Except dizziness nudges Lucien’s mind. A murmur he can’t hear. Familiar and terrifying. He knows the answer without hearing the question: the answer is Lucien himself.
Pranim’s acceleration jolts Lucien back into the present. A streak of white scales vanishes into the distant clouds.
What are you doing here, youngling?Pranim calls out.
The reply is light.None of your business, old wyrm!
Annoyance rumbles through Pranim. Her wings pump harder through the thickening air.Insolent brat. I will chase her back to the nest.
“Wait,” Lucien yells over the wind, coming back to his senses. Fuck. They’re heading west, towards—nope. Double fuck. Lucien calls for his magic, heating Pranim’s shoulder, a desperate signal to turn the fuck around.
Because they’ve already crossed the fucking Draskoran border.
Wyrmshit,Pranim swears, yanking them around.Hold on, we’re going—hold on! Fuck!
A black and green shape barrels down in front of them. Lucien jerks in the harness as Pranim barely dodges the otherdragon. Magic leaps from Lucien’s soul. Of fucking course. Any wild dragons near the border will draw out the Draskoran dragon corps to try and stop them.
Lucien’s flames scatter through the clouds. He can’t aim, not with Pranim moving so quickly. But if he can break up the clouds, remove their opponents’ cover—
There!Pranim hisses as the sinuous black and green dragon twists in front of them. Pranim lunges forward. Whether to attack or evade, Lucien has no fucking idea. He has no control.
The next instant, shadows consume them. All the air punches from Lucien’s lungs, and his vision blacks out. Shock douses his active flames, and only in retrospect does pain slice across his limbs. Crushing pressure closes around his torso.
His vision brightens for an instant. Pranim is below him.
Very far below him.
Remnants of harness trailing from her shoulders, Pranim roars and races from Lucien’s sight. Her voice brushes Lucien’s mind, but he’s too stunned to understand her.
Massive claws tighten around him, and his dragon captor is the only thing holding him above the unforgiving ground. Steel-strong claws and dark blue scales are the last things Lucien sees before he passes out.
***
Light bleeds through Lucien’s eyelids. He jerks reflexively, reaching for sword or magic, as his eyes fly open. But his hand can’t reach any weapons, and his magic huddles cold and dormant within him.
Violet eyes in a broad, freckled face diminish from their place filling Lucien’s field of vision. The robed woman steps away, a braid of cord and leather in her hand. Her withdrawal revealsthe rest of the room, just as Lucien’s last memories before blacking out return to him.
The stone room is well lit. Spacious, from what he can see. A familiar mountain of a man stands six feet away, relaxed with his arms crossed. The dark blue hair and riding gear would identify him even if Lucien hadn’t met him before—Marek Dire, wing-marshal and prince of Draskora.
Lucien first met Marek in a plush parlor, sharing wine and unbearable diplomatic smalltalk. The last time was at Marek’s wedding reception, where Marek was too busy tongue-fucking his new husband’s mouth for any sort of conversation.
That new husband sits at the edge of Lucien’s vision, a blur of blue and pink hair. Guards flank the door behind Marek, and movement behind Lucien suggests more guards.
Lucien can’t see them, though, even if he dared take his eyes off Marek. The back of the stone chair he’s bound to is too broad. Iron manacles pin his wrists and ankles, but the true binding chafes around Lucien’s throat instead. A null-collar suppressing his magic.
The item the woman removed must have been a sleep-collar, keeping Lucien under until the Draskorans were ready to toy with him.
“Your hospitality has deteriorated, Your Highness,” Lucien rasps out.
Marek shrugs. “You should have brought another bottle of that Pellerin red.”
Damn. Lucien’s too foggy to keep up with the dark banter. The cell is plain. No visible torture implements—but there’s the entire wall Lucien can’t see behind his chair.
Marek’s a sap for his new husband. He won’t torture Lucien in front of Sei, right?
At least it’s only Lucien’s skin on the line here. He just has to keep his fucking mouth shut—after a few questions of his own. “Did Pranim make it back?”
Marek doesn’t answer. Damn, he’s good.
