THE DRUSKELLE WILL COME FOR US. it was one of the first things his father told him after keon’s first, awkward transformation into his golden serpentine form. grisha hunters, korin explained. they won’t know what we are, which means they will not be prepared. but, keon. upon his son’s walking form returning to him, korin gripped him by the chin to make sure keon was looking at him. you must never let them know. no matter the cost, they never find out. if you must take your draconic form, they die. all of them. before they can leave the room. understood?
being ten at the time, keon was unable to fully grapple the concept his father drilled into his head. now, he understands why the look in korin’s eyes was so heavy and grim. they’ve chased him south of ketterdam into the open countryside, somewhere between ketterdam and belendt. the druskelle are too smart for their own good. keon is too inexperienced for his. he thought he was safe when he ducked into an old fortress and sprinted up to the second floor, lungs screaming from the exertion of running so far, but soon he finds himself once again surrounded by black-uniformed men.
two down. four remaining. he can feel the fractures in his ribs with every breath, and a knife still sits lodged in the back of his left shoulder. ignoring the searing pain of it all, keon strafes right to avoid being pinned against the wall, and leans heavily on his right arm to send a gout of flames toward the man closest to him.
it’s not working. the knife slows him down. eyes lost in the haze of his own smoke, keon stumbles, and suddenly an arm has grabbed his wrist and twisted it so far behind his back he fears it may snap. a knee slams into his sternum; he doubles over, other arm already being bound to the twisted one with some sort of nonflammable cable.
they die. all of them. he cannot let his mouth spout fire. they would know. if he did transform now, could he kill them all? ❝ fuck you, ❞ keon snarls to the nearest one, earning a crack across the jaw and another, harder kick to the ribs for it. he spits blood; his body weakens with every fracture, and the world narrows to a single choice. a single risk.