Page 32 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Someone pushes Samyull from behind, and he stumbles forward. Egon.

Samyull regains his footing, and I glare at the bully, resentful that he’s so much taller, forcing me to look up.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, though his motive is obvious. Pure cruelty.

“Do what?” Egon grins, glancing around, keeping his gaze well above Samyull’s head, as if my friend isn’t there. But when Egon meets my gaze, I see the clear malice in his.

Egon laughs and then pushes past us to the front of the group. Ire bubbles inside me, but I keep the boil contained. Samyull is unhurt, and I expect the trials we’ll face at camp will eclipse dealing with bullies like Egon.

Ahead, the massive doors are intricately carved with dragons, their scales accentuated with opals and inlaid mother of pearl, and their eyes sparkle with arrays of small gems—sapphires, rubies, emeralds and diamonds, arranged to mimic the facets of the single dragon I’ve actually seen.

Flames alight on either side of the doors, and the light cast flashes over the carved dragons, creating the illusion that they’ve come to life.

We all gasp in unison and take a step back. The flames that alit next to the doors are well contained, housed in the same kind of wall lanterns I have in my room. I saw no one light them.

I can’t wait to learn how these lights function, how we just saw them ignite without a lighting stick.

But my attention is held by the carved dragons on the door, and the flames erupting from their gaping mouths.

Flames that are flickering now, as if truly on fire.

Inlaid citrines, in shades of yellow, amber and orange, are strategically mixed with small rubies and aquamarines to create an amazingly realistic imitation of fire.

Glancing up and around, I spot lanterns positioned behind us at the top of the portico.

Their light is directed and amplified using sheets of silver, and the effect enhances the dragon images on the door.

The sight is spectacular, and all of us are held captive in awe.

I’d believe this was magic, if I didn’t know that was a crime against Othrix.

There is no magic on this side of the veil.

The doors swing open, and my awe expands tenfold.

The dining hall is brightly lit with more of these seemingly magical lanterns, including at least a half dozen chandeliers which hang from the ceiling. But instead of candles, the hanging lights shimmer with more of these magically controlled flames under glass.

At the far end of the hall, a raised platform holds a long table.

Behind it, the dragon masters stand with a klerick.

Dressed in long robes of crimson and gold, finely adorned with the symbol of Othrix, he must be Head Klerick here at camp.

His tall, golden hat towers above his head even higher than the one our Head Klerick wears on the holiest of days in Achotia.

Silver hair, falling around his shoulders, shimmers under the lights, and the expression on his gaunt face is grave, as we all stand agape.

Master Saxon, standing to the immediate right of the ornately robed klerick, looks impossibly desirable in his tight leather breeches and flowing white chemise. The other masters are fully dressed in leather, setting Saxon apart, but for me, that’s not the only thing that divides them.

I keep my eyes trained on him, willing him to glance my way, to give me some look of encouragement, some acknowledgment that my private chamber means he’ll visit me tonight, but his gaze remains elsewhere.

A group of approximately twenty men file in. They’re dressed in leathers, embellished with intricate insignias. They assemble behind chairs at a table just below the one occupied by the dragon masters and the klerick.

Assuming these men are dragon riders, I study them in awe and realize that Prince Tynan is not among them. Perhaps these are only the most experienced riders. He’s only been at camp four moon cycles.

Soon, about twenty and five more men appear, all dressed in leathers lacking insignias, and they take places behind one of the tables set perpendicular to the first group.

Prince Tynan led this group into the room, and he takes a place at the center of a table as the other men file around him to claim other seats.

Tynan’s gaze lands on mine, and my belly contracts. And then he scowls as he drags his finger across his throat in an obvious threat. I look away. Even if he doesn’t know who I am, I’ve made an enemy. Terrific.

At this point, all but three long tables remain unfilled, and we steal glances at each other, wondering if we are meant to move toward the chairs there. No one dares.

“Welcome, junior candidates,” the klerick’s voice echoes through the hall. “As Camp Klerick, I welcome you. May Othrix protect you.”

The riders bow their heads, as do many of the other men.

I wasn’t expecting dragon rider camp to have such religious overtones, and yet the klerick clearly has a prominent position here. I suppose that makes sense, given Othrix created the veil that protects us, and also gave us the dragons to maintain it.

“I trust you have found your accommodations adequate,” says the klerick.

A murmur flows through our group in a whispered response.

“Good,” he says. “Now, it’s time to give your full attention to your dragon masters.”

The klerick sits, followed by the riders and senior candidates. Only Saxon remains standing—Saxon and our group at the back of the room.

“Recruits.” Saxon’s strong, deep voice fills the air and reverberates in my belly. “As you have seen, although we refer to this place as a camp, as reward for your sacrifices, you’ll enjoy a certain level of creature comforts during your stay here.”

“However short that stay might be,” Treacher adds, a cruel smirk on his lips.

Whispers drift amongst our group, comments less about the dangers we face and more about the rooms and the luxury of the castle we find ourselves in. I may be the only one amongst us who has ever slept in a bed made of anything finer than straw.

Saxon gestures. “These strong men before you are our dragon riders—all those not currently on patrol.”

Cheers and applause rise from the other seated men, and our group joins in.

Treacher rises alongside Saxon. “To sit alongside these men takes bravery, hard work and talent.” He nods toward the riders. “Not every candidate is destined for success. Many of you will die trying.” Treacher spreads his arms. “May you earn deaths of honor.”

Some men near me straighten their postures, widening their stances, and so I do the same.

“Our ranks of qualified riders have dwindled.” Treacher nods toward the riders, who quickly bow their heads.

“As have our number of senior candidates. But if you work hard, someday you may join them. Someday you may earn a place amongst these powerful men at the head of the room. Someday you might earn the right to feed first.”

Listening to Master Treacher, I’m now certain that Tynan isn’t yet a dragon rider like he told my brothers, and certainly implied while we were traveling here. My aversion to him expands. He’s not only an arrogant show off and bully, he brags about things he hasn’t yet achieved

Saxon nods toward the side of the room, and several women, all dressed in blue dresses and white aprons, instantly appear from the shadows—almost as if they came out of the walls. They quickly lay platters of food on the head table.

Soon after, they do the same for the dragon riders’ table, and then for the senior candidates. Our group is still standing. If I had any questions about the hierarchy at camp, they’ve been answered.

“Your trials begin tomorrow at dawn,” Saxon says. “But at this moment, you are free to find a seat—if you can.”

I quickly realize there are more of us than there are places set at the remaining tables, and the men push and shove to get places. Chairs scrape over the floor and plates clatter as our group scrambles for somewhere to sit.

Grabbing Samyull’s hand, I crouch and tug him, and we dive under one table to the far side. There, we claim two of the last available chairs. Egon has claimed the seat opposite me—just my luck.

But before I can fully process that particular misfortune, the serving women arrive to place large platters of food on our table. Everyone eagerly grabs for the food, including the seven or eight unfortunate souls who didn’t get seats or place settings. Those men eat with their hands.

The food is delicious, venison and pheasant, succulent roasted pig, accompanied by creamy potatoes drenched in butter, bright green climber beans and cubes of roasted sweet pumpkin seasoned with exotic spices from Sidonia.

Everyone eagerly shovels food into their mouths, as if we’re all fearful there won’t be enough.

Egon piles his plate with a massive mound, more than one belly could possibly hold—even his.

But, as soon as a platter empties it’s replaced by a full one, and soon, many of the men are wiping their lips and belching to announce their full bellies.

Eating more quickly than usual, but more slowly than most, I find the meat juicy and seasoned with fresh herbs, and the vegetables fresh and buttery.

I don’t know if I’ve ever enjoyed a meal this much.

Just when I think I’m about to burst, the women clear our plates to replace them with bowls of steaming pudding, full of sweet dates and cinnamon, and covered with layers of thick caramel syrup and heavy cream.

I’m too tempted to deny my mouth this treat, even if my belly objects. But after three or four bites, I can eat no more.

“You leaving that?” asks Henri, from the other side of Samyull.

Before I can answer, Egon dives over the table, grabs my bowl and starts shoveling my leftover pudding into his mouth.

Syrup and cream drip onto his chin, and he wipes it off with the sleeve of his fresh chemise.

I hold my tongue. His disgusting table manners are the least of my issues with this man.

My chair is tugged away from the table.

I cry out as it’s tipped back. Then my lips snap shut when I see Prince Tynan smirking above me. At least his bright green eyes are flashing more with mischief than malice. I hope.

He lets the front legs of my chair drop back down, and I stand quickly, turning toward him and glaring.

His smirk continues, as he leans in close. “Are you enjoying your private quarters, Rosshall?”

I pull back, but run into the table, unable to get the distance I want from him. How does he know?

“I thought you could use some privacy.” He smirks.

Was Tynan really responsible for my private chambers? Has he discovered my secret? Does he know who I am?

Fear grabs my chest, but I fight to hide it as he leans in again, his lips moving close to my ear.

“I didn’t do it for your benefit,” he says with a hard edge to his voice. “I did it to curry favor with the dragon master, so he can keep drilling your ass.”

I glare at him, trying not to show any emotion beyond ire on my face.

“And since you’re clearly willing,” Tynan says. “Perhaps I’ll take a turn drilling your little ass too.”