Page 44 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Thirty-One

Rosomon

E ven after my belly is full of sup, my body continues to shake with fatigue. It aches in places and ways I did not know were possible—inside and out.

But at least I’m still alive. Our recruit group lost three and ten candidates to the gauntlet, more deserted before the start, and now the large group I arrived with numbers but eight and twenty.

My every muscle and bone plead for me to retreat to my room, where I can sink into a hot bath and then my warm bed, but even before the last plate of food is consumed, our group is ushered into yet another grand room where music is playing and ale is flowing.

Flickering gas lights dance through hundreds of crystals, hanging from impossibly large chandeliers and it makes the bright limestone walls sparkle.

I’d guess there are close to a hundred people in the ballroom, including more women than I’ve seen since I arrived at camp.

Some I recognize from amongst those who serve us food and draw our baths, but others are wearing much finer clothes.

Are these the courtesans? The raucous and celebratory atmosphere lifts my mood, distracting me from the pain of every step, of every breath.

I spot Samyull, and my heart soars. I race through the crowd toward my friend, grateful he’s not only alive, but still here. Wearing a leather apron over simple clothes, he sets a flagon of ale on a long wooden table and then stands stiffly behind it.

“Samyull!” As I approach, I note the symbol of Othrix embroidered on his apron.

His face lights up. “Rosshall. I heard you’d survived. Well done!”

“So did you.” I lean onto the table. “I didn’t see your pass through the gauntlet.”

One of the senior servants, a large woman with a stern smile, passes behind Samyull. “No fraternizing with the candidates while at work.”

He lifts the flagon, pours ale into a pewter tankard and hands it to me. “I survived, yes.” He nods. “But I didn’t run the gauntlet. I’m no longer a candidate.”

I assumed he’d turned recreant but didn’t want to say it. “What happened?”

“I’ve known I was done since that pit.” He leans across the table. “You saved my life down there.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” I take a sip of the ale.

“I can’t believe I survived nearly two days.” He shakes his head. “But I didn’t want to desert. I still want to serve.” A satisfied expression fills his eyes. “My maid told me that if I wanted to remain at camp, I should talk to Master Saxon.”

My heart skips a beat at the mention of his name.

“I found the master, just in time to escape the gauntlet, or be forced to desert. The master spoke to the klerick on my behalf, and I’m now an Acolyte of Othrix. I’m forever dedicated to serving the camp’s riders and candidates.” Samyull lifts his chin, looking proud of his choice.

I study my friend’s expression. Not wanting to share details about my own life, I didn’t make many enquiries about what Samyull’s was like before we met.

But I do know he was neither a servant, nor particularly religious.

And yet he seems proud of his choice, and I don’t want to show any sign of pity, or even a hint that it’s not a choice I’d have made.

In fact, becoming a servant at camp is precisely the choice I was offered by Saxon, although his offer was to devote myself to serving his cock—not Othrix.

I must extinguish all remaining stirrings for Saxon. I must lean into my anger to get past my continued captivation of my master.

A group of senior candidates arrives at the table beside me. “Pour us some ale, boy!”

Samyull quickly fills three more tankards, then he glances quickly at me before heading away to refill his flagon.

I’m glad my friend has found a place here, one where his life won’t be in constant danger. But that leaves me with no allies amongst my fellow recruits.

It’s for the best. Getting close to anyone risks revealing my secret. And I’m well used to keeping my own company.

I take another sip of ale, hoping its effects might ease my aching muscles.

The musicians are playing a lively reel, and in the center of the room, a large group of men and women are dancing, holding arms and galloping in a circle to the music.

This kind of dancing looks more fun than the formal dances I learned as a child and was forced to perform on command.

I lean against a column adorned with fragrant floral garlands, willing myself to stay awake as I sip on the ale and watch. The music changes to something slower, and some of the men grab partners and glide them over the floor, holding them close against their bodies.

The sight of male and female bodies pressed together reawakens longings inside me. Now that I know how it feels to be with a man, to be held tightly against one, will I ever learn not to react to the sight?

The music stops, and bright lights shine at the front of the room.

A hush falls over the crowd as they drift toward the lighted area. I slowly follow, unable to see the small stage over the much taller people.

“Good eve,” Saxon’s deep voice fills the room and my belly. “Congratulations to the new recruits who survived two days at camp.”

Cheers rise from the crowd and pride fills my chest. No one—certainly not Saxon—expected me to survive even my first day.

“Before you fall into the haze of ale,” Saxon continues, “we masters would like to acknowledge some significant accomplishments.”

The room settles, everyone listening intently. I still can’t see through the crowd, but don’t want to draw attention to myself by pushing through to the front.

“Dragon Rider Alexandre,” Saxon says, “please join your masters on the stage.”

Shifting around the edge of the crowd, I spot a chair in the shadows. I set my half empty tankard below the chair, and then climb atop its seat. A tall man with shortly cropped white hair and dark brown skin steps onto the stage. He stands at attention opposite Saxon and the other dragon masters.

Near the front of the crowd, I spot Prince Tynan, rising a half-span above most other men.

Tynan’s jacket is hanging open, as are the top ties of his chemise, revealing the ropey tendons of his neck and the sharp line of his collarbone.

I draw in a quick breath. Tynan might be despicable, but he is undeniably beautiful—a wonder to observe, whether he’s demonstrating his athleticism and skills, or simply standing for me to admire. I force my eyes back to the stage.

“Dragon Rider Alexandre,” Saxon booms, “today you demonstrated the highest standards of bravery and combat skills.”

Alexandre nods his head in acknowledgement of the praise.

“It is reported,” Saxon continues, “that your sword slayed no less than seventy invading demons.”

Shock washes through the crowd.

“Your bravery allowed your fellow riders, Stran and Jakeon to repair one of the largest veil ruptures yet. For this act of bravery and skill you have been awarded a silver star.”

The room breaks into applause, as Saxon pins something onto Alexandre’s jacket. Then both Treacher and Roche step up to shake Alexandre’s hand too.

As Alexandre strides off the stage, four other riders rush up. They lift him off the edge of the stage and onto their shoulders. The room cheers as the men carry Alexandre around. They toss him through the air to another group of men, and then back again. My heart fills with excitement.

Such scrutiny and close contact would be far too dangerous for me, yet my mind flashes to the future, to a night when I might be bestowed with such honors. One day, that will be me. I’ve never felt so determined or hopeful.

“Attention!” Treacher shouts.

The men set Alexandre onto his feet, and the crowd silences, coming to attention in front of the dragon masters on the stage.

Treacher steps forward. “Earlier today, the new recruits ran the gauntlet.”

A few people hoot and shout in tribute to what we accomplished.

Treacher raises his hands to silence the crowd. “Some claimed it was too early to run such a dangerous trial—” his eyes flick toward Saxon “—but our new recruits showed more promise than any expected.” He pauses, and the entire room becomes silent.

“Three and ten were lost,” Treacher continues. “A low number, given the group’s inexperience.” He widens his stance. “Well done to all who remain.”

My chest swells with pride as cheers rise, and some of my fellow recruits slap each other over their leather clad backs.

“And—” Treacher raises his hands to silence the crowd. “A new course record was set today.”

The room breaks out in cheers, and my gaze drifts toward Tynan. Surely it was set by him.

Tynan seems to assume this too, and scrambles to fix his uniform.

“The previous record, held by Candidate Tynan, was bettered by not one, not two, but four points!” Treacher says.

The crowd cheers, many looking at each other in dismay, and Tynan’s friends clap him on the back on learning how well he beat his previous record. But he seems to have frozen, his fingers stalling, while fastening the top clasp of his jacket.

“Rider candidate Rosshall, please join us on stage.”

I list to the side, nearly falling off the chair. Did Treacher say my name, or am I still daydreaming of future glories?

“There he is,” someone shouts, and many faces turn toward me.

“Candidate Rosshall,” Treacher calls out. “Join us, now.”

His voice is harsh, and if I hadn’t heard the announcement I’d believe I was being called up for punishment.

I jump off the chair, wincing as my muscles object to the landing, but then stride as confidently as I can toward the stage.

The crowd parts for me, and I receive multiple hard smacks on my back.

One slap almost throws me forward onto my knees.

How do men put up with being struck so often?

I climb up the two steps to the stage and stand in front of the three dragon masters. Saxon stares ahead, refusing to meet my gaze, but Roche and Treacher stare directly at my face, as if looking to discover something there.

“Candidate Rosshall of Achotia,” Treacher says. “You surprised not only me, but every soul at camp today.”

Pride swells inside me, but I fight to keep it off my face. A true smile might expose my sex.

“I expect no candidate was more surprised than our previous record holder.” Treacher’s gaze shifts to the crowd.

I follow it, and my eyes land on Tynan.

His scowl quickly shifts to a grin. “I’ll win it back next time!” he calls out. The men around him nod and clap him on the back.

Our gazes meet, and once again I’m struck by the fires carried in his eyes. My belly stirs and the breath vacates my chest.

I went two and twenty years barely noticing men, but in less than a fortnight something has awoken inside me. Something that sparks to life any time I’m close to either Tynan or Saxon. Even though both are my enemies.

“Rosshall,” Treacher says.

I snap my attention back to the master. Looking at his scarred and fierce face, my cheeks heat, and I pray to Othrix that I wasn’t staring at Tynan for long.

“Candidate Rosshall,” Treacher says. “For this accomplishment, you have been awarded a bronze bar.” He turns behind him. “Master Saxon?”

Saxon steps forward to take Treacher’s place in front of me.

My heart races, and I keep my gaze on his chest, not wanting to risk the sight of his face.

Saxon will never, ever , touch me again, never mind enter me, but my body has yet to fully accept my mind’s resolve.

Perhaps I need to find another lover, but that’s impossible at camp, if I’m to keep my secret.

Saxon’s hands rise, and I stare at them as he fastens a small pin to my jacket. His fingers are thick and strong, weapons all on their own, but all I can think of is how those fingers feel when they caress me, and especially when they move inside me.

Saxon’s earthy scent fills my mind and draws up my gaze.

My entire body stiffens at the impact of his handsome, rugged face, and his golden hair flowing around it.

Desire and longing ripple through my body, like a fresh spark through kindling.

Between my legs, my sex pulses, and I’m grateful it’s hidden under my breeches, so no one can detect what’s happening.

How do men cope with their obvious displays of arousal?

Saxon bends toward my ear, and I stop breathing.

“Quit now,” he says quietly. “Your luck won’t last. Accept my offer while you still can.”

I step back from him, raising my chin and casting my eyes on his chest.

My own chest is heaving, but I’m rescued as a group of my fellow recruits grab me from the stage and carry me around the room to a chorus of cheers.