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Fire rained down over the lush canopy of an ancient forest. Enemy ships streaked overhead as Tristan Okora and his kinsmen evaded the unceasing attacks in their more agile, yet equally powerful dragon forms.
Boom!
The pervading scent of burning oil rolled in on the heels of the explosion’s percussion. Yet another terminally crippled ship descended in a death spiral. From his high altitude, Tristan watched with approval as his brothers, Lear and Gavin, removed their razor-like claws from the ship’s proverbial jugular and pushed clear of the smoking carnage, soaring away before it scorched a flaming gash along the unsuspecting forest floor. He’d already taken out several ships the same way and was eager for the next.
Below, Faieara, blessed with the gift of defensive magic, had finally rallied to rise up and defend their precious home. With their combined strengths, these Kayadon interlopers were no match—
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a dark shiver skittered up his spine. A harrowing roar cried out, and he knew without looking that his father was in danger. He banked hard to the right, looping around, searching wildly. Moments later, he caught a sight that shot a fistful of dread straight down his throat to land in the pit of his stomach. His father was on the run, flying erratically as he struggled to evade a Kayadon ship in swift pursuit. This one was smaller than the rest and easily matched his every twist and turn, streaks of ammunition barely missing their target.
But his left wing was wounded! He couldn’t keep up his pace much longer.
Working his wings with all his might, Tristan gave chase, catching up to land on the ships back with a resounding thud, his claws digging into the metal like hot butter—
But then his world flipped over on its side. His father was hit…falling….
…Falling…
…Falling…
* * *
One month later.
The heavy torc wrapped around Tristan Okora’s neck like a cold snake suffocating its prey. His father’s torc. The royal symbol of the Okora clan. How long before the responsibility of it swallowed him whole? He’d signed up for this slow torture, knowing full well he might never live up to his father’s memory. He might never be good enough for his people. Might never be strong enough. Yet he was the only Okora stepping up to do what he must.
He gazed out at the inky expanse of space that seemed to go one for eternity, dotted by sparkling flecks of faraway light. Though there was nothing to indicate it, he knew they were approaching the outer edge of Evlon space.
Returning to the place of his father’s demise had not been his preferred choice, but he had duties now that could not be shirked.
For the tenth time in the last hour, he reached up to touch the torc around his neck—he still wasn’t used to the stiff metal against his skin. He was even less used to his clan mates referring to him as Your Highness or Your Majesty as opposed to the title of prince he’d grown up with. It always made his gut burn with violent guilt when they did. He wasn’t accustomed to ruling and wasn’t sure he ever would be.
“You look troubled, my son.” His mother, Lady Edel—no longer queen, though many still referred to her by the title—came to stand next to him, looking every bit as regal and stately as she always did, with her blonde hair gathered neatly into a complicated knot and her sophisticated gown swaying perfectly with her movements. Her shieldmaiden guardian, Belinda, halted several feet away as though to give them a semblance of space, but the stout, grim woman was never far enough for Tristan’s liking.
“Does Belinda need to be with you at all times? Do you no’ feel save here on our own ship?”
“‘Tis a matter of optics,” replied his mother. “Displaying your soldiers is no’ only a show of strength to your own people, but to enemy and ally alike.”
That was exactly something his father would have said. Damn, but he missed the bastard.
“And,” she continued, “it is more important now than ever to show strength. We are a family with three generations of royal lineage. Even still, people are wary of the new young king, watching, waiting to see who challenges you. Even a son of the great King Mar has much to prove.”
Belinda made a crass noise in the back of her throat. Of agreement or distain? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t exactly been the most dedicated of fledglings when it came to responsibilities of the crown.
“Plus,” his mother continued. “She can fetch me drinks.”
He glanced down at his mother for a moment, shaking his head, then returned his gaze to space.
Having just approached and overheard Lady Edel’s remarks, Orik, Tristan’s head of the guard and lifelong friend, slapped him on the back. “Is that why you keepmearound?”
“I keep you around because your ugly mug amuses me.”
“Best no’ look in the mirror then. You’d laugh yourself to death.”
Tristan simply grinned. Normally he’d invite a verbal sparring with Orik, but today was not a day for lightheartedness.
Orik seemed to sense his mood and turned serious. “We are in range to receive transmissions from Evlon. They sent an itinerary for the treaty signing and celebration.”
