Kingdom of Fire and Fae, page 5
Granger yelled he did not desert his post, his voice a mix of anger and desperation. The surrounding guards were clearly trying to arrest the poor bastard, their grips tight on their weapons.
Caelum jumped into a sprint, his heart pumping a ragged breath. He had to intercept before they arrested Granger. The cool night air whipped against his face, and the uneven cobblestones threatened to trip him, but he pushed on, determined to reach Granger in time.
“Wait!” His call distracted the guards and Granger, halting their struggles. The chilly night air seemed to grow still as all eyes locked on Caelum, and Draven trailing him. The distant sounds of the city were a faint murmur, overshadowed by the tension crackling in the air.
As Caelum approached with his palms out in supplication, one of the arresting guards snarled at him, his face contorted with irritation. “This is none of your concern, newbie.” The guard’s breath was visible in the chilly air, adding to the harshness of his words.
Beating other officers was highly frowned upon by the guard, even during an arrest. Caelum pointed at the blue and purple bruise marring Granger’s face. “Clearly Granger was knocked unconscious, unless you caused that fucking bruise.” He expected the guards to recoil.
And recoil they did. It was as if Caelum’s words had knocked some sense into these men. The tension in their stances eased. “No. He had that when we arrived,” the lead guard said, his tone defensive.
The man’s name embroidered on his uniform was faded, but Caelum squinted at it until he could make it out—Kale.
“Look, Kale,” Caelum continued, his voice urgent, “Jenna said Granger came to escort my sister to the situation room.”
Granger growled, his eyes dark with frustration. “I did no such thing.”
Caelum put his hand up to calm him. “I know. But someone wearing your face did. Just like someone wearing my sister’s face infiltrated the situation room meeting that we interrupted. The person who came back to our house was not my sister.”
Skepticism blanketed the group. The guards exchanged dubious glances, and even Granger crossed his arms, his brow furrowed in doubt.
“How do you know?” Kale asked, his gaze piercing.
“Because I know my wife. And that was not her,” Draven growled, his conviction clear.
Caelum let his eyes drift shut, and he huffed a breath. “You all know I have a telepathic connection with Lanae.” When he opened his eyes, everyone was nodding. “I could not telepathically reach her, even when she was in our home and in front of me. I didn’t even feel her blocking me out. That’s how I knew it wasn’t her.”
“And Nero wouldn’t go near her,” Draven added.
At the mention of the griffin, the guards straightened and dropped their tight-armed stance. They had seen the bond between Nero and Lanae out on the training fields over the last three years. “Nero doesn’t leave her side,” one of the other soldiers said, his voice laced with respect.
“No. He doesn’t unless she forces him to,” Caelum replied, his eyes meeting each guard in turn.
“Maybe he was upset with her for stopping his storm antics this morning,” one officer suggested, trying to rationalize the situation.
“Have you ever seen that griffin turn a cold shoulder on Lanae?” Caelum challenged.
They all grumbled and shook their heads, acknowledging the truth in his words.
Caelum met Granger’s gaze, his expression earnest. “I am hoping you can tell me what the person who did that to you looked like.” He pointed at the bruise on Granger’s face.
Granger’s eyes darkened with the memory. “I was blindsided. The only thing I saw was a pair of upscale steel-toe boots and a black duster coat before darkness claimed me. And then I woke up in my own bed and I couldn’t find my uniform.” He looked at the officers surrounding him with his frustration on full display. “And then these buffoons showed up.”
The cold air blanketed them, the reality of their situation sinking in. They had a shape-shifting enemy among them, and the stakes had never been higher.
DRAVEN’S PULSE POUNDED IN his temples like a roar of an avalanche, echoing with relentless intensity. The arguments still raged between the guards, creating a whirlwind of frantic energy, the air thick with the metallic tang of tension. His one relief was that the council and generals had not settled on a course of action before his and Caelum’s interruption.
Whoever had been impersonating Granger and Lanae hadn’t gotten the vital information on the pending battle tactics. Their deception was foiled in the chaos.
He grabbed Caelum’s arm, his fingers gripping with urgency, pulling him away from the guards who were now bickering heatedly, their voices a commotion of discord over what to do with the newfound information and Granger’s orchestrated desertion. “Caelum, I need to go find Lanae,” Draven said, his voice low but vibrating with intensity.
“I’m going with you,” Caelum replied, his eyes dark with determination.
“No. You need to stay here and make sure the shit doesn’t hit the fan. If my hunch is right...” Draven’s voice trailed off as he mopped the sweat from his face, the salt stinging his eyes.
“You needed me last time,” Caelum insisted, his gaze unwavering.
“If she is there, she’s not there for breeding.” The word hissed from between Draven’s lips like a curse. “She’s there because they think she killed Xoltan.”
Caelum blinked, the reality of Draven’s words sinking in, then closed his eyes. The heavy truth hung between them, thick as the fog that shrouded Solstice City. Few knew Draven had been the true savior. Outside of Faide and Varkir, no one else knew besides Caelum. Lanae had been revered as their liberator. “Fuck.”
“That’s usually my line,” Draven muttered, a sardonic edge to his voice.
Caelum’s lips twitched into a wry smile. “I am going with you,” he repeated, his voice firmer.
“No. You are not. You are going to make sure your parents stay safe. If Alestain is there, he will reanimate his brother’s minions. He needs an army before he attacks.”
“How are you even going to get there? You destroyed the only portal to that realm.”
Draven met his gaze, his eyes burning with resolve. “With another ancient draconian spell.”
Caelum lifted an eyebrow, skepticism mingling with curiosity. He crossed his arms, the leather of his tunic creaking. “You mean you not only know how to destroy portals, you know how to open them?”
Draven smirked, the expression a fleeting glimpse of his confidence. “How do you think I got inside these walls to begin with?” He glanced around, ensuring no one was eavesdropping on their tense exchange.
Caelum wiped the perspiration from his face, conscious of the grit from the day’s battles.
“You also have to go tell the council that the person in the war room was not Lanae. That is just as important as making sure your parents stay put.” Draven tapped Caelum’s chest, the gesture both reassuring and commanding.
“Fine. But I’ll need more than my word after the shitshow earlier.” Caelum glanced at the group of soldiers still arguing, then crossed to Granger.
Draven didn’t wait to see what Caelum said to the elite guard. He slipped through the shadows, his steps quick and silent as he went in search of a secluded alley where he could perform his spell.
LANAE BANGED THE BACK of her head against the cold, unforgiving stone wall in frustration, the dull thud reverberating in the dank, confined space. The cell walls seemed to shrink, the oppressive darkness highlighting her inability to break free from the heavy chains around her wrists. Her abdomen still ached where Spric had punched her...a deep, throbbing pain that wouldn’t let her forget the assault. Her stomach growled its gnawing emptiness, and she wondered just how long she would be deprived of food.
The iron door to the dungeons creaked open, the sound echoing through the narrow corridors. She held her breath, her pulse quickening. When Draven stepped in front of the cage, her heart stuttered, a moment of hope flaring before being crushed. The lack of weapons hanging on his belt and the keys in his hand told her this wasn’t her sweet dragon. This was an imposter, a cruel mimicry.
He grinned a twisted smile that made her nerves jitter through her muscles in a flight response. He slid the key in the lock and turned it before he swung the door open; the hinges groaned in protest. He stepped inside, the dim light casting ominous shadows across his face.
“Stop with the mind fuck.” Her voice remained steady despite the terror clawing at her insides. She scrambled to her feet, the chains rattling with her movement.
His laughter bounced off the rock walls, a chilling sound that seemed to mock her defiance. He stepped closer, the air swirling heavy with menace.
She shifted into ready form, muscles tensing, and waited. Her reach wasn’t far, but if he came into her sphere, she’d try her damnedest to land a hit. He moved to the outer edge of where the chains halted her punch, a deliberate taunt. The wicked gleam in his eyes was enough to send a bolt of fear through her, icy and paralyzing.
“It’s time to face my father.” His voice crawled in a low, menacing growl. He inched closer, the dim light casting a sinister shadow across his face.
Lanae swung with all her might, her fist slicing through the musty air.
The bastard’s reflexes were lightning-fast. He caught her fist with a sharp, audible snap, his grip like iron. In one swift motion, he twisted her arm behind her back. Her joints protested with a sickening crack. With a brutal force, he slammed her into the back wall face-first. The impact reverberated through her skull, a dull thud echoing in the confined space. The cold, rough stone scraped against her cheek, and blood filled her mouth as she bit down on her lip.
He pressed against her, the weight of his body pinning her to the cold, unyielding wall. The clinging dampness of the cell enveloped them. “Besides, I enjoy messing with murderers,” he sneered, his breath hot against her ear.
With a surge of defiance, Lanae slammed her head back. The satisfying crunch of bone meeting bone echoed through the confined space as she connected with his face. He grunted, a guttural sound of pain and surprise, and cursed under his breath, his grip momentarily loosening.
He moved his free hand to grip her throat hard enough to cut off her air. “If you keep this up, you will be more than just bloodied and bruised.”
“Fuck you.” She hissed out the curse from what little air she could get.
“Is that what you want?” He pressed his pelvis against her, and she stilled at the feel of his hard length pressing into the small of her back. “Because I think I have time to oblige.”
He tightened the chain on her shackles, forcing her hands to pin to the wall.
The minute his hand removed from her throat, she gasped for breath, the precious air filling her lungs. Desperation clawed at her insides, and she screamed, “No!” Her voice echoed through the cold stone walls, a haunting cry of defiance.
He released the chains, the metallic clinking sound reverberating in the silence. “Then be a good girl and put both hands behind your back,” he commanded, his voice dripping with sinister intent.
Lanae inched her trembling hands behind her back, the cold shackles biting into her skin. She hated the fear lashing her form, the icy tendrils wrapping around her heart. She could deal with the physical pain, the bruises and blood, but the thought of something more vile sent waves of dread crashing over her.
Another set of manacles clamped around her wrists before the ones connected to the walls clattered to the ground. He spun her around with a rough jerk, forcing her to face him. The bastard still wore Draven’s form, a twisted mockery of her beloved. Anger surged within her, and she kicked his shin with all her might. The illusion of Draven wavered like a mirage.
He snarled and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back painfully. His cloying scent, a sickening blend of sweat and decay, filled her nose, making her stomach churn. “I will cut off your foot if you kick me again,” he threatened, his voice a venomous hiss.
“Drop the façade,” she commanded, her voice steady despite the turmoil roiling inside her.
He chuckled, a dark, sinister sound that reverberated through the cold, damp air. “I don’t think so. What better way to screw with your mind than having the image of your husband beat you to within an inch of your life?” His eyes glittered with cruel amusement as he spoke.
She swallowed hard, her throat dry and constricted. The metallic tingle of fear lingered on her tongue as he yanked her forward with a vicious tug. The rough stone floor slid against her feet, and the cold, oppressive air pressed in around her, heightening her sense of helplessness.
He gripped her arm with an ironclad hold, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh as he dragged her up the winding staircase. Each step echoed ominously in the narrow corridor, the sound amplifying her sense of dread. The air grew colder the higher they ascended, and Lanae’s heart hammered in her chest like a steady pulse of thunder.
When they crossed into the throne room, the sudden shift in atmosphere was almost suffocating. Lanae shivered involuntarily at the view of the immaculate marble floor and the gleaming dais. The room was eerily pristine, every surface polished to perfection, erasing any trace of the carnage that had unfolded here three years prior. The contrast was jarring, a cruel mockery of the memories that haunted her.
Yet no amount of cleanliness could wipe away the horrors embedded in her mind. Rorik’s dying screams echoed hauntingly in her ears, a ghostly chorus that resonated with her deepest fears. She could almost see the blood that had pooled on the floor, feel the oppressive weight of despair that had filled the room. The raw anguish of that moment crashed over her like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her in sorrow.
A man with hair as white as Rorik’s stood with his back to them, his posture rigid and alert. The dim light of the chamber cast long shadows across his form. When he turned, the faint glint of light illuminated his face. A face that, if he had black hair, would have mirrored that of his brother. The one Draven had shown her in his memory. But what struck her more than the face from Draven’s past was the heart-shaped crystal that was sewn into his chest plate. The Dragon’s Heart. Except now it did not hold that vibrant red color she had seen in Draven’s memories, as if all the power in the stone had been used and all that was left was an empty shell.
His gaze fell on the form Spric wore. His face blanched, the color draining away as though he had seen a ghost. He took an involuntary step back, his heel hitting the cold, unforgiving glass behind him with a sharp, echoing clink. Fear flashed over his features, contorting them momentarily into a mask of terror. “Viserion?” he asked in a whisper, his voice quivering with dread.
The illusion of Draven faltered before dissolving completely, leaving Spric standing in his true form. He cocked his head at his father, a curious glint in his eyes. “Who is Viserion?” His voice carried a note of genuine confusion.
Alestain’s face twisted with anger, his eyes narrowing into slits. His voice rose, echoing off the marble walls. “Why the hell would you wear the illusion of the dragon king in front of me?” he demanded, the words laced with a mixture of fury and incredulity. The tension in the air was palpable, a charged silence settling between them.
“I wore the illusion of her husband, not the dragon king.” With a brutal shove, he pushed Lanae forward, the force sending her sprawling to her knees.
The rough stone floor scraped against her skin, tearing at her clothing. She winced at the pain, but kept her eyes fixed on the man in front of her.
Alestain’s face twisted with rage, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity. “You dare mock me with such trickery?” His thunderous roar echoed through the chamber. He took a step forward, his presence menacing, but Spric remained unperturbed, a smirk playing on his lips.
Lanae’s heart ricocheted in her ribs, each beat a painful sign of her vulnerability. The memories of her captivity and the torment she endured flooded her mind, but she forced herself to focus, to find a way out of this hellhole.
Spric’s eyes gleamed with malice as he turned to Alestain. “You misunderstand, Father. It’s not mockery. It’s a lesson.” He reached down, grabbing Lanae’s chin and forcing her to look up at him. “A lesson in justice.”
Alestain’s expression shifted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. He glanced at Lanae. “What lesson?”
Spric’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into her skin like iron claws. “The lesson that no one is beyond the law,” he snarled at her before meeting his father’s gaze.
A tremor ran down Lanae’s spine at his words, a shiver of dread that she couldn’t suppress. She could see the twisted satisfaction in Spric’s eyes, the malevolent gleam that revealed how much he enjoyed her suffering. The room shrank around her, the air saturated with the scent of damp stone and fear. But she refused to break. Gritting her teeth, she summoned her strength, preparing for whatever came next. Her heart went on a spree, drumming a rapid beat in her ears.
“What fucking law?” she spat, the words slipping out in a fiery outburst of defiance. Her voice echoed sharply in the confined space.
“You killed a king,” Alestain snapped, his tone harsh and accusatory, reverberating off the cold stone walls. A damning indictment that only deepened the oppressive atmosphere.
“A king who exiled you for killing all the dragons.” Every syllable was tinged with quiet defiance. She didn’t deny killing Xoltan because that would implicate Draven, and her protective instincts were far stronger than her sense of self-preservation. Her eyes, intense and unyielding, bore into Alestain’s with a fierceness that mirrored the storm brewing outside. “Which clearly wasn’t the case.”
Alestain blinked several times, the flickering torchlight casting shifting shadows across his face, before his eyes narrowed into sharp, probing slits. “You are the wife of the new dragon king?” His voice was low, almost a growl, filled with distrust.
