Page 3 of Echoes of Fire (Drakarn Mates #2)

TWO

RATH

The dranith’s severed claw still smoked in my grip, its jagged edge glowing faintly with residual venom. Knees deep in the ash-choked moat of Scalvaris’s eastern gate, I sucked in air thick with the stench of scorched scales and sulfur.

Battle-lust burned through my veins like ore, my scales slick with blood that hissed where it dripped onto smoldering stone. My warriors-in-training panted behind me, their labored breaths echoing the distant wail of steam geysers. The raid had been messy, desperate—dranith weren’t usually this bold. It should’ve made me cautious.

It didn’t.

I crushed the claw to powder. “Double patrols on the lava trenches,” I growled at Voskath, my voice raw from inhaling cinders. The younger warrior’s green scales were dulled by soot, his blade notched from parrying serrated pincers. “The next swarm that tries crawling up our walls, burn their wings off before they?—”

Her.

The scent punched through the stink of charred flesh and sulfur—sweet, sharp, human . Ozone and damp stone, ink and something floral, cutting through the haze like a blade through smoke. My nostrils flared. My cock stirred.

Fuck.

I spun, wings snapping open with a crack that sent ash devils swirling. The crowded plaza blurred—artisans hauling cracked shields toward the forges, healers hurrying past with stretchers dripping blood, younglings darting between legs to scavenge discarded arrowheads.

No purple-haired human. No delicate throat to mark. But the scent lingered, tendrils of it coiling around me, whispering promises that made my fire churn.

“Rath?” Voskath’s blade hovered near my arm, its edge still steaming from dranith blood. “Your eyes are doing the … flame thing.”

I clawed a boulder, relishing the crack of stone. Sparks skittered across my knuckles. “Tend your patrols.”

The temple bell tolled—three jagged peals that meant sacrilege. My pulse roared louder than the geyser fields.

Move. Find. Protect.

I lunged toward the sound, boots crushing discarded weaponry into the ashen soil. The scent thickened near the forge district, where smoke coiled from the chimneys in lazy spirals. My blood boiled hotter with every step. Scales along my ribs flushed crimson—a mating flush, the kind hatchlings giggled about in training caves. Pathetic. Weak.

Unbecoming of a council warrior.

A scream tore through the acrid air. Female. Hers.

I was sprinting before the echo died, shoving Drakarn aside. A youngling carrying ore baskets went sprawling, black crystals scattering across the stones. An elder cursed my lineage, her graveled voice lost in the thunder of my pulse. I didn’t care. The forge’s heat slapped my face as I rounded the final corner and launched, wings pumping as I vaulted the wall surrounding the Forge Temple and landed into …

Chaos.

Warriors formed a snarling ring around the central dais, their tails lashing in unison like a nest of vipers. Karyseth’s priestess cadre chanted, their claws dripping blackened oil into the sacred flame pit. The air reeked of burnt myrrh and something fouler—congealed rage. And in the center …

Orla.

Two warriors dragged her forward by her absurdly fragile arms, her boots carving furrows through the ash. Blood streaked her temple, matting that violet braid she never tied properly. The frayed ends glinted with tiny metal clasps.

Her shirt hung torn at the shoulder, revealing a lattice of old scars. These kervash had dared to touch her.

I would end them all.

Karyseth loomed over the flame pit. “Defiler of the Forge!” The High Priestess’s voice slithered through my marrow, colder than the void between stars. “You trespass where fire births honor! You steal sacred sight with … this .”

She held up Orla’s journal, pages fluttering like a wounded bird. My mate’s— no, not mate, never claimed —lips moved silently, calculating something only her clever human mind could fathom. Always thinking, even in the jaws of death.

The priestess hurled the journal into the flames.

Orla jerked against her captors, muscles straining. “Wait! Those were just?—”

Karyseth backhanded her.

The crack of flesh on flesh snapped my last thread.

Heat surged through my veins, primal and possessive. My vision tinted red, flames licking at the edges of my sight. The warriors nearest me stumbled back, clutching scaled faces as if seared by my aura. Good. Let them burn.

“Enough.”

The word rolled out as a growl, low enough to make the stone underfoot tremble. The crowd stilled. Even the sacred flames bent toward me, the light warping around my smoldering form.

Karyseth’s pupils narrowed to dagger points. “Warrior Rath. This doesn’t concern the Blade Council.”

Orla’s gaze locked with mine. Blood welled along her split lip, a crimson bead trembling at the edge before falling. Her pulse rabbited at her throat, a fragile, rapid beat that called to the fire in my blood.

Mine to guard. Mine to claim.

I stepped into the circle.

“It does now.”

The priestess’s claws gleamed wet with Orla’s blood. I counted three drops hitting the dais before my vision cleared enough to see details—the way my mate’s left wrist bent at a wrong angle, the charred edge of her journal’s cover peeking from beneath Karyseth’s scaled foot. My fire surged hotter.

“This human scribbled our sacred glyphs,” Karyseth hissed, grinding the journal deeper into ash. The stench of burning parchment mixed with Orla’s coppery blood. “Stole secrets from the Forge Master’s own sanctum. The penalty is?—”

“Death by molten ore,” the crowd chanted, tails thumping stone in rhythm. Always eager for blood, these zealots. The less faithful Drakarn were smart enough to stay away. But the humans? They were too new here to know better.

Orla coughed, shoulders shaking. Not from fear—from rage. I knew that tremor. Had felt it in my own bones when Ignarath butchers took my sister. Her voice rasped raw but precise. “How could I?” She lifted her chin, blood smearing across that delicate human throat. “This is ridiculous.”

Laughter rippled through the warriors, harsh and guttural. Karyseth’s tail lashed, sending a burning brazier crashing to the stones. Embers skittered toward Orla’s boots. “The Defiler speaks nonsense!”

I stepped closer. Heat radiated off me in visible waves now, making the nearest Drakarn stumble back. My focus narrowed to vital points—the warrior on Orla’s left, Krazath, had a weak grip, his thumb joint still swollen from last week’s sparring session. The one on her right favored his scarred leg, the old wound from the siege of Ignarath.

It would take nothing to end them now.

Then she looked at me.

Fuck.

Her pupils swallowed the irises—pain or terror, maybe both. But beneath the split lip and bruising, her gaze burned with the same stubborn fire that had let her remain standing after her starbound vehicle crashed on the fiery desert and all that came after that. My claws flexed. She’d nearly died. Would’ve, if I hadn’t?—

No. Not now.

Karyseth’s scowled. “This is our right, warrior. Leave it.”

The crowd parted as Darrokar emerged from the smoke, his human mate, Terra, a shadow at his side. The warlord’s obsidian scales glinted with cooling battle filth, his expression unreadable. News must have traveled fast for him to be here already. Farther back in the crowd, I spotted other council members, Mektar and Zarvash. I didn’t know if they’d followed the rumors or if they’d been there for the start of the ceremony.

Orla had no position, no hope of making these zealots see sense. Darrokar could claim her as a concubine, but he was so newly mated and devoted to his human that all would see past the ruse and challenge the claim here and now.

And, having seen his mate’s fire, I feared she might strip off his scales one by one for trying.

I met his gaze, trying to come up with some kind of plan that would save Orla. I could only think of one thing. It was all I had thought of for the past month, waiting for the moment to be perfect.

And this moment was as far from perfect as it got.

His fist clenched—once, twice—the old signal. Proceed. But it’ll be your mess to clean up.

Karyseth caught the gesture. Her snarl revealed cracked fangs. “The human dies. By law. By fire.”

Orla’s breath hitched. A sound like glass shattering in my ribs.

I moved.

My wing buffeted the left warrior into the flame pit, his scream cut short as he scrambled to safety. My tail snapped the right one’s knee before he could react, the wet crunch drowned by the crowd’s collective hiss. Orla collapsed forward, and I caught her against my chest, her body shockingly cold against my burning scales.

“ She is mine! ”

My roar shook the cavern. Cracks splintered up the sanctum walls, dust raining from the ceiling.

The words seared my throat, hotter than any battle cry.

Karyseth recoiled, her robes billowing at the hem. The crowd’s snarls died mid-breath. Even Darrokar went statue-still, his wingtip twitching once before stilling.

Fuck tradition. Fuck the laws.

Orla trembled against me, her heartbeat thrumming against my scales like a caged songbird. I tightened my grip, claws careful not to pierce her soft flesh.

Mine to shield. Mine to claim.

The truth of it scorched through my veins, leaving no room for doubt.

Orla’s bloodied lip beckoned like a flame. My tongue throbbed. Fangs ached with phantom pressure—not a battle-urge, but the need to bite, to brand. My claws flexed against her ribs, the points burning where they dented her shirt’s already torn fabric.

Her scent coiled tighter around me with each ragged breath she took—ozone sharpening to lightning-struck stone, floral notes blooming into midnight orchids that only grew in sacred burial caves. My nostrils flared. The priestess’s rancid myrrh couldn’t mask it now. Couldn’t drown what my blood recognized.

“Lies!” Karyseth shrieked again, spittle flying. Her claws slashed the air, etching sigils that made her supplicants recoil. “I see no bond-mark! There has been no vow! This is blasphemy!”

The crowd rippled, warriors hissing, tails lashing. I felt the moment the balance tipped—zealots reaching for blades, acolytes edging closer with hooked chains.

Now.

I flung my wings wide, the membranes casting crimson shadows across the dais. Heat rolled off me in visible waves, warping the air. “You question my honor, Priestess?” my voice boomed, rattling loose stones. “You dare deny the bond?”

The ancient word silenced them. Even Karyseth froze.

Orla’s breath hitched. “What’s?—?”

I unsheathed the heat-crystal dagger at my belt—ceremonial, rarely used, its edge dull but the hilt carved with my clan’s fire runes. The blade glowed faintly, responding to my touch.

Hold steady, human.

“Kneel,” I commanded, voice steel-edged.

Orla’s knees buckled—part shock, part my tail’s gentle press behind her knees to make sure she did it. I dropped with her, wings mantling around us both. The dagger’s hilt pressed into her palm, her fingers ice-cold against mine.

“Grip it,” I growled low so only she could hear. “Tighter. They need to see.”

She obeyed, knuckles whitening even as her hand trembled. Good. Smart.

Karyseth lunged forward. “This farce insults the Forge!”

I ignored her, leaning close until my fangs grazed Orla’s ear. Her scent flooded me—fear-sweat and ink, sharpening my focus. “When I let go,” I murmured, “you put this blade to my throat, shyrarva . Understand?”

Her eyes widened, but she nodded. Brave little human.

I released the dagger and threw my head back, baring my throat. My vow shook the sanctum. “By flame and claw, I claim her!”

Orla’s arm trembled as she pressed the blade’s edge to my pulse. The crowd gasped. Even Darrokar leaned forward, wings half-spread.

Karyseth’s tail lashed. “A trick! The human doesn’t know our ways!”

“She holds my fire,” I snarled. The dagger’s glow intensified, reacting to Orla’s touch—my soul recognizing her. The sacred crystals embedded in the hilt ignited, casting her face in a golden glow.

The crowd murmured, claws pulling back.

Almost.

The priestess’s claws scraped stone as she stepped closer. “Fire cannot lie,” she sneered. “Let the human speak the vow. Let her blood mingle with yours in the sacred flame. Then we’ll see this … bond .”

My flames dimmed. Fuck. The full ritual required marks, blood, fire—things that would break her. I’d seen initiates scream during bonding ceremonies, and they were Drakarn. No one but the zealots performed the ritual or did something insane like subject themselves to a mating challenge. The gods didn’t care, and I would not risk my mate.

Orla was still holding the blade to my throat. Her whisper barely reached me. “What do I?—?”

“Silence!” Karyseth’s tail cracked.

The dagger trembled in Orla’s grip. Her wide eyes reflected my smoldering scales. So fragile. So mortal. One wrong move, and they’d scorch her to bone.

No.

Instinct surged—fangs aching to pierce, claws itching to claim. My tongue dragged across sharp teeth, tasting the ghost of her blood from when I’d carried her half-dead from the sands a month ago. Sweet. Addictive.

Too much.

I gripped her waist, scales hissing against her shirt’s synthetic fabric. Her breath hitched, and she pulled the knife back. Every instinct roared to bite, to brand, to make my claim the truth. But her fragile neck …

“Trust me,” I growled low, the words more plea than command.

Her nod was barely perceptible.

I struck.

My tongue dragged up the salt-damp hollow beneath her ear, every ridge and tastebud igniting as her scent exploded across my senses. Her pulse beat against the flat of my tongue—wild, human-quick, a rhythm that made my cock throb against my battle harness.

Fuck, she was soft. Softer than silk, her skin like gold under my slow, possessive stroke.

A whimper escaped her—high, reedy, cut short by clenched teeth. Her hips jerked against my thigh, seeking friction. My scales flared hotter there, granting her the barest hint of warmth.

Let her burn.

“Steady,” I rumbled against her jaw, though my own tail lashed uncontrollably, like I was some unblooded warrior. Her hands fisted against my shoulders, tugging the sensitive roots of my scales in a way that sent fire coiling down my spine. I groaned, the sound traveling from my chest to where our bodies pressed together.

Her answering gasp tasted like victory.

I licked lower, following the tendon straining in her neck. Her blood sang here—spiced fear and burgeoning want, a cocktail that made my fangs ache to pierce. My claws flexed into her hips, pricking through fabric as I hauled her harder against me. Her scent deepened, ozone sharpening to storm-air, damp stone blooming with the musk only a roused mate could shed.

“Mine,” I snarled into her skin, lapping at the sweat beading along her collarbone. My wings mantled tighter around us, shielding her from their stares as my tail coiled around her ankle. Let them see her flush. Let them smell her arousal.

Let every fool here know this fire was mine alone to stoke.

Her moan when I reached the scar below her ear nearly undid me—husky, unbidden, a sound that made my cock harden even further.

Fire surged lower. The dagger clattered as her grip slackened, her other hand fisting into my battle harness.

Karyseth’s roar shattered the moment. “Enough! Your theatrics insult the Forge!”

I whirled, shielding Orla with my wings. Flames licked my vision. “You doubt the scent-bond? Come closer then, Priestess. See what fire I’ve kindled.”

The challenge hung smoking around us.

No Drakarn moved.

Orla’s whisper tickled my ear. “Your scales … they’re glowing.”

I glanced down. My ribs shone crimson through ash-streaked plating—mating flush in full blaze. Fuck.

Darrokar’s wingtip brushed my shoulder. “The bond is … unexpected,” he rumbled, “but evident.”

His mate stepped up beside him, human eyes sharp. “She’s marked,” Terra said smoothly. “By your laws, that’s binding.”

Karyseth’s tail lashed, but warriors began bowing—first Krazath, then others, until only the priestess stood seething.

Orla’s fingers flexed against my chest. “Marked?”

I crushed her closer. “Later.”

I locked eyes with Karyseth, letting flames lick across my teeth. “Challenge the bond, Priestess. I’ll burn this sanctum to ash before she bleeds.”

Silence.

Darrokar stepped forward, his own recent mating scar glinting. “Enough. This is done.” His gaze cut to me, unreadable. “The council will discuss this further.”

The crowd erupted—outrage, awe, the hungry buzz of scandal. Karyseth’s shriek pierced the din, but the warriors were already dispersing, casting wary glances at Orla.

At my mate.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Orla’s whisper tickled my jaw. “Your pulse is racing.”

“So it is,” I breathed. I couldn’t look away from her.

Fuck. I’m doomed.