My emotions are unstable as they roil and wrath with his; moving from one shitstorm to another, I begin to fixate on the Black Dragon Knights now, and the diabolical Excommunication curse they laid on me, which is the entire reason we’re down here in the first place.
Nothing the Storm Dragons have tried this week has helped. Not only that, but it’s only been half a day since Ström and I had our last slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am at dawn to renew my mind, and already, my memories are pouring out of me again, like some kind of fucking sieve.
My recollections are almost faded now, as my inner drakaina gnashes her teeth that everything in my life will soon be gone once more.
Even the faces of my enemies—whom I swore I’d never forget.
As the void of my current predicament washes back in yet again, I fight to not let despair swamp me. As my memories of Sweden slip like a riptide now with the oncoming evening, I feel Bjorn wake inside the palace, countering it.
He hurls his exhausted magic through our bond, his gold-red Blood Magic roaring through me. I can breathe again and think again from my snarling blackness; as an oilslick and burning violet halo around me ceases, Bjorn’s magic surges like thunder inside my veins.
It’s soon gone, though, burnt out to his current exhaustion. Because whatever’s been done to me is so dark, it’s like his and my Blood Magic has to work ten times harder to foist it off.
Draining Bjorn to the max.
As Château de Chambord rises above the trees now, its opal lightning-stone flickering throughout its white and black façades, I can’t even enjoy the beautiful sight.
Rhennic feels my churning as he glances at me. I don’t make eye contact, only watch the gargantuan brutes of Storm Dragon guards who wind around the upper pinnacles of the palace’s opulent turrets and exquisite French Renaissance halls, in beast form.
They roar and heave lightning all through the sky, viciously eyeballing those who pass by. Like those fierce protectors, both sides of my magic are rioting at what’s been done to me; I have to rein in the void-black drake of my Bone Magic hard now, to prevent it from making oilslick droplets of pure wrath haze around me as I walk.
Even my brighter Blood Magic snarls at the prospect of forgetting everything I love—again. It’s a wicked combination, making my magicriot, despite everything. Because both sides of my Bloodwalker power know that what was done to me was beyond cruel.
Inhumane—though I struggle to even recall it now.
It doesn’t help that my Third Drake has a bloodthirsty streak a mile long. I feel Mikkel’s snarling lust for retribution against the Knights blaze as he walks behind me, sensing my interaction with Bjorn and wanting to punish those who did this to me.
Though I felt some iota of goodness inside Mikkel today, the darkness of his habitual mind slithers through me like the blackest riptide now, wanting to make those who did this suffer endlessly for their crimes.
But I know I can’t succumb to this darkness, as Aesa’s silver Truthstone hums upon my chest, urging me to hold on. I have to solve this wipe-job the Black Dragon Knight’s Council laid upon me and grow stronger from it. Not to mention kill my actual foe, the black Dragon of All Souls.
Before it can end me, my mates, and everything I love—forever.
I focus on that now, keeping my memory of the Black Dragon firmly in my thoughts as everything else departs. My sense of justice is who I am; I can’t lose it, as Rhennic and I finally slow, nearing the main palace of Château de Chambord.
As Rhennic and I arrive at the palace grounds, I weather a prickling, ants-biting-the-skin sensation of passing through Storm Dragon security. It comes from a towering lightning-blitz barrier around the palace, as the Storm Dragons’ electrifying magic approves me.
Mikkel gets similarly approved, as we reach ornate black iron gates that flicker with lightning. Those gates roll back now—admitting us to the Grand Palace of the Storm Dragons of France.
It’s a sight, even despite my current mood. I never tire of seeing the Twilight Realm’s version of Château de Chambord, with its towering white and black lightning-stone walls and turrets.
Though the French Renaissance false fortress was never finished in the human world, it’s complete here. Twenty times the size of the palace in thehuman world, it’s beautifully intimidating in the Realm where it was originally conceived.
As we move into the manicured grounds around the outer bailey, Storm Dragon guards in charcoal Victorian-styled uniforms with long pikes give us calm watchfulness. They eyeball us with their dark blue, storm-flickering eyes, however. They’re interested in why we’re here, and just what caused this small, elite group of Blood Dragons to rush down into their territory a week ago.
But though we’re foreigners in this place of endless storms and lightning-filled skies, the guards make way. As cousin to the Storm King, everyone knows me here. It’s one part of my memory that’s solid as stone: that myself and anyone with me are always welcome here, thanks to the long-standing alliance my family have had with the Storm Dragons of France.
I can’t recall the Blood Dragon King I’m related to who made an alliance with Queen Justine Toulet, Rhennic’s late mother. I do know that King is also Rhennic’s father, however, and that Rhennic has a close bond with his Blood Dragon family. They’re family he would protect just as hard as any of his Storm Dragons.
Harder, because of his love.
“Rikyava. Let’s head to your suite, where Bjorn is recovering,” Rhennic says as he escorts me up the lightning-stone steps and through a massive set of ebony doors, into the palace proper. “I’ve already had some dinner sent up—let’s go eat there so we can have a chat, like family.”
I nod as Rhennic flashes me a quick, kind smile, rubbing my chest where Aesa’s silver Truthstone sears upon my skin. But I know Rhennic’s cordial words are code for,let’s go talk in private so I can discover just what the actual fuck is going on here, before shit really hits the fan.
Though he says no more, a thousand questions flicker through my cousin’s lightning-storm eyes. His gaze is even more intense as he peruses Mikkel, though he extends a hand, inviting us into his towering, incredible palace.
I nod, heading after him. I do calming breaths now, to keep my shit under control, as we walk through ornate French Renaissance halls decorated in purple, gold, and storm-blue.
