Page 10 of The Dragon Warlord

Snapping my eyes open, I’m met with River’s exotic sapphire ones and he’s biting his damn lip. If my cock could groan, it would. Did he have to be so breathtaking? But I have a feeling that it wouldn’t matter if River was a gargoyle, I’d still need him like air.

Another person attempts to stroll into this section. Ripping my hand away from River, I snarl at the nice man who just wants a history book. He races off before I can rip his throat out with my fancy new dragon teeth.

I’m certainly not making friends.

* * *

The overwhelming irritation doesn’t abate in the slightest. Deciding I’m merely a toddler in need of food, I ask River to lead me to the kitchens. I don’t need to feel what he’s feeling to know he’s hesitant.

“Is there something wrong with me going to the kitchens?”

“You are the Warlord, Warlord.”

I let that sink in. That title garners a different reaction than it did in Markaytia. Father, Markaytia’s resident Warlord, is offered respect wherever he goes—respect that he’s earned I might add—but Markaytians don’t bow before him and utter a prayer as he walks by. It’s ridiculous. There are rules too. I’m at the top of the hierarchy and shan’t befriend commoners. Even the royals have rules about how much they can fraternize with me. It seems the only people above all of this are the dragon lord and his husbands, which is a convenient coincidence. How am I supposed to get to know my dragonkin if I can’t make friends?

There is some leniency for River as well, which is dependent on the flexibility I give. I’d like to say I’ve given him freedoms aplenty, but I haven’t. The first week wasn’t so bad, things were as “normal” as they could be, but now, things have gotten worse, and they continue to get worse still. I don’t want him out of my sight, which restricts him full stop. He claims he doesn’t want to be anywhere else anyway, but that’s got to be a side effect of the bond.

I’m willing to accept that the bond is doing to him what it’s doing to me, but I’m the one who’s responsible for the existence of the bond between us in the first place, and worry more about what it’s doing to him.

“I’ll freak everyone out if I go down there, won’t I?”

He nods. “It’s better if I do it—”

“No.”

He nods again. “But the truth is, you can do whatever you want, Warlord. There is no rule that bans you from the kitchens.”

It’s the lesser of the evils. Allowing River to go on his own at this juncture could end in accidental dragon death by my sword. “Lead the way.”

My jacket flares behind me as I follow him down the long hallways. I admit to loving the jacket. It’s not just a fashion statement, it’s a piece of armor made from my dragon scales. I don’t even want to know how they did that unless I’m supposed to know that too, to get out of here. My guess is they skinned me alive when I was a dragon. It sounds like the kind of evil and horrible thing the dragon lord would have done.

The walls of this place rise as if they grew upward and are fashioned from something I’ve never seen before, but it’s best described as the pearly opalescence of the inside of a conch shell. I doubt it’s as brittle or it wouldn’t hold a structure as massive as The Tower.

Light bounces off multiple smooth bumps and dips in the pearlescent structure, pouring in from the soaring windows. The ground is covered in places by long, purple carpets and bare in others, allowing our boots to click, emitting a hollow sound across the expanse.

Wherever people are, they drop what they’re doing and prostrate and recite the Warlord’s prayer, paying their respects to a Warlord—that’s me—who hasn’t done a single thing for them.

Holding my chest high, I stride past them with purpose, recalling Father’s words.

Never let on that you don’t know what the fuck is going on, especially when you don’t know what the fuck is going on.

Father meant that I should hold onto my cards, so I do that, acting like it’s nothing out of the ordinary for them to pay homage to me.

Father’s other lessons about networking have never been so important. I am the Warlord after all. Getting to know the people of this place isn’t such a bad idea. I might not be allowed to make friends—go to their homes for tea—but I can say hello and wish them a good day. If I am going to have to play Warlord for however long I’m here, I should let them know I’m a good guy.

Everyone in the kitchens is the same, scrambling to bow for me and that’s just dangerous. Even those in front of wood-burning cookstoves go to their knees. They abandon mixing bowls, and countertops of dough and flour. There are now powdered handprints on the floor.

I channel my best Alrik. My soon-to-be second husband—because Iwillmake it home in time to marry him—is the crown prince of Mortouge and he knows how to command a room of people bowing for him.

“You may all rise.” There is a commotion as everyone scurries to rise from the floor. “I wish for some food. Who is in charge?”

A thin woman rushes forward. It’s impossible to tell her age, but there’s something ancient in her eyes and I suspect she’s had many turns around the sun. “I am Pewter, Warlord. It would be an honor to serve you.”

River, wisely, stays close to me. My nerves race with so many people around him.

“Is there something you prefer?”

“Give me a selection of what’s considered dragon cuisine.” There. The dragon lord wants me to learn? I’m learning. “Please have enough for two delivered to my quarters.” That’s as much as the kitchen staff get to see of me.