“How dare you speak so of your rightful king!” Gwythyr shrieked.
If Elouan couldn’t stab the man, at least he could get under his far-too-thin skin. The guards yanked the chains. Elouan snarled, grasping the chains over the shackles on his wrists, winding them until the four additional guards were within biting distance.
Their fear assaulted his nose.
Bite, bite, bite!came from his dragon.
“Highness, please,” Gia implored, voice low. She bared her neck for a brief moment, displaying obeisance. So not everyone would so quickly discount Elouan’s family. If the guards failed to bring him, she’d suffer. Enough dragons had paid the price already for Urien’s lofty ambitions.
Elouan’s dragon took the gesture as his due, pleased to have an ally. Elouan kept his head down while exiting the dungeon, casting discreet glances right and left. Where were his brothers? Were they locked in other cells? The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach defied his resolve not to imagine them dead.
As the eldest son and heir, Elouan was his uncle’s biggest threat. Daire and Anrai weren’t even alpha dragons and couldn’t claim the throne. Would things have been different if Elouan had accepted and made a formal announcement to cast aside his personal wants in favor of a throne? Settled down with a mate like an obedient little dragon?
Would Father still be alive?
They emerged from the dungeons into the night, lanterns pushing back the evening’s darkness. The roar of a crowd drowned out any conversation when Elouan emerged from underground: chanting, clapping, stomping. The bowl. They were going to the bowl.
So, Elouan’s fate had been decided and included public humiliation. How would he die? Stabbed? Beheaded? Tossed off a cliff with two broken wings? Urien might offer mercy if Elouanswore allegiance, mercy he’d never give to go with the allegiance Elouan would also never give.
He held his head high, every inch his father’s son. His skin tingled with the ancient magic imbued in the basin's stone at the center of the court’s lands. The magic had failed his father. How? Why? The last time Elouan had reluctantly come here, his smiling father had welcomed him.
Father would never smile again. The last image of him in Elouan’s memory was of his bloodied body, slack with death. Pain twisted Elouan’s heart as he fought back tears. These sick animals wouldn't see him cry. He’d show no outward signs of his hurt and feed the murderers’ egos.
Brightly clad men and women lounged on rocky ledges leading down to the open space at the center of the bowl. They’d dressed for a festival. Bile burned at the back of Elouan’s throat. Many likely raided the closets of those slaughtered during Father’s celebration, based on their ill-fitting finery.
How easy it would be to hate them, hate them all.
So many empty spaces where family groups used to gather for important events. Uncle Urien's mate and his two sons occupied Elouan's family's usual spot. The scent of blood permeated the stone. It might take ages for the scent to dissipate to a sensitive nose.
Still no sign of Daire or Anrai. Could Elouan hope they’d escaped?
Some spectators sneered as Elouan passed: a woman he’d rejected and a man he’d bested in the practice ring with a sword. Some shifted their allegiance to whoever offered the biggest share of a kill. Elouan didn’t need a share. He’d been hunting for himself since age ten.
“Damn you, Elouan Thorne!” one woman called.
“Bastard!” cried a man.
A rock struck Elouan’s chest with a solidthunk, sending him stumbling a few steps. He glared at the man who’d thrown the missile, baring his teeth in a dragon-like fashion, until the bravado fled and the man scurried into the shadows, terrified of someone shackled. He should be.
Elouan’s dragon pulsed a steady beat ofLet me out, let me out, let me out!
Someone spat at Elouan’s feet. His guards did nothing to stop them—he’d lost sight of Captain Gia. He etched each sneering face into memory, especially those who’d simpered around his father, seeking favor, and now turned to lick Urien’s boots.
Let them. Their day would come. Elouan and his dragon licked no one’s boots. However, both were known to bite.
A makeshift throne now occupied the bowl’s center, a pretension Father never allowed. Father’s older, less admirable brother sat upon the throne, one leg crossed over the other, the picture of casual elegance. Like Gwythyr, he reeked of perfume.
Father’s golden crest hung from a chain around Urien’s neck. That he didn’t wear the traditional crown brought a sense of smug satisfaction. Could the old legends be true that only a worthy king could wear the ancient crown gifted by the Goddess of Fire?
Mother used to tell the story of how she and Father, and Father’s parents before him, entered the sacred mountain and returned with crowns and the Goddess’s blessing. How Mother and Father ventured to the mountain again, retrieving Elouan’s egg, then later Daire’s, and later Anrai’s. Urien received a sickly alpha fledgling and a bully of a beta. Elouan tried to be kind to both of his cousins, but Urien allowed minimal contact.
Had the Goddess withheld her support from Urien?
The unworthy will never hold the court,Mother said often enough. Elouan missed her, though at least she avoided seeing her mate murdered and possibly her sons sharing the same fate.
Gwythyr took up position behind the throne. While younger than Sakaris—who wasn’t?—the mage’s wrinkled face had grown leathery with age and sun exposure, and a long, white braid hung over one shoulder. He’d donned purple formal mage robes.
Sakaris always dressed more simply. Power seemed to crackle around Gwythyr, even though the suppressive magic of the bowl should restrain him. Was he powerful enough to overcome the ancestors’ spells? He must be based on their suppression at the banquet. Nervous tension crept through Elouan at the man's blank expression. Elouan turned his head to study the crowd instead.
