looking at him with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
I push forward one more step, straining to see, my heart pounding so loudlyIcan barely hear anything else.
OhGoddess…please—please let this be nothing.Justa silly misunderstanding—nothing of consequence.Pleaselet him be all right.
ButIhave a bad feeling despite my prayers.Somethingbad is about to happen andIwon’t be able to stop it.
No matter how hardItry.
69
THERON
I don’t know what the fuck is going on.
One minuteI’mwalking through the gates, trying to keepElowenin sight, and the nextI’mon my knees on hard stone, my head ringing from those damned bells and a deadly bouquet of spear tips shoved right in my face.Thepoints glint in the torchlight, close enough that ifIso much as breathe wrong,I’mgoing to end up skewered.
I freeze.NotbecauseI’mafraid—but becauseIdon’t understand the rules here, andIdon’t want to make a bad situation worse.MyDrakeis already restless under my skin, coiling tight, ready to lash out ifIgive him the slightest excuse.
Then a voice cuts through the tension.
“Let the lad go!”
It’s old—but not weak.There’scommand in it, the kind that doesn’t need to shout to be obeyed.
The spears pull back andIlift my head, my gaze traveling up the wide stone steps to the throne above to see theOldKingstanding there.
