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The dragon left Griff abruptly at the mention of Zhos’ name. Obviously it had been triggered, but the act also indicated the beast knew something. Had it been frightened? Kind of concerning if a creature its size was scared.

At least Griff had escaped the damnable ledge, not that his situation had improved by much.

Deposited outside the ruin of his former home, he remained at a loss as to what to do next.

Avera had been taken, most likely to Merisu and the Emperor, however, if Argent could be believed, then Griff’s ship still remained in the vicinity, meaning all was not yet lost.

So long as he survived the coming night.

He recalled the monsters he’d encountered since his return to Verlora.

Oversized beetles and spiders, all of them deadly.

Given the dangers to be found wandering the city, finding a safe spot to hunker down and plot seemed his best course of action.

He crossed the courtyard—where a lifetime ago he used to play ball—the paving stones grimed with dirt and scattered dry leaves.

Upon entering the citadel—a castle of sorts, carved into the side of the volcano—he felt the absence of life keenly in the stillness and decay surrounding him.

The thieves that had pilfered Verlora never made it this far and thus all the things he recalled from his childhood remained.

The bench by the door where his father used to sit and put on his shoes.

The hooks for hanging coats, the fabric on them falling to pieces when he brushed his hand over it.

Upon passing through the previous day, he’d only entered his father’s office, keen on accessing the secret doorway that led to the tunnels and the labs.

Today he chose to climb the staircase, his hand skimming the balustrade he used to slide down to the horror of his nanny who used to scream, “ You’ll break your neck! ”

He hadn’t, but as an adult he could see the danger. Children and their reckless nature didn’t understand how easily death could claim them. How quickly everything could be lost.

The stairs appeared intact and solid, unlike some of the walls that showed cracks.

The earthquake when the volcano exploded had put too much stress on the stone.

As he reached the second level, he glanced down the hall.

His father’s bedroom used to be at the end.

Technically, still was. After all, no one else had used it after him.

Griff paused before striding toward it, not sure why the need to see the space.

When he’d sailed away that fateful day, the little boy had clung to the hope he would be reunited with his father.

It took years before he came to grips with the fact his father would never return, never smile at him with pride for a job well done, never scowl as he misbehaved.

To find out now, after all this time, that, in fact, his father had survived the volcano’s eruption and been betrayed by one he called friend?

It stung. Stung because Griff should have tried harder to mount a rescue rather than let the adults in charge at the time pat him on the head and tell him to go play.

Even once he reached adulthood and became captain of his vessel, he’d avoided Verlora, the many stories of missing visitors and even vanishing ships reason enough to stay far away.

It took a petite queen with keen determination to finally convince him to explore for himself.

Turned out, the rumors were correct. Verlora was not a safe place for humans and wouldn’t be so long as the dragon ruled over it.

At the end of the hall, he paused before the closed doors. He couldn’t have explained why. He already knew his father had died in the volcano, pushed into the magma, and yet his hand hovered over the knob as if fearful of what he’d find inside.

He sucked in a breath and heaved open the portal.

The bedroom appeared as he recalled, if shabbier as time took its toll.

The massive bed still took up the most space, its sturdy frame intact, unlike the mattress that sagged in the middle.

Tattered curtains hung in the windows, the fabric not having withstood the test of time.

Cobwebs, the small and normal-sized variety, clung to the ceiling and corners.

His chest squeezed at the sight of garments draped over the bench at the foot of the bed, left there as if his father planned to return and wear them.

The chairs that flanked the fireplace drew Griff.

How often had he sat here with his father, exchanging tidbits about their day, him relating what he’d learned in school, his father divulging how he’d dealt with the people who brought problems to him?

He’d not realized it at the time, but that had been his father’s way of preparing him to one day lead.

Little did his father know the Verlorians would be almost completely wiped out.

As grief overwhelmed him, Griff sat down hard on the chair, the cushion puffing dust that tickled the nose. He sighed as he stared into the hearth, the pile of ashes long cold. He shifted his weight on the lumpy seat but couldn’t get comfortable. Odd how the cushion appeared to have a hard spot.

Very odd.

He rose and glanced at it, noticing how one side sat slightly higher.

Upon lifting the pad, he spotted his father’s journal and his heart stuttered.

The day before, when he’d glanced through the papers left behind on his father’s desk, it hadn’t occurred to him that the book his father updated almost nightly was missing.

He’d assumed it had been left somewhere or taken perhaps by Basil.

But there it sat. Innocuous. Dangerous. Private.

How many times had his father reminded him that a man’s diary held thoughts not meant for others to read?

Did it matter anymore, though? His father was dead. Tell that to his trembling hand as he reached for it.

It didn’t burn or jolt as he grabbed it. Nothing smote him as he flipped open the cover and saw his father had titled it: The Private Diary of Lance Leif.

He almost put it back. Instead, he flipped to the first page.

Time to start a new journal, seeing as how the last ran out of pages, and what better time than the day Lolei announced she was pregnant.

Lolei is convinced it’s a boy. I don’t care.

Son or daughter, I cannot wait to meet them.

I’ve been given a list of items to acquire for the nursery, as well as been told to hit the market for fresh oranges.

A funny request, since she usually hates citrus fruits.

Tears pricked Griff’s eyes as he experienced the joy his parents felt at his imminent arrival.

To find out just how much his mother had loved him before his birth.

Unfortunately, the only memories he had of her were after she’d begun losing her mind.

The ranting. The crying. The way she used to look right through him.

How she’d whispered over and over, “The little tiara will stick a knife in you.”

He kept reading, seating himself in the chair that last cradled his father, devouring each sentence. His father, usually a stoic and technical man, had saved the emotional side of himself for his diary.

Lolei has gone into labor. Soon now, I shall be a father. I cannot wait to hold my child. I just hope the birth is easy.

Despite knowing what happened, it hurt to read the next bit.

I don’t understand what’s come over Lolei. She refuses to bond with our son. She either bursts into tears at the sight of him, or screams. I’ve hired a wet nurse, but Lolei’s erratic behavior has forced me to also set a guard on Griffon’s room.

His chest tightened as he kept reading, watching his father’s anguish unfold on the pages as his wife—Griff’s mother—descended further and further into madness. Until…

I can’t believe she’s gone. It happened so quickly the doctors could do naught to save her and now I am a widower with a small child who doesn’t understand. I don’t know if I can do this alone.

As Griff kept leafing through the book, he lost track of time until his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in over a day.

It should also be noted he remained naked.

It wasn’t as if he were cold, though. The active volcano kept the city warm.

Still, a man shouldn’t parade around with his balls and dick swinging.

It could prove distracting, especially in a fight.

While he wanted to keep reading, Griff knew he had to take care of some basics first. Clothing proved a challenge seeing as how most of the fabric he discovered had disintegrated over time.

However, he did manage to find a pair of leather pants in his father’s garderobe that fit, if snug and a bit stiff.

While he remembered his father as being a big man, it turned out Griff was thicker.

A cured leather vest would have to do as a shirt as the linen versions fell apart the moment he touched them.

Clothed, he went in search of food. Not surprising, the pantry was bare. However, in the garden, where the plants had grown wild without Cook to tend them, he managed to find some vegetables as well as the berry bush fairly bursting with colorful, ripe fruit.

Perhaps tomorrow he’d go hunting for some meat—if there was anything left. The dragon admitted to having a voracious appetite.

His full belly brought on yawns. It didn’t feel right to sleep in his father’s bed, though, and his old room? The hole in the ceiling led to mold covering every inch of it.

He ended up in the parlor, the divan there musty but solid. While uncomfortable, fatigue dragged him down into a deep, dreamless slumber interrupted by a strident bugling.

The strange noise drew him to the door and a glance outside showed the dragon squatting in the courtyard.

There you are.

“Where else would I be? It’s not like I can leave.” A salty reply.

If you did, I’d follow.

The answer took him aback. “You can leave Verlora?”