Wraithforged (The Wraithblade Saga Book 2), page 51
The voices rushed him again. They overlapped each other and blended with the wind until he couldn’t tell which was louder.
“…welcome…”
“…royal dragons…”
“…so much to say…”
The whispers built to a crescendo, crashing into each other as they spoke, one after another, louder and louder as they fought the biting rush of wind. He growled, body tensing as he sifted through the noise, searching for the single voice that must be commanding them all.
“Show yourself,” he demanded.
His voice resonated through the field, through the very earth, and it carried the command of a general. An order. A demand.
Obey.
The hum of overlapping chatter faded in an instant. The gale dissolved into a quiet breeze once again, and a single leaf tumbled past as it lost momentum. The buzzing energy in the meadow settled, stale and uncertain, but the weight of eyes in the shadows remained.
Threat, his feral instinct warned.
The growl in Nocturne’s throat hummed louder, and several clicks followed. The clicks of a predator stalking prey.
A final warning.
Another gust of wind, gentler this time, fluttered toward him through the grass.
“…you are safe…” the voices promised in unison.
“Yes,” he answered, his voice booming over the empty forest as he lowered his head and prepared to taste blood. “But are you?”
This time, the voices didn’t reply.
In the darkness at the edge of the tree line, two red eyes appeared. They glowed with feral fire, and the dark slits in their centers settled on him.
He bristled. A feral dragon, here. One of his kin, lost to their rage, perhaps broken into submission just as the Wraith King had tried to do to him all those centuries ago.
The eyes swung side to side with the ambling gait of a circling predator, and they left fading trails of crimson light in the shadows as they moved. A silhouette appeared between the trees—just a snout, at first, but a head followed. Curling horns with silver stripes that glistened. Sapphire-blue scales, rich and dark.
All of it, familiar.
As the dragon stepped closer, Nocturne’s eyes widened in surprise and recognition. His younger brother paused at the edge of the meadow, half his size and with his head somehow reattached.
Lie.
The Knowing hit him square in the chest, but he didn’t need his regal powers to assume this creature wasn’t real. Coatl’s very existence, here in this meadow so far from home, could have only been a lie.
Nocturne snarled and stretched his wings even wider as he settled once more into his stance. “You are dead, little brother.”
Coatl nodded, and Nocturne seethed with rage at this liar’s brazen imitation of the brother he had so loved.
The imposter lowered his head as he calmly paced the edge of the field in a classic taunt. Circle. Watch. Wait for the other to strike.
Nocturne couldn’t be so easily fooled. He remained rooted in place, unmoving except to follow the imposter’s footsteps with his eyes.
“Your anger is justified,” the imposter said, and his voice boomed over the meadow grass with all the command of a royal dragon.
Nocturne’s heart panged with grief. With fury. With shame. This power, this strength, it was everything Coatl could have been.
To show him his dreams for his younger brother was not the mercy this fool thought it was.
“I needed you to listen,” Coatl’s voice stabbed at Nocturne’s chest like a tail spike to the heart, yet he only snarled louder as the imposter spoke. “I needed you to understand.”
“You have precious few seconds to speak, imposter,” he warned.
Coatl paused mid-step, his clawed foot still raised as his eyes narrowed. “Very well, prince of dragons. You saw potential in Coatl—in me. You wanted me to ascend to my rightful place at your side as a warrior prince. It was my right, but Mother saw my weakness, when you saw only my potential. She knew I would be consumed in the Trials. She knew you would be the one to end me. She tried to save—.”
Nocturne roared, and his voice drowned out the imposter’s final words.
The utter audacity.
The sparks skittering over Nocturne’s scales burned brighter. His claws dug deeper into the soil, snapping through roots as he fought with the guilt of what he had done. Of how he had failed.
Coatl paused and spread his glorious blue wings wide. “You understand, then, why I am here. You see how the past repeats itself.”
Nocturne didn’t move. Though tempted to glance back in the direction of the castle, toward Connor, he remained poised to strike. Still as stone, he glared at the imposter wearing his younger brother’s face. “Tell me what magic this is.”
“This is the land of the Old Ways,” Coatl answered. “Here, the dead do not stay buried.”
“Who are you, then?”
Coatl paused, his head tilted with thought as he watched Nocturne in silence. The wind picked up again, frothing as it shook the ring of trees around the meadow, and the feral dragon’s form shifted. The edges blurred with the forest behind him, such that Nocturne couldn’t see where his brother ended and the trees began. The dead prince bled into the shadows until only those glowing red eyes remained. They hovered in the darkness, watching him, until they, too, disappeared.
Nocturne snarled, hating this place’s tricks. Its lies. Its brazen disrespect. He wanted nothing more than to burn it to the ground, and if it gave him any more reason, he would—his pact with Connor be damned.
His jaw snapped shut as he caught the subtle creep of his feral rage. He briefly shut his eyes and forced a settling breath to calm himself.
To remain in control.
Another silhouette appeared on the tree line, though this one was tiny. It skipped into the field, its blonde curls bouncing, until its face appeared in the low light—a little girl. She smiled up at him with warmth as her delicate green dress settled around her legs.
Tiny nose. Hair as blonde as a field of wheat. Big blue eyes, and a wide smile as soft as the sun. Now, the imposter dressed as Fiona Finn, the child who had charmed him in the forest. The little bundle of light and joy, a reminder that humans could be pure, if only for a time.
Lie.
Nocturne took one step closer in warning. He’d had enough of these lies. Now, both he and his feral side hungered for retribution.
“You asked me who I am.” The imposter tilted her head as she craned her neck to meet his eye. “I am a mask, nothing more than a familiar face the Blood Bogs wear to speak to mortals.”
Truth.
He narrowed his eyes at the small child, still unwilling to trust. “To show me my brother—”
“Is cruel.” She nodded once in apology. “But you needed to remember the fall that awaits your human should he fail. You’ve faced this all before, and Coatl nearly killed you. You nearly failed him twice. You must see the damage the Wraithblade could do to your home if he, too, lost his way.”
Truth.
The growl in Nocturne’s throat faded, and the sparks on his scales disappeared into the night. He watched the little girl in silence, and in suspicious awe of what the Blood Bogs knew.
Perhaps the imposter knew much more.
“What is left of my home?” he asked.
The little girl smiled, as gentle and calm as a timeless entity trapped in a child’s body. “Much, but I cannot see it all. I will offer you what answers I have as payment if we first discuss the Wraithblade.”
Nocturne snarled again in warning as the child taunted him with what he wanted most. “I cannot be bought.”
“I’m aware, but this affects us both, Nocturne, Prince of Dragons, King of the Nightlands, Protector of warriors and monks alike.”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Perhaps the mists knew entirely too much.
“I’ve seen what he will become if his will fractures even a little,” she continued. “You’ve seen it for yourself, time and time again. You’ve watched your brothers—both in blood and in battle—lose themselves to their inner barbarian. They drowned in their power, and they took others with them. You’ve felt that pain before. Can you face it again?”
“Such is my duty!” He snapped at the air, and the chomp echoed through the painfully silent meadow. “It is constant and eternal. It is and always has been my burden to bear in this life. This is your last chance, imposter. Ask what you truly want to know, or prepare to face me with more than lies and riddles.”
Static built in his throat as he prepared to roast the imposter alive. He didn’t care the mask she wore or the lies she told.
The little girl set her small palm against the nearest tree as she met his glare. “I have seen what has become of good men who acquired immense power. Some remain pure, but most do not. I ask you, then, if you think he will lose his way—and if you could survive the final battle against him.”
Nocturne’s head snapped back in surprise, and his brows furrowed as he watched the little girl staring up at him with wide blue eyes. Though it was an inner debate he often had with himself, no one had ever questioned his might before. No one had ever asked him if he would lose, for it was his duty to win. To endure. To persevere against all odds to protect the homeland and its people.
His gaze drifted to the ground, but he could not lie to himself. Any lie gave his feral side a claw into his soul, and bit by bit, deception corroded his control.
In his battles with the giants of his past, he had on occasion risked losing. Each time, he had tapped into his feral bloodlust to win, and each time, he had almost lost himself to the raging beast within. If he were to duel Connor to the death, he would face the same choice—and it may require more of his feral power than he could reclaim.
Whether he lost the duel or lost himself to his feral side, he would still lose the war.
“I do not know,” he confessed.
“I feared as much,” the imposter admitted with a sad little sigh.
Nocturne’s gaze shifted toward the castle, and he studied its spires as most of it blurred into the night. Even if he failed, there was another who stood a chance of success.
Perhaps.
The little girl tilted her head as she scanned his face. “Would you like to see for yourself what lies ahead?”
He scoffed. “You said yourself you know of the past. Of the dead. The Old Ways cannot speak of the future.”
“True,” she admitted. “I’m no selkie, but the future is so often a repeat of the past. Man changes so little, even as the forests grow tall around him. Is your faith in Connor unwavering, my dear Prince of Dragons, or can you stomach a glimpse of the death that awaits both our lands should he fail?”
Nocturne sat with the Blood Bog’s offer. All those centuries ago, he’d had the utmost faith in Coatl, and he had chosen wrong. His brother had failed, and as much as he wanted to believe Connor could succeed, he didn’t know for certain.
Following an imposter into the mist carried risk as well. He had been tricked before, but this place of magic knew more than any mortal ever could. He figured it could have dragged him into the mists, by now, if it had so chosen. To be given an offer showed its respect for him.
Still, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What tricks lie in wait for me if I were to follow?”
“None for you,” she answered. “But many for him.”
Truth.
He stared off into the forests, into the brewing mist churning in the distance as it all but swallowed the woodland whole.
“Show me,” he demanded.
The imposter smiled, warm and gentle, and she skipped off into the trees. Mist churned over her ankles as she dissolved into the shadows between the trunks. The fog seeped out into the meadow and coiled over his scales, thicker than before.
With a huff of black smoke through his nose, Nocturne followed.
Chapter 51
CONNOR
At any moment, this negotiation with the Lady of Freymoor could go south.
Given the forty-some archers hidden in the secret passages around her throne room, Connor needed to tread carefully.
With a subtle twist of his head, he scanned the room for a way out. The wooden doors into the hallway had already closed behind them, and he briefly calculated the odds of him and his team making it into the corridor without becoming pincushions in the process.
The odds weren’t good.
Besides, getting to the hallway wouldn’t guarantee their safety. If Dahlia had secret passages behind the throne room’s walls, she could easily have more in the other areas of the castle. Even with the ghoul’s power and his own considerable skill, their small band could still become outnumbered.
He would have to talk his way out of this one.
“It’s clear you already know my name.” Dahlia’s piercing blue eyes swept across his body. “It’s only courteous for you to tell me yours.”
In answer, he simply frowned. He had expected better of her than to ask such a foolish question.
When he didn’t reply, her lips curled into a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and she took another deep breath. Her chest moved with every inhale, drawing his eye each time. From the high collar to the plunging neckline, her dress perfectly framed her cleavage.
A tease, and a trap. She knew how to flaunt her beauty, and she wielded it like a weapon with every bit as much skill as Quinn did.
Tempting, but too deadly to indulge.
“I expected you sooner,” the fallen princess admitted. “Were you delayed?”
Connor huffed impatiently. “Enough games, Dahlia.”
The Lady of Freymoor paused, and with a little sigh, she relaxed. The stern creases in her brow faded, and her expression softened. “Perhaps I approached you too harshly, Wraithblade. My father always told me to be truthful with my allies, and I wanted you to understand our power.”
She waved her hand, and what arrowheads he could see retreated back through the thin slits in the walls.
“Allies, are we?” Connor crossed his arms as he nodded to the arrows he had thrown onto the floor. “Do you often shoot at your friends?”
She smirked. “Only when I know they won’t get hit.”
“How endearing.” He didn’t bother to mask his sarcasm.
He didn’t trust her. Not for a second. No matter what sweet words came out of those pink lips of hers, she had already proven herself to be a master of manipulation. This woman had feigned illness for a decade and created the facade of being manipulated, all to ensure that others underestimated her.
Frankly, he’d begun to doubt she had the capacity to tell the truth, much less the desire. If he didn’t need the Soulsprite, he would’ve turned his back on this whole mess and simply left.
Dahlia snapped her fingers, and the wooden doors to the hallway swung open. Where before the corridor had been empty, a man dressed in a black fur cloak now stood with ten soldiers. Every one of his men carried a crossbow, and though the arrow tips remained pointed at the ground, each guard glared at Connor with an unmasked and unflinching desire to pull the trigger.
Delightful.
Servants filtered past the soldiers, and each maid carried various trays or chairs. Two men carried in a table, while one of the maids balanced a silver plate lined with empty teacups on her way into the room. Another carried in a pile of cookies coated in various jams in one hand and, in the other, held a silver teapot with steam billowing from its spout.
In less than a minute, the servants had erected a full tea service in the center of the throne room, complete with a place setting for Dahlia and each member of Connor’s team.
“Come, now. Sit.” With her back to the simple wooden throne, Dahlia took her place at the head of the table and poured herself a cup of tea. She reached for one of the cookies coated in bright red jam and took a delicate bite as she watched the four of them to see what they would do.
No sane human shot an arrow at a man’s head and then invited him to tea.
Neither Connor nor any of his team moved. They stood there in silence, waiting for the catch. His stomach rumbled, and as the scent of rose and lavender swam through the air from her teacup, his throat tightened with thirst.
Still, he remained on his feet with his arms crossed, glaring at the woman who was clearly still playing games with him.
“Not one for pleasantries, I see.” The fallen princess smiled, unfazed, and leaned back in her seat. “Very well. To business, then. I know why you’re here. I’ve learned a fair bit about who you are, and I know what you’ve come here to retrieve. I don’t, however, know why you want it, nor am I convinced you deserve to have it.”
Beside him, Murdoc’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and Sophia’s hands glowed briefly blue as the soft crackle of ice across her skin pierced the otherwise silent air. Somewhere in the secret passages surrounding the room, a bowstring tightened.
He needed to intercede, or his team would get hurt.
Once, long ago as a brash young teenager, he’d nearly punched a King’s Guardsman in the face when the man had insulted his family’s shop. He’d known what the consequences would be, but as an idealistic young fool, he hadn’t cared. Back then, his father had talked him down with seconds to spare, and in the end, all three were laughing at his father’s jokes.
The whole episode had taught him that the best way to soften a conflict was with humor. If that didn’t work, the second-best option was far simpler—don’t be an asshole.
With a reluctant sigh, Connor grabbed the nearest chair and dragged it to the other end of the table. It would mean having his back to the iron doors opposite the throne, but he didn’t care. If he was going to negotiate with Dahlia, he would sit across from her, in the spot that established him as her equal. Though he didn’t have a plate or teacup, he sat in his new spot and set his elbows on the table as he stared at her down the length of it.
With a sidelong glance at Murdoc and Sophia, he gestured to the open chairs. “It’s alright.”
Sophia glared at the woman in blue, but ultimately took the nearest open seat. Murdoc rounded the table and sat beside Connor, leaving the chair beside Dahlia open for Quinn.
