Page 3 of Klauth (Dragonis Academy, Year 2.5 #3)

Chapter Three

Nine months later.

I draw a long breath. The tang of sulfur and damp stone fills my lungs as I glare over the ramparts.

The night air tastes bitter at the back of my throat.

It reminds me of the acid I wield in battle.

A chill breeze stings my scar. It runs across my brow and cheek, a constant ache that flares with every shifting gust. It is a small price to pay for surviving the hundred years war.

I flick my gaze and settle on the female Syrax pacing in the courtyard below.

Four dud eggs. My jaw tightens at the memory of her cringing voice this morning: “ Will you mark me?” Her pleading tone still echoes in my skull.

I curl my lip in disgust. Her scent drifts upward—sweet yet sharp—and mingles with the damp aroma of stone and the bitter tang of torch smoke.

She is too weak to be my mate. Even my drake recoils at the thought of my fangs sinking into her throat.

I lean forward and press my forearms against the coarse, pitted wall.

Small chips of stone dig into my skin, and I welcome the sharp pinch.

Distant academy lights reflect off the water like ghostly fireflies.

They gradually reveal the silhouette of my latest project: Malivore.

I can almost taste the brine of the sea as I inhale.

I remember how Thauglor and I vowed to transform this place into a fortress for our strongest. The memory of our combined breaths—my toxic acid and his ferocious flames—clings to me like the burn of fresh blood on my tongue.

That “happy little accident” of scorching drow nests still makes my heart pound with vicious pride.

My scars tingle beneath my clothes. They remind me of the life I have led—the wing talon that nearly took my eye, the ambushes we narrowly escaped.

I recall the screech of wyverns overhead and the deafening clash of battle.

I remember snapping bones, the metallic tang of spilled blood, and the roar of fire consuming all in its path.

I huff a breath. The flood of memories recedes as I focus on the future.

She is merely a means to an end. Once Malivore stands complete, I will fill it with my finest soldiers.

Drakes who bear their scars with pride. I picture the clang of steel echoing in cold corridors.

I hear the hissing breath of warriors sparring in the courtyard.

I see the low, smoky glow of torches on polished weapons.

The nesting rooms will shelter the dragons who fought at my side and their true mates.

And when I find my mate—the one worthy of my bite—these walls will testify to our true power.

“What are we going to do about her?” Thauglor asks. He gestures toward Syrax pacing in the courtyard. Torchlight outlines her frail silhouette. I catch the faint odor of burning pitch mingling with the crisp night air.

“No clue. She chose a mountain range halfway between here and her parents.” I gesture toward the craggy peaks in the distance—my territory.

My jaw tightens at their sight, though the tang of sea salt eases my tension.

“Apparently, mine aren’t good enough for her.

” A deep, dissatisfied rumble shakes my chest.

“Either that or she’s afraid to be in your territory with her eggs,” Thauglor muses. He points down. My gaze shifts to the courtyard where Syrax stands with a page. I hear the scrape of metal on stone as she struggles with a dirk. “It’s a start,” he adds.

“She may be plotting to kill me in my sleep,” I mutter. I arch a brow at Thauglor and refocus on the halfhearted lesson below. The clang of the blade against worn flagstones grates on my ears.

“That I would pay to see,” Thauglor replies, his laugh slicing through the darkness.

“That makes two of us.” I shake my head and watch as Syrax is disarmed repeatedly. Finally, she tosses the dirk aside with a frustrated hiss. She disappears into the castle, her steps echoing along the stone walls.

“What happens if you find your mate?” Thauglor asks in a low tone. His question cuts deeper than the sea breeze stinging my nostrils.

I let the chilly air fill my lungs. I detect the faint smell of smoldering wood from nearby forges.

“If she hasn’t produced any viable offspring, I will free her from the contract and let her choose among the males in my army.

” I lift my right hand. I extend and retract my talons, savoring the subtle scrape of keratin against my skin—a reminder of my strength.

“What if she does?” Thauglor asks. He leans against the cold stone wall, arms folded. I feel the rough surface press against my back, grounding me.

“She’ll remain sheltered in my castle,” I reply.

“If my mate doesn’t kill her, that is.” I flick my gaze toward the distant fires dancing at the temple of Bahamut.

Their glow carves flickering shadows in the dark.

“I won’t breed with her again once I find my mate.

She adds nothing to my bloodline. Perhaps I’ll offer her to the priestesses. Let her find purpose in their order.”

Thauglor tilts his head and follows my line of sight. “A fitting place for her if she’s of no use,” he says coolly. He watches the bobbing torches as workers finish their tasks. Their low chatter rides the wind, punctuated by the rhythmic sound of distant waves.

I turn toward the ocean, taking in the silvery ripples under the moonlight.

The dull roar of the surf resonates like a drumbeat in my chest. In my mind’s eye, I envision flying alongside a mate worthy of my bloodline—fierce, intelligent, and unafraid to challenge me.

The thought sends a tightness through my chest, as though even Bahamut might be listening to my silent appeal.

Sighing, I watch the water churn below, wishing for the day he grants me that boon.

Six months later.

Syrax went into heat nearly a week ago. Her musk still clings to the cold stone walls of my keep.

Each time I pass the corridor to her chamber, a faint, sour-sweet odor hits me.

It makes my scaled hide bristle. I perform my drake duties to preserve my bloodline.

The task is grim and methodical. My inner dragon hisses with anger.

I resent being forced to take her. Even now, the memory of her soft scales against mine sets my teeth on edge.

The thought of touching her wretched flesh again makes my skin crawl.

All she must do is follow the assignment: give me an heir. It is cut and dry.

I fly over the nest site a short while ago.

The wind is bitterly cold and carries the scent of an impending spring storm.

Below, jagged rocks and sparse, scraggly vegetation spread across the bleak landscape.

Syrax laid seven eggs—only four are viable.

The pit she dug in the earth is pathetic.

It shelters nothing from the biting winds that rip through the valley each spring.

I have ordered several young males in my army to hunt for her.

I can almost taste the fresh blood in the air as they deliver food to her.

She refuses to shift back to her human form until the eggs hatch.

I cannot entirely blame her. She is weak in both forms. Yet her dragoness still bares its fangs and unleashes its ferocious breath when threatened.

Only two more months remain until I send her to the temple.

The temple halls reek of incense and stern discipline.

I have been inside only once, but the metallic tang of ceremonial blood offerings still clings to my memory.

Once she is there, they will put a collar on her.

It will bind her dragon, and she will live her days in that cold, echoing place. Then she will trouble me no more.

My eyes drift toward a distant mountain range, half-shrouded in low-hanging clouds.

I wonder what my progeny will look like.

Will they be strong and cunning? Will their scales gleam like mine or remain dull like hers?

My nostrils flare at the thought of them inheriting her weakness.

Perhaps only daughters should hatch. I could marry them off to forge alliances with more powerful dens.

A faint smile curves across my lips. The metallic taste of anticipation coats my tongue.

I consider several potential alliances. Thauglor’s cousins have several unmated male offspring.

Their den lies hidden in the black crags, where the smell of sulfur hangs over hot springs.

That match would serve both dens well. I turn away from the window.

The drafty corridor guides me back to the heart of my castle.

Torches flicker in sconces along the stone walls.

Their light casts long, dancing shadows as I ascend to the third floor to review the maps in my office.

The air in my office is stale. It smells of old parchment and leather-bound tomes.

I push open the door. The hinges squeak in protest. I cross to my desk and pin four colored markers onto a large board on the wall.

Each pin marks a different nest, each with its own strengths and resources.

The Risedale nest has produced the strongest, most savage green dragons for generations.

Their presence leaves behind a spicy, resinous odor.

Their elite assassin squadron—the shadowblades—thrives in secrecy.

I have heard they train in silent catacombs that reek of stale blood and damp moss. They have two unmated, unmatched sons.

Next is Blackhaven—Thauglor’s family. Their black dragons are ferocious. Their presence darkens the sky like a thunderhead. I hear they dwell in swampy lowlands, where decay and stagnant water saturate every breath. They have one unmated male.

Looking west, the Starlight nest houses the last of the iron dragons.

I recall an earthen, metallic tang in the surrounding air.

It clings to your nostrils for days. They have four unmated or unmatched males.

Aside from the crystal dragons, the dens struggle to produce enough females.

Lastly, Emberforge is home to the brass dragons.

They are famed for their aerial combat and breathtaking artistry.

Their peaks echo with the clang of metal and the hiss of forging fires.

The very air shimmers with heat. Their clutch is due to hatch at the same time as mine.

I move to my desk. The old wooden boards groan under my weight.

I carefully draft four missives addressed to the nests that interest me most. Dragonic law demands that each clutch be announced to at least four nests within half a day’s flight.

All offers must be entertained. They cannot be refused unless the hatchlings die or are of the wrong gender.

I finish writing. My quill scratches softly on the parchment.

The smell of hot wax fills the air as I press my seal into each scroll.

My house sigil glistens in the candlelight.

I reach up and pull the cord that rings the bell in the squires’ room. A dull clang echoes down the corridor. Moments later, David, my squire, appears at the door. His boots click on the stone floor. He bows deeply before approaching.

“You rang, sire?” he asks in a hushed tone.

“I have missives that need fast delivery,” I reply, handing him the scrolls. “Send your four fastest flyers.”

He nods, a flicker of torchlight dancing in his eyes. He tucks the missives under one arm and leaves without another word. A cool draft follows him out, rustling the parchment on my desk.

Now, all that remains is to wait. I hope that all the eggs hatch. Only then can I secure the alliances that will cement my den’s place at the top.