The surroundings are dark, a stark contrast to the interior design of where you’re from. You’re used to everything being clean and light, not necessarily white but bright. Personally, you’re particularly weak for a pale, harmonious blue.
But down here, it’s dark. The long and steep descending stairs start out gray, green moss that matches the surrounding flora creeping into every crack of the steps under you and the stone walls around you. All of it is hidden from humans and anyone unauthorized; you wouldn't know of the steps behind the thick slab of rock unless you knew the command to move it.
With every step down, the gray turns darker, colder, as if the stone is more charred the lower you get. Fitting, you guess. The very last steps and the other huge slab of rock posing as a door are nearly black. On either side of the door, someone has mounted a torch, its fire burning with the eternal flame. It's the only light source present beside the remaining daylight reaching its last, thin rays down from the top of the stairs.
It’s admirable, really, how his effort to remain ‘dark’ trumps his living standards and convenience. But you haven't been sent here to judge someone’s sense of style. A moment after knocking on the obscenely large door and wondering how on earth anyone is supposed to hear it, the rock slides slowly against the ground underneath, a deep, grinding sound filling your ears.
A red-horned lady dressed in black leather appears. A demon. “You have an appointment?” she asks casually, one hand on the rock beside her head.
“Uh… no?” you answer, confused rather than arrogant. “But it’s important.”
She purses her lips, glancing back behind the door. If she’s considering letting you in or awaiting someone’s approval, you can’t tell.
Finally, she turns back to you, and with a nod, she opens the door wider to let you through. The first rock at the top of the stairs glides shut behind you, cutting off the last of the daylight as you step through the gap in front of you.
Despite the descent down feeling like walking into a literal darkness, this feels even more so. Do they really keep it pitch black inside?
The woman leads you through a tunnel, the stone walls fortunately decorated with a few more eternal flame torches. Your white strappy sandals—almost luminescent in the warm, dim light—echo against the ground, and your eyes land on the woman’s braided hair and her long, thin tail as she walks in front of you.
She definitely fits the vibe; your flowy, layered white chiffon dress with the lightest of blue details sticks out like a sore thumb.
Soon enough, the tunnel opens up into a large room, the woman gesturing past her and forward. As you walk, you feel eyes on you, but you keep your head held high. It’s the demons loitering, comfortably yet fashionably positioned on wine red furniture like couches and loveseats, black stone pedestals, or even on the floor. The men and women are dressed in either black or red; most of it leather. You won’t deny that they have a certain… pull, their colorful eyes either sultry or glaring as they follow your shape.
At least there’s a gigantic live chandelier illuminating the space.
Two seconds later, you reach the… throne. You’ve heard about this place and what it looks like, but actually being here is another thing. More than anything, you thought the man himself would be present, maybe draped confidently and lazily over that very throne. But it’s vacant?
Peering to your left and then right, your gaze catches on the wall of mirrors opposite the throne, some large and others huge, but all framed with intricate gold.
“An angel?” a low voice suddenly muses from inches behind you, its owner’s breath stirring your hair. “What brings you here?”
Startled, you turn, only to see the devil himself, an amused smirk playing on his lips as his black eyes peer down at you. Goosebumps line your arms.
“I think you know why, sir,” you answer politely, watching as he rounds you.
Of course, you’ve heard a few things about him as well, but you’ve never met anyone who’s met him. As far as you know, the contact between the devil and the upper levels has been minimal for quite some time now.
What you have heard about him, however, includes how handsome he is. Tempting, even. And that’s definitely correct. He’s dark-haired, tall, and dressed in all black as he backs up toward his stone throne, still watching you. The expensive dress shirt is fitted perfectly, accentuating his thick, muscular arms and the impressive build of his chest, a few open buttons exposing a naked strip of it. At the same time, he’s got a surprisingly slender waist.
“Like what you see?” he asks, rolling the sleeves up his thick forearms as your eyes travel down his pants and clearly muscular thighs.
When you lift your eyes, however, you see that he’s definitely checking you out too, your white, partly sheer dress a real rarity down here, you assume.
“Let him go,” you instruct softly, not letting his words get to you. “Do that and we’ll be out of your way.”
“No,” he smiles, for some reason having changed his mind about taking the throne and instead taking step after slow step toward you again.
You see it in his dark, sultry eyes, and you feel it—no, you smell it—in the air.
“That doesn’t affect me, you know that. I’m a pure being.”
He comes to stand before you, looking down at you as if trying to figure you out is his new favorite hobby. “Exactly how pure are you? I guess I can try to make you… un-pure.”
“Pure as in you can’t influence me with your lust pheromones. So, will you let him go?”
“No.”
“Please?”
He tilts his head, surprised but still smirking. “I have never heard an angel say ‘please.’”
“Some of us are rather nice, you know. Most of us, actually. Being respectful increases your chances of success, I find.”
“Hm. I like it.” He licks his lips, his gaze dipping down to your mouth. “What do I get in return?”
“In return? Why not just be nice in return?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
You find his eyes, asking genuinely. “What do you want then?”
“Hmm,” he hums again, briefly looking away as he considers. A second later, his intense gaze warms your face. “What if I say ‘you?’”
“Why would you?”
You can still feel his demons' eyes on you. Half of the fifteen or so present are women—all quite pretty, even if the intense stares fill you with unease—and you've heard about how he fucks them. But while you're sure you're not the first angel to venture into his home, you're still a rarity. You'd be a challenge, or at least a change.
“I don’t usually like angels; I find you stuck up and uptight. But it’s been a while since I saw an angel, even more so a female angel.”
Right.
“Maybe for a reason?”
He tilts his head again, this time the other way. “Are you implying I force myself on women?”
“No, but you’re definitely bordering on harassing me right now.”
He takes a big step backward, bowing slowly and theatrically, but not necessarily mockingly.
“I apologize,” he says, straightening up and smiling down at you. This time, it's less arrogant and more… happy? “I have a thing for pretty women. More so when they come here, looking all innocent and pure. But even though I might be the devil, I would never force myself on anyone.”
It is, however, an easy decision to hold off on wholeheartedly trusting his words because, like he said, he is the devil. And technically, he’s a lot more powerful than you. You, an angel, are nothing more than the equivalent of one of his demons. While you don't think he's interested in hurting you, he's not supposed or allowed to, and that's the closest thing to a guarantee regarding your safety that you'll have.
“Apology accepted,” you state, believing that staying in his good graces truly is the best choice. Still, you allow yourself to politely and softly correct him. “You have an outdated worldview, you know? Wearing white doesn’t mean innocent or uptight.”
He raises his eyebrows curiously. “It doesn’t? But you all wear white? And you are innocent and uptight?”
“Technically, correlation doesn’t mean causation, even though I’d argue that we are innocent, maybe not per the same definition you consider. I don’t know who you’ve met, but I wouldn’t call all of us ‘uptight' either.”
“Really? But something like… sex… is a sin, is it not?” he questions, speaking slowly. The way he pronounces the word 'sex' has something stirring inside you, his voice dripping with something you can't precisely name.
“Sex is not a sin, no,” you explain, looking at him.
You can’t tell to what degree he’s seriously wondering versus how much he’s just steering the conversation where he wants it. But he does look at you, clearly curious and trying to figure you out.
Taking a step closer, you lift your hand before pausing and letting it hang mid-air. “Do I have your permission to touch you?”
Perhaps even more surprised, he quirks an eyebrow to go with the smile he's still wearing before he nods his permission.
Slowly, you close the distance, and with gentle fingers, brush his black hair away from his face, softly tracing his cheek. He’s incredibly handsome, quietly watching you.
“Pleasure is what you want?” you ask, searching his face for clues. You know roughly what he wants but not necessarily why.
He nods. “I thought it was a sin, though?”
You shake your head. “As long as you’re respectful, pleasure is not a sin.”
His apparent curiosity puzzles you. Everything can become a sin if you hurt others by doing it; shouldn’t he know that? Or is he still stuck in the old ways of looking at things, where anything good is a sin?
Realizing that it’s the easiest way to hopefully get what you want, you let your fingers follow the curve of his sharp jaw and then his neck, until they reach the collar of his black shirt.
“Can I undress you?”
“Go ahead,” he answers, entertained.
You lower your hand to his chest, adding your other to undo the buttons. It’s silent as you work, though you know he’s still looking down at you, watching with amusement as you open button after button and pull the shirt out from where he kept it tucked inside his pants. Not to mention the audience of demons you still have, their previously quiet voices having gone entirely silent.
You breathe slowly as more and more of him is revealed to your eyes. You knew he was muscular, but to this extent? His golden skin is warm and inviting, and he’s all bulging muscles and prominent veins. If virility had a face…
He lets you step closer to pull the shirt down his shoulders. A second later, you have it in your hands, making a conscious effort to handle it with care. The fabric, which you guess is fine Egyptian cotton, is incredibly soft against your skin, sleek almost like silk, and a result of perfect craftsmanship.
Reluctantly, you let it carefully fall to the floor, your eyes returning to the man in front of you. If the shirt was perfect craftsmanship, you don’t have words for what he is.
“So you do like what you see?” he asks, clearly very amused.
It has you chuckling because anyone, no matter species or orientation, can tell that he’s one of a kind.
“I do. You're gorgeous.”
It’s like he almost… beams at the compliment, which you’d argue is even endearing.
Carefully, you put your palm back on his warm chest, letting it slowly slide down his skin before it stops right above his belt.
“You’ll tell them to leave?” you ask as you glance around, at least ten or so demons currently watching intently, their focused eyes ranging from yellow to black.
With a wave of his hand, they disappear, one by one dissolving into black smoke. But when you’re alone—the new silence a different kind—and your fingers reach for his belt, the devil puts his big hand over yours, holding it in place.
You look up at him.
“You don’t have to.”
He has the darkest eyes you think you’ve ever seen. Deep, deep pools of pitch black, yet they’re surprisingly gentle when he offers you an out.
“Are you going to let him go if I don’t?”
He’s quiet, appears to be thinking. It’s a bit of a surprise to see the devil look even the slightest bit conflicted. He clearly doesn’t want to give you what you want without a fight, but… persuading you into doing something you really don’t want to would maybe… make him feel bad? It’s not something you expected from the devil.
You think about it, assuming his non-answer gives you a bit of wiggle room. You could probably convince him to release his prisoner without having to touch him further, but… you kinda wouldn’t mind.
“If you are nice to me… I want to.”
For a long moment, he watches you, serious yet… curious. Then, he nods his promise, and while you wouldn’t put it past the devil to be a liar, he appears genuine.
“Okay then. Will you get naked for me?” you ask softly, walking slowly toward his throne. It's big, most of it sculpted from stone except the insides, which are made of soft, padded, black leather.
The devil's belt clangs behind you, but when you turn, pointing to his throne to wordlessly ask for permission, he's just standing there, watching you with that same confident smile you saw earlier. Your request is answered with a casual nod, and so you take a seat.
“How do I look? Does it suit me?” you ask, placing your arms on the armrests and crossing your legs.
“No,” he grins, “you’re too pretty.”
“Oh?” you say, smiling. It’s always nice to receive compliments, after all.
“Tell me, then, devil, what brings you pleasure?” you continue, leaning back to the side and lifting one leg over the armrest. Your long white skirt still keeps you decent, its rather high slits—practically invisible when standing—granting you freedom to move.
“All sorts of things,” he says, his eyes glued to the way you slowly but surely pull the white fabric hanging between your legs higher, revealing more and more of you.
“Do you know what an angel tastes like?” you ask. His gaze, entirely focused on what you’re doing, brings you immense satisfaction. Especially paired with the way he licks his lips.
“No.”
“No?" You definitely thought he would've done it with an angel at some point. "Would you like to?”
Transfixed, he watches you reveal your bare core to him. Seemingly forgetting about his promise of getting naked, he instead closes the distance and drops to his knees. His hands are warm when he grabs your knees, spreading you wider and taking in the sight of your offer with what you interpret as enthusiasm. But then he closes his eyes.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts…”
You chuckle in surprise. “A—are you… saying grace?”
Opening his eyes, he smirks at you. “...Amen.”
And barely half a second later, you feel his mouth on you as he begins to eat you out as if he’s a starved man, and you’re an all you can eat buffet, only open for five more minutes. His warm, wet tongue works your pussy hard, making your breath hitch as your poor nerve endings are jolted.
Gasping, and with your legs nearly automatically closing around his head, you pull on his hair. “Careful,” you scold him gently.
“Sorry,” he mumbles against you, returning to eat you out, still sloppily but calmer.
Groaning deeply, he sends vibrations throughout your entire body. “Is there some kind of magic potion in here?”
“No,” you say, your voice breathy as you try to deal with the intense sensation of his mouth on you. If you weren’t so preoccupied, you might’ve laughed. “I can control you just as little as you can control me.”
You keep your fingers in his raven hair, tugging a little and finding it incredibly soft. The devil doesn't seem to mind.
“You sure? 'Cause your pussy’s calling for me in a way I’ve never felt before.”
“Y—yes,” you breathe, your back arching when you feel him flick your clit with the tip of his tongue.
“What if I just keep you here? Fuck you as often as I’d like?”
“And you think I'd—I’d put up with that?” you groan, breath uneven.
He hums, eagerly licking up your cunt before he tears away again. “Wait until I'm done with you. I'll make you want to stay here forever. You’ll be begging for me, I promise.”
As if to show you how serious he is, he pulls you closer to the edge of his throne by your thighs, spreading you wider. Your hips move on their own, unsure how to handle the sensation of his lewd mouth.
“Show me your tits.”
You’d think someone eating you out would be a quiet ordeal.
“Show me your tits, what?” you repeat, looking down at him and meeting his eyes. Your breath hitches again when he moves his fingers to rub your slick clit.
“Show me your tits, please.”
“I don’t know,” you tease, chest heaving embarrassingly heavy.
“Please,” he begs, and you nearly laugh when the devil leans his head against your thigh—still hanging over the arm rest—and gives you what you can only describe as puppy eyes. He’s not innocent; there’s a mischievousness blended into his black eyes, and he’s still very much rubbing your clit in slow circles, but you can appreciate the gesture for what it is.
“Fine,” you say, the amused smile impossible to hide.
Using one hand, you move it up your dress, gripping the milkmaid top and pulling it down, letting your tits spill out.
The devil rises to his knees, keeping one hand on your cunt while taking a nipple into his warm, wet mouth. The lazy circles on your clit, an even and bearable kind of stimulation, he mirrors with his tongue around your nipple. Sighing, you return your hand to his hair.
But only a second later, he lets go of your nipple, keeping his face a mere inch from yours. “Can I put one in?”
You nod, his husky voice really doing things to you, and your hands drop to his wide, muscular shoulders.
Like the devil he truly is, he holds eye contact, his dark eyes seeing what feels like every corner of your soul as he sinks a finger inside you.
“Sucking me in, huh?”
You focus on his pretty face as he moves one long finger slowly in and out of you. Knowing exactly what he's doing, he curls it to rub your sweet spot.
“Kiss me.”
For half a second, his movement inside you stops. It’s not the only sign of his surprise, his face shows it too.
“You don’t kiss?” you ask, embarrassingly out of breath.
“Not very often, no,” he smiles. “Can I add another?”
You nod, biting your lip when he works another finger inside you. It’s not a struggle; you’re soaked and relaxed, but it still elicits something like a whimper from you. There’s something in his gaze as he watches you, and then he leans in. It’s slow, even more so in comparison to the fingers he fucks in and out of you at a medium pace, setting your insides on fire.
His lips graze your open ones. He keeps them there, barely touching yours, for a while.
“Devil,” you breathe against him, a quiet scolding for not giving you what you want.
He laughs but a second later finally grants you your wish. His lips are soft, and he kisses you with experience even though claiming not to do it often. But it’s surprisingly innocent. No tongue, no sloppily mixing of saliva, just lips.
In contrast, he pulls back a few inches—and you follow, still holding onto his shoulders—so that he can use both his hands on your cunt and try to make you come. And make you, he does.
His left hand, already pushing two of his thick, long fingers in and out of you, speeds up, the sounds of it almost vulgar. The new addition—the other hand—he uses to rub your clit in determined circles. In response, your thighs try to close around him, and you both hear and feel him chuckle as he kisses you again. There’s not much you can do but grip his shoulders tighter and whimper against his mouth.
When you can barely breathe, the onslaught of sensation rapidly bringing you closer to the edge, you throw your head back.
“Devil,” you plead quietly.
“Mhm?”
But you don’t really have anything to say, and you guess he very well already knows you’re close, seeing as even your thighs start to shake and your breaths lose even more depth.
You feel him kiss your jaw, and a moment later, you’re closing your eyes and biting your lip to stay quiet, but the gasp comes anyway. Stars shoot across your eyelids and the warm pleasure washes over you and your entire body.
He lets you hold onto him, continuing his actions until your whimpers turn into those of overstimulation. At that point, he stops and removes his hands from you.
Chest heaving, tits out, you open your eyes to see him a few inches away, his hands now on the armrests as he cages you in. He grins proudly, looking down at you, and you’re a breathy, shaky mess under him.
“So, what do you think?” you ask, smiling coyly.
His eyebrows rise. “Huh?”
“About tasting an angel?”
“Oh. Ten out of ten.”
It makes you laugh, and you find yourself thinking that… he’s kinda sweet.
“What about you? Did I make you see heaven?”
Rolling your eyes, another chuckle escapes you.
“So, is that enough for you?” he asks, and while his dark eyes are warm, you can tell even through the relative darkness that his pupils are blown, and it's clear that he's hoping for a certain answer. And even if you’re not technically providing sexual favors as a way of payment (anymore), the original purpose of all of this was to provide him pleasure.
“What do you want?”
He looks at you with a smile you can’t describe as anything but handsome.
“While merely eating you out has been the highlight of the century, I'd love to continue. But again, I don’t force myself on anyone,” he reminds you, his voice smooth as he rests all his weight on one arm, using the other to gently tuck your hair behind your ear and then trace your jaw. “If it were up to me, though, I’d already have you bouncing on my cock.”
You gasp at the dirty words coming from the sweet smile.
“You have a filthy mouth, you know that?”
“Too filthy? Want me to rephrase that in a… pure way?”
“Depends. Can you?” you ask, amused.
“Of course,” he says, “If it were up to me, I’d already…”
His voice trails off as he struggles to think of something, and every second makes it funnier to you.
“Too difficult?”
“You know what? Respectfully, I’d love to make you come on my cock.”
His words elicit another laugh from you, something that has him grinning widely.
“Good enough?”
“Sure.”
“Great. So we’re on the same page?”
“Mhm.”
“Perfect."
Effortlessly, he grabs you by your armpits and lifts you onto the armrest, turning you outward. You watch him come to stand between your legs, your fingers itching to touch him.
“Oh?” He pauses whatever he was going to do, looking down at your hand on his stomach.
You observe it together, how it glides over his warm, smooth skin as it travels south. He’s so impressive; so thick and built. Literally all thick muscle under warm skin. Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t complain about what could be considered teasing, so you continue, loving the sound of his breaths becoming just a bit less even.
Your hand moves over the opened belt and the soft fabric of his dress pants. There’s an evident bulge there; it's big, and you swear you see it throb.
“Can I?” you whisper, biting your lip.
“Please.”
He’s thick under your touch. Hard, thick, and warm, even through the pants.
“Oh, you’re a monster,” you say, clearly impressed with what you feel as you rub your hand over the bulge.
“Not unless you want me to.”
It’s something about the way he says that that’s… sweet? Something about it, about him that makes your heart race and your nerves light up and… your heart also skip a beat. Slowly, you unbutton his pants and pull the zipper down. He helps you by pulling his pants and black underwear down his legs, stepping out of them and his socks and shoes.
“Are you really supposed to be this pretty?” you wonder, gazing up at him. “'Cause you’re… beating the male angels by a long shot.”
It’s true. As he stands proud before you, you take a second to really marvel at him, top to bottom. The black, luscious hair, the dark eyes, strong jaw and eyebrows, the masculine nose. His muscular shoulders—there’s even a vein there, at the front—and his bulging biceps and abs. The defined v-line and waist, his thick, throbbing cock, precome glistening at the tip, and his muscular thighs. Everything.
“You know this isn’t entirely me, right? Just as I assume you have actual wings?”
Eyes on the prize and hands quick to follow, you grip him, enjoying the tiny little gasp he lets out. Even getting to stroke him satisfies something in you, although it makes you crave him more too.
“No, I didn’t know that. I’ve only ever heard that you’re handsome.”
“Yeah. Not all of me adheres to whatever standards of beauty you have,” he says, and while he’s still smiling confidently, you wonder if he keeps some things hidden because he might not like whatever they are. In comparison, you keep your wings hidden because they’re big and rather clumsy to walk around with.
“What are you gonna do with that?” he asks, curiously looking down at your hand slowly stroking his cock.
It’s a marvelous sight already, his hard cock flushed a pretty pink. His breaths are even—his stomach tensing deliciously with every single one—but there’s… an inherent sigh to them? Smiling, you use your grip on him to carefully guide him closer, lifting the hem of your dress that’s fallen down your legs up and out of the way.
He watches you adjust, and there’s a collective groan when you guide him to your cunt. Despite licking you very clean not long ago, you’re of course drenched again, and you see how he takes in a few shorter breaths when you coat him in your wetness.
But when you place his thick head at your entrance, intending on teasing him just a little before letting him in, he’s already pushing inside.
“Fuck,” you gasp, throwing your arms around his neck to hold onto him. He leans forward, his face just an inch away and his eyes locked onto yours.
"What does my little angel like?" he grunts, gripping your thigh with one large, warm hand and pressing the other against your back as he rolls his hips into you.
"Whatever you want, devil," you say, your reminder breathy. "As long as you're nice to me."
"Of course, but I live to please."
You lean your head back, shutting your eyes as you feel him slide in and out of you, filling you to the brim every time. "I thought you were supposed—supposed to be selfish."
"Who says I'm not?" he asks, ghosting his lips over your throat.
You don't answer him, your mind too busy processing the slow kisses he places against the skin of your neck. "I feel you everywhere," you mumble instead, words more air than voice.
"Good."
"Am I right to assume that… fuck… you've never… fucked an angel before, either?"
"You are, yeah," he answers against your skin.
"And I've—never fucked a devil before."
"Well, there's only one devil, so.."
You chuckle, desperately hugging him closer when he suddenly ups the gear, the force punching the air out of your lungs. "Oh, my…!"
"You okay?" he asks, and his voice carries traces of… worry as his hips slow down momentarily and he leans back to look at you.
But the change of pace was surprising rather than too much, and so you nod. "It's okay, I'm good."
Relief spreads through his round eyes, and you laugh.
"Why are you cute?"
"Cute?"
"Yeah? I didn't expect you to be either kind or cute, but you are?"
"Sure about that?" he asks, putting more force behind his thrusts again. But he only proves your point, intentionally increasing the force and pace gradually this time.
You gasp, small whimpers pushed out of you with every hit against your insides. But then you make eye contact again, and while he's so incredibly sexy, he also happens to give you another glimpse of his big, round eyes.
"You might be the devil, but you have the kindest eyes I've ever seen," you laugh, clinging onto him.
"I guess I'll have to be less kind, then," he says, moving one of his hands in between your legs, the pressure of his skilled fingers straight on your clit making you gasp once again.
"Why?" you breathe, words barely able to leave your mouth as more than a whisper. "I like kind."
His lack of reply goes practically unnoticed when he instead chooses to fuck you even harder, your sounds increasing in both volume and frequency and your nails surely leaving marks on his warm, wide back.
"Oh, God," you groan when he taps your clit determinedly.
"Taking her name in vain, huh?" he teases, but at this point, his voice is strained too, and his breaths are definitely labored.
"It's a habit."
"Still a sin."
You chuckle, out of breath. "I thought you complained that angels were too innocent? But sudd—suddenly, I'm not innocent enough?"
"Angel…" he starts, tone teasing. "You're being fucked by, literally impaled on, the devil's cock. You're obviously not that innocent."
"This is far from sin, though," you defend against his neck. "We're both… doing this will—willingly; no one is hurt in any way by this. Quite the… opposite, really."
"Really?"
"Yes. In a surprising… turn of events, you're actually much more… pleasant than I thought you'd be."
"Pleasant?"
"Yeah? And kinda endearing."
"While I fuck you like this?" he wonders, making a point of rolling his hips into you with extra precision, expertly hitting the sweet spot inside you with every thrust.
You lean your head back, shutting your eyes. "Yes. Mhm, just like that. Fuck."
"Like what? This?" he repeats his actions, earning another set of moans from you.
"Yeah. God, you're so good. I feel you everywhere."
"Good."
"Mhm." You bite your lip, barely able to think. "You're so good. Fuck, I'm close."
Clinging to him, you let the shallow breaths he fucks out of you warm his ear and the side of his neck.
"You feel like heaven, little angel," he leans down to mumble against your neck. He doesn't say anything else besides that, just keeps going at the same pace, drinking up your reactions as you near the edge.
You tense up, your entire body pulsing when you finally come, and the moan that slips out of you is quiet and breathy.
The devil fucks you through it, although slower for a while. All until you notice that he speeds up, evidently starting to chase his own high.
"Wait," you beg, still out of breath.
The devil, definitely not as evil as you would've guessed, slows down and even stops entirely. Still inside you, he looks down at you. It's those big eyes of his; they're not good for you.
He doesn't voice his confusion, just waits for your words.
"Do something for me?"
"What?" he's quick to ask, in no way beating the kind allegations.
You move, feeling his very much still hard cock slide out of you. The only sounds in the room are your breaths; his more strained and therefore louder than yours, and even if you don't watch him as you slide down to position yourself properly on the throne again, you feel his eyes on you.
"These are your mirrors? That you watch people through?" you ask, gesturing to the wall of five or so large mirrors, hanging on black stone wall as you adjust your dress. The reflected you looks alive but definitely more put together than you feel. Your hair is a little messy and your face flushed, but that's mostly it.
He stands confused in front of you, wondering what you're up to and why you seemingly wanted to stop. "Yes."
But you didn't. Instead, you pat the spot between your legs. "Sit."
The devil watches you with a confused and maybe even hesitant look, still catching his breath.
Your eyes turn even more hopeful. "Please?"
As if going 'fuck it,' he turns around, sitting down. You lean to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of his face as you wrap your arms around him, splaying your hands across his sweaty chest. He's so warm and firm under your touch, so large and muscular, and he even smells like nothing you've ever experienced.
"Do you usually have sex here? On your throne?"
"Sometimes, but I prefer the bed. More comfortable."
"When you do, though… Do you watch? The mirrors?" you say, nodding toward the large mirrors twenty feet away.
"Mhm. If they ride me then I watch."
"You watch them?"
"Yeah, I don't typically watch myself," he smiles.
"I want you to," you reveal, your voice quieter, more hopeful. A little mischievous, even.
At your words, you watch him lift his head, finding your eyes already observing him through the largest mirror, its intricate golden frame nothing compared to the vision reflected within.
Your gaze travels over his body; his golden skin, the bulges of his muscles, and the paths of his veins. Besides handsome, you've only ever heard him described as difficult and evil, but can something this beautiful really be evil? Sure, there's a darkness in his eyes that's probably not only due to their color, but… You don't know, you're just not sure.
"How many times do you usually come?" you ask, feeling him momentarily tense up when your hand slowly trails his stomach on its way down.
"In a week? A month?"
"In a row."
He looks at you through the mirror, eyebrows raised slightly. "Once?"
"Can you come more times, though?"
"Don't know," he answers. "Haven't tried. I usually just give the ladies what they want and however much they want first. By the time I come, everyone's spent."
You smile warmly at him. "Well, would you like to…? Try?"
"Sure."
Your heart beats with excitement as you move your hands to the armrests, pushing yourself up and folding your legs under you, just to gain some height against him.
"What are you up to?"
"Do you trust me?" you ask, gently pulling his torso back toward you.
"Do I trust you? An angel who I've just met?" he asks, and although his choice of words are skeptical, his voice isn't, and he leans back against you just like you wanted.
You understand, of course, you do, but… you'd say you'd trust him if the roles were reversed. And after all, you're an angel, and he's the devil.
"Keep your hands here, on the armrests," you instruct.
Obeying, he places his large, veiny forearms on the armrests, letting his hands hang off the edges. Satisfied, you wrap your arms around his chest, stroking his warm skin. You were told he can't affect you, can't make you abandon your logic in favor of his own agenda, but maybe they were wrong because he feels a little too right.
Slowly, you let your right hand descend again, finally gripping his hard cock, still coated in your wetness.
"I want to see how many times you can come. Is that okay with you?" you ask, nothing more than a whisper in his ear. To your delight, you glance down, seeing goosebumps erupt on his arms.
He doesn't answer you verbally, just nods.
"Okay. And if you don't like it, I will stop. But I hope you do."
He's thick and hard in your grasp, and you waste no time, moving your hand up and down, up and down. He's not the loudest, even though you don't think he purposely keeps the sounds from you. But the sound of his breaths, growing more and more shallow, and the way he seems to grip the armrests, tell you he's enjoying it when you pick up the pace. It brings what you'd consider a little too much satisfaction your way.
"I'm going to edge you, that okay?"
"Mean," he huffs, to which you laugh.
"I'll try to stop right before you ejaculate. That way, if I succeed, you can experience more orgasms."
"How does one make 'ejaculate' sound hot?" he comments, and while he's trying to remain his cheeky self, you see how his hand fidgets as you keep stroking him at a fast pace.
Somewhat… flattered?, you don't even think before you press a small kiss to his cheek.
Not long after you started, his big, muscular body starts to tense, and you notice his grip on the armrests tighten again, the veins on his hands and forearms popping.
You stop, carefully pinching his cock, hoping it was right before the edge. He lets out a groan, still tense and fidgeting.
"How does it feel?" you ask, sincerely hoping you're doing it right. It's not the easiest when you don't really know him or his body and preferences.
"It feels… good."
"Good. Look at yourself, please."
He does, biting his lip. You know, because you're also looking at him through the mirror in front of you. He's so beautiful, so intimidating yet inviting, splayed out in a way you'd still very much describe as confidently. His legs are spread, and his cock, hard and flushed an angry red, looks even bigger in your small hand. You see him look at the image of himself, hooded eyes showing no discernible emotion as his gaze travels up and down.
"I'll continue now," you warn, resuming the motion of your hand but at a slower pace.
He sighs, licking his lips, and you can tell that he tries to keep still.
"You're doing so well," you tell him, meeting his focused eyes in the mirror. His jaw is tense, and his eyebrows furrowed.
He groans in response, either to your words or your tightening grip on his slippery cock.
"You're so good. So good for me."
"Hmm?"
"Yeah. Gorgeous and handsome and kind and respectful, trying so hard to please."
You hope he doesn't interpret your words of encouragement as insulting or belittling in any way because they're not meant to be. But you think your calm, soft voice gets the point across. There's a faint hint of something in his posture, as if he's dropped a little of his arrogance.
You move your other hand, softly circling his left nipple. It hardens under your ghosting touch, and to your delight, you hear him inhale forcefully and feel him lean back further against you.
Jerking faster, you work him until you notice the signs again. The hardening grip of his hands on the armrests, the tensing of his stomach, and the increase in breaths. You see another pearl of precome appear, and so you stop, fingers pinching.
"Okay?" you check in on him.
He licks his lips. "Yeah."
While you wait for the orgasm to subside again, you move your hand from his nipple to slowly stroke his chest.
"You might be a more adept devil than I am," he laughs, out of breath.
You smile, trying to take it as a compliment. "But do you like it?"
"I do. It's frustrating, but it feels… amazing."
"Good, that's the point. Work up to it but postpone ejaculation. Works for most but not all enjoy it. Or they're just too impatient."
"Unless they have no choice?" he teases, turning his head as if to look back at you as much as he can.
"Oh, you have a choice, mister. Just say the word, and I'll stop."
Demonstrating, you let go of him, both hands hovering above his skin.
"No. Don't want you to."
"Don't want me to what?"
"To stop. Continue," he orders, grabbing your hands and putting them back on him, one on his cock and the other on his chest.
"Sure?" you ask, but you don't doubt that he's truthful. In fact, you don't think he would've let you even try what you're doing if he wasn't feeling it.
"Yes," he nods. "Please."
The added 'please' definitely does something to you, and you go back to stroking his chest comfortingly, smiling warmly at him even if he doesn't see it.
This time when you resume, you not only jerk him at a moderate pace and pinch and roll his nipple, but you nibble on his ear as well. It makes him grip your thigh and arch his back briefly.
"You're doing so well," you let go of his ear to whisper.
It takes less and less time to get him right to the edge with every turn, and this time—when his chest is heaving, and he's worked up a new sheen of sweat—you decide that it's the last.
With your fingers pinching his cock again, you kiss his neck and stroke his black hair. "Hold it," you encourage, noticing that he struggles more than before. He's so tense, his breathing so quick and labored, and he can't keep still. After a few seconds, he relaxes, breathing heavily and deeper.
"Good boy. I'll let you come for real this time, alright?"
He nods, but you can tell by the mirror that his eyes are closed.
For the last time, you reposition your hand around him, swiping your thumb over the head to collect the few pearls of precome that have oozed out to aid the glide. He jolts, clearly sensitive. You don't think you've ever felt a cock this hard in your hand, and it has you licking your lips as you admire it. He really is so, so pretty.
You begin again. Slow at first, up and down, thumb gliding over the head and the ridge below it. The devil leans his head back further, resting it on your shoulder. Of course, you don't pass up on the chance to kiss him where you can; his cheek, his jaw, and a little bit of his neck and ear.
His grip on your thigh tightens further when you pick up the pace, also stroking his chest all the way from his neck to his very defined abs. When you focus on his nipple again, he lets out a loud moan.
It doesn't take long until the signs reappear, but this time, you stroke him through it, mumbling praise in his ear and watching when he tenses up. His eyes are shut tight, and he lets out the most divine whimper you've ever heard a man make. Vulnerable but not quite pathetic. He comes a lot, his muscular stomach painted in white, some of it getting onto your hand as well.
You continue.
"Tell me to stop, and I will," you remind, not even giving him a break but stroking him into oversensitivity. You know some find it painful, but you hope it's not for him. "I think that you can come again."
He tenses and fidgets, his hand squeezing your thigh, but he doesn't say anything, so you take it as permission to keep going.
"You're such a good boy for me, Jeongguk. So, so good."
To your satisfaction, he remains hard and only a few moments later, he's coming again. His bottom lip bitten, a small whine slips past anyway as his cock throbs in your hand. It's only a small rope of come this time.
Breathing hard, he keeps his eyes shut, and his hands alternate between gripping your thighs and the armrests. His skin glistens with sweat.
"One more; we'll try for one more," you encourage, letting up the pressure and only stroking him with your thumb and index finger.
So obediently, he allows you to keep going, his stomach more flexed than relaxed and his head thrown back, eyes shut tight and lip still harshly bitten. Waiting for him to tell you to stop—or to go soft—you're pleasantly surprised when he groans deeply, and there's yet another small spurt of come painting your hand.
This time, you stop when the orgasm dwindles, letting go of him carefully. You wipe your hand on your dress where it won't be visible either way, and then you stroke his chest slowly, comfortingly.
"You okay?"
Keeping his eyes closed, he doesn't sound to be more than barely conscious when he mumbles a "yeah."
You smile, pecking his cheek again and stroking his hair. He hasn't said anything about it nor showed any discomfort, so you assume he's fine with your perhaps unusual show of affection.
For maybe five minutes, you caress him, the room comfortably silent. With every minute, his breathing calms and his body relaxes. Lightly, you trace the lines and ridges of his chest with your nails, smiling at the goosebumps on his arms.
Then, a black cloud of smoke appears. And another. And two more. They solidify into wide-eyed demons, staring at you, understandably surprised and worried as they spot their master basically unconscious, naked, and coated in his own release. Two of them look at each other, but no one seems to find their words.
"He's fine," you assure, tracing his jaw with featherlight fingers as his forehead slowly drops to lean against your neck. "He agreed to release the trickster, so I'd be grateful if one of you went and got him."
One of the demons nods, dissolving into black smoke again.
While you wait, you point to the devil's shirt on the ground, nodding gratefully when one of the other demons steps forward to pick it up and hand it to you. You don't know how much he cares, but as more and more demons appear, you make sure to cover the devil's soft cock with the shirt, just in case. You have no intention or desire to humiliate him in any way.
Wiggling out from behind him isn't the easiest, but you manage, adjusting your dress and your hair in front of one the mirrors just as the first demon appears with Jin in tow.
The trickster adjusts his purple linen shirt, tucked into black pants, as he peers over to the practically knocked-out devil.
"What happened here?" He shares the demons' wide-eyed expression, peering between you and the devil, and while you definitely look clean and put-together enough to not be involved, you know Jin knows.
"Nothing. Now come on. This is the last time we're getting you out of here. Next time, we'll let him keep you."
Jin nods, but by the growing smirk on his face, you can tell he's not about to stop his tricks.
You gesture toward the dark tunnel, walking a few steps behind Jin. The demons are all back now, most of them quietly watching you as you leave. One of them walks you, quietly opening the door for you as well, and you slip past it, faced with the steep stairs up to the earth plane. The slab of rock up there is ajar again, golden rays hitting the top part of the stone stairs.
You make it halfway up, fifty of the hundred or so steps, when you hear the grinding of the door reopening behind you. Halting, you look back to see the devil stand at the bottom, shirtless but wearing his unbuttoned pants and with his black hair messy.
The muscular build, so clear when he's holding onto the door, is such a contrast to his dark eyes. You're not sure if it's mostly the angle as you're looking down at him, but they look rounder than before. More innocent. Although he still looks rather confident, there's no trace of the cocky devil you first met.
"What can I say to make you come back?"
And just like that, it becomes real, and you fill with something heavy and unpleasant, watching him with somber eyes.
"It's not a good idea."
More like, it's a terrible idea. You're not allowed to, and it would be so incredibly risky.
"Please?"
You're not sure whether you enjoy having been right about him or not. But all you can do as you back up the stairs is to give him a shake of your head and a sad smile. He doesn't say anything else, and you turn, climbing the rest of the steps, Jin already nearing the top. He waits for you there, and when you're one step away, you glance back.
Having just turned his head, the devil doesn't notice that you've halted to watch him one last time. He's clearly stayed, quietly watching you climb all the way up. Defeated, he heads back inside, his head lowered, and the door shuts behind him.
You feel torn. Of course, you knew that you'd only visit him once and leave, either successful and with Jin in tow or alone. But you'd leave. And Jeongguk, the devil, would stay, doomed to sit at his throne in the underworld for eternity, never able to take even a step outside.
<previous | next>
author's note: devil!jk, my beloved.... hope you like him as well!! i'm really excited to show more of this world and especially jk and his story <3
if you want to sign up for my permanent taglist, it's linked in my navigation post <3
▻ On Wings of Mist & Memories
↳ DragonRider!Jungkook x FieldScribe!f.Reader
⤜ Exiled Royalty, High Fantasy AU
⤜ Enemies to Lovers | Angst, smut, fluff
⤜ Rating: MA
⤜ WC: 39,753
⤜ Summary: You’re a Psion—disguised Field Scribe—of the Golden Kingdom of Bolas, attached to the Front Wing Infantry. After an ambush from the sky rips down the safe walls around you, you find yourself at the mercy of a brutal man, his dragon, and his shadows.
⚠️ Crass language, combat/violence, minor character deaths, talk of war, brief nudity (nonsexual, mostly), sexual references and feelings, flashback minor character death, mild sexual tension, suggestive inner thoughts, lots of sexual tension, crude banter, fingering, kissing, dirty talk, teasing, shadow penetration/sex (it's exactly what you're probably thinking it is: fun af), lots of praise, sexual pleading/begging, endearingly awkward sexual tension, shameless flirting, oral m. receiving, shadow clit play, nipple pinching/teasing, v. sex, mild cum play & eating, multiple orgasms, sad feelings/thoughts of the future, fighting, mild violence, implied minor character death, minor character terminal sickness that leads to off-page death, talk of forced bonds, heartache, pregnancy, off-page childbirth
Each chapter will have specific warnings listed.
Chapter 1: Shadowsword
Chapter 2: Oath Breaker
Chapter 3: Burnished Heart
Part of the Bangtan Writers HQ August 2023 “A Love Like War” Writing Event.
A special thank you to @hisunshiine @downbad4yoongi & @peachiilovesot7 for being the best betas!
Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad
Glossary/Map
Mave - dragon rider who can wield magic, tethered to the soul of their dragon when they bond (death for both if one dies)
Psion - infinite memory/recall
Reaver - a dragon that can wield magic, tethered to the soul of the rider they bond (death for both if one dies)
Noks - infantry soldiers, humanoids who can enter berserk/rage mode
Rider - regular dragon rider, no magic, uses bows or scouts
Brute - riderless dragon, usually wild and very dangerous
Wielder - magic user, no dragon needed
Signis - the designated/specific type of power someone wields
Helnite - metal ore that can cut off magic from its user
Golden Blight - incurable blood disease
↳ DragonRider!Jungkook x FieldScribe!f.Reader
⤜ Enemies to Lovers, Exiled Royalty, High Fantasy
⤜ Rating: MA | angst, smut, fluff
⤜ WC: 20,184
⚠️ Crass language, talk of war/death, descriptions of blood, lots of sexual tension, crude banter, fingering, kissing, dirty talk, teasing, shadow penetration/sex (it's exactly what you're probably thinking it is: fun af), lots of praise, sexual pleading/begging, endearingly awkward sexual tension, shameless flirting, oral m. receiving, shadow clit play, nipple pinching/teasing, v. sex, mild cum play & eating, multiple orgasms, sad feelings/thoughts of the future, fighting, mild violence, implied minor character death, minor character terminal sickness that leads to off-page death, talk of forced bonds, heartache, pregnancy, off-page childbirth
⇽Previous Chapter
◅ Back to series masterlist
Glossary
Mave - dragon rider who can wield magic, tethered to the soul of their dragon when they bond (death for both if one dies)
Psion - infinite memory/recall
Reaver - a dragon that can wield magic, tethered to the soul of the rider they bond (death for both if one dies)
Noks - infantry soldiers, humanoids who can enter berserk/rage mode
Rider - regular dragon rider, no magic, uses bows or scouts
Brute - riderless dragon, usually wild and very dangerous
Wielder - magic user, no dragon needed
Signis - the designated/specific type of power someone wields
Helnite - metal ore that can cut off magic from its user
Golden Blight - incurable blood disease
Days go by in a blur of late-night war meetings and moments of early-morning self-reflection. It’s easier to cast off your old oaths and loyalties than you thought it’d be. Sure, you have plenty of fuel and reason to, but it’s still surprising—and maybe a little disappointing—that you are not struggling with it. You were prepared to face daily internal conflict. Instead, you’re more upset over the fact you’re not upset.
“Can I talk to Goris today?” you ask from the comfort of your bedroll, just as you have every afternoon since agreeing to help Jungkook.
And just like all those days, he responds the same. “Not yet. He’s not ready to hear it.”
“When will he be ready? What are you waiting for?”
His eyes are intense as they bore into the side of your face from where he’s sitting at the large table where you both take your meals. You ignore the urge to look at him, keeping your eyes locked on where you’re idly sliding the tip of the dagger that you stole from him under your fingernails. They’re not particularly dirty, but focusing here is better than getting lost in his gaze.
“Soon, maybe. He’s being well taken care of if that’s what you’re worried about.”
You sigh, slipping the blade back into the top of your boot, and lounge back on your elbows. “I know you’ve been accommodating to him, but I think he’s ready. I think he’d have been ready the first day. You might know Goris from ten years ago, but I know him now. He’d listen to me if only because of the care he had for Marvick.”
The tent feels smaller now that you’re taking up a portion of it with your bedroll. Jungkook refused to give you your own tent. He’s growing to trust you but still wants you to be where he can keep an eye on you. For now, the far corner of his tent is as far as he’ll allow.
“If I let you talk to him, what will you say?”
You sit up on your pallet, hope straightening your spine. “I’d start with the truth, of course. He can take it. He’ll listen to me. Aren’t you the one who said people would believe me because of my ability to discern fact from falsity? Let’s test that, starting with Goris.”
Jungkook sighs, shoving the bench away from the table and standing. “If this pushes me five steps back, I will bend you over my knee and make you regret insisting.”
He’s out of the tent before you can form a coherent reply. The words were said casually, with no bite or menace, just a statement of fact, and yet, heat curls in your chest, blooming up your neck and across your cheeks. The image of you bent over Jungkook’s knee with his firm hand—you shake your head, dispelling it before the sordid fantasy can fully form.
Ever since you agreed to help him, Jungkook has been continuously toeing the line between being a shameless flirt, snarking barely veiled threats that make your stomach flutter and your heart patter a little harder, and a cold enforcer, reminding you so much of the arctic chill of the Gilded Ranges. It’s giving you whiplash and has completely crumbled your plans of using your feminine wiles to gain the upper hand. Despite him no longer being your technical enemy, he’s still done enough damage in the past to warrant caution. Or so you think—thought, at least. It’s hard to be sure anymore.
He has a charismatic allure that is disarming but also has your hackles rising. It leaves you with little room to think of anything other than digging deeper, latching your claws into him, and figuring out what makes him tick. Somehow, you’re starting to believe that Shadowsword—the rebellious, power-hungry monster of stories—is a complex guy with qualities you can’t quite grasp. Is it really that simple?
You scramble out of the tent, catching a flash of black as Jungkook disappears into the tent Goris is being held in, just down the thoroughfare in the main camp. As you slip into the afternoon sun, a crowd barrels past you. Their raucous laughter and jovial back slaps make your lips twitch as you fight off a smile. Jungkook’s six friends have become a constant over the last several days, attending all the meetings where you spilled as much information as possible.
One of the figures on the end, shorter and less animated than the others, throws a look over his shoulder at you. For a brief moment, his dark eyes flash with mischief, and you feel a trickle of air slide right down your spine, the faintest scent of cedar filling your nose. They’ve all been testing you, some more than others. You stiffen as the knot of air twists and puffs out of the front of your shirt, hitting you in the face. Yoongi, in particular, seems to think you’re far more trouble than you’re worth.
Ignoring the group, you skirt around them and head for the tent Jungkook disappeared into. It’s not the same tent you were held in at first, Jungkook keeping his word about moving Goris somewhere closer to Ripley. The backside of the tent is open, giving a good view of the giant green dragon a hundred yards away, corralled in a makeshift wooden structure.
Her emerald wings are resting along her spine, and her sizeable mossy snout is resting on her forepaws, orange eyes trained on the tent you’re in—more specifically, the man dressed in all black with his arms crossed over his chest standing off to the side. Her eyes flick to you momentarily.
A cloud of dust kicks up as she snorts, her focus sliding away from you dismissively back to Jungkook. The collar around her neck glints wickedly in the late afternoon light. You never got to ride her like you did Lowren, but you spent enough time around her to be familiar—she knows you pose no threat, unlike Jungkook.
Goris looks good, considering. He’s sitting on a narrow camp cot, elbows on his thighs and chin perched on his folded hands. His amber eyes are dull, face slightly more gaunt than you’re used to, and his braid is unkept, hairs sticking out wildly. You realize he looks like a husk of the vibrant, if brooding, man you’re used to.
“Colonel Goris,” you say in greeting, but his eyes don’t shift from their lock on Jungkook.
“Not much of a Colonel from where I’m sitting, girl. Best you just call me Rit.”
Your nose wrinkles. The interior of the tent is clean, but the air stinks of defeat. “Even behind enemy lines, you still deserve the honor and respect of your title,” you state. Your words finally win you his attention, but the look in his eyes as they meet yours makes your stomach drop. “You have to remove the Helnite,” you implore Jungkook. “Please!”
A harsh chuckle sounds from Goris. “Like he’d listen to you. Nice try, sweetheart, but he’s already made up his mind for me.”
“You’d be surprised, Rit,” Jungkook murmurs. His eyes catch yours momentarily, and he nods toward the haggard man sitting on the cot. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Colonel Goris,” the title earns you a soft scoff. “Rit,” you say in a placating manner, holding back the smile when he looks at you again. “There’s so much you need to hear, so much I must tell you.”
“Can’t say I much feel like listening. As I see it, you’re walking around free as a songbird. Which means you’re now on his side and are now my enemy. As much as I like you and have enjoyed your company over the years, I won’t listen to an oath breaker.”
His words hold no bite, but they sting nonetheless. You swallow thickly, letting your pride slide down your throat with the bile threatening to come up with the reminder of your broken oaths. Nothing will ever be able to repair the betrayal staining your heart, but what you forsake your vows for makes it easier. You hope the same goes for Goris when you’re done.
“You’re right. I am an oath breaker. But, Gor—Rit, I’ll talk, and whether or not you listen is your prerogative, I guess. Just…if you ever cared for Poli the way I think you did, hear me out.”
Goris grunts, swinging his gaze out the back of the tent to where Ripley now has her eyes closed. Her chest rises and falls slowly, deeply, and evenly, though you doubt she’s truly asleep. “Go on then,” he sighs. “Let’s hear it.”
“What do you know about the new bonding that King Jeon discovered?” you ask, hoping to use his own knowledge to set the stage.
He shrugs his shoulders, dropping his hands to dangle between his knees. “Instead of a blood exchange for the bond, it’s now an enchantment. The spell binds the Mave and the Reaver together so they can still share magic, but it doesn’t require the soul tether like before.”
“Right, an enchantment that is supposedly bonding a Mave to a Reaver, allowing them both to access their Signis’ powers,” you repeat, just to confirm. “What if that enchantment isn’t as harmless as it was made out to be?”
Goris’ brow pinches, lips rolling between his teeth. “I’ve seen it first hand, and it seems as harmless as it’s said to be. I know plenty of Mave’s that have done the enchanted bond, and nothing has been amiss. What are you getting at?”
You reach into the small pocket sewn into your dark blue cotton trousers. The pin feels cold in your fingers, far colder than a chunk of gold should. “Does this look familiar?” you ask, holding up the dragon and crown emblem.
Recognition flares in Goris’ eyes, bringing some life back to them. “Of course it does. Why do you have it?” That recognition quickly melts into suspicion.
Glancing at Jungkook, you wet your lips, hesitating. He gives you a barely perceptible nod, so you explain, “The King was wearing it the day that Jungkook discovered the truth about the bond. During their struggle,” the words flow easily as the images bloom in your mind, still crisp and clear as the first time you saw them, “a piece of King Jeon’s robes got caught on Jungkook’s dagger, the pin was attached to it. He let me view it…use my ability on it.”
“I remember that day,” Goris mutters. He studies the pin still clutched in your fingers as if it can give him answers quicker than you are.
You swallow hard, the cold seeping in as you recall what else happened that day. “There had been a recent increase in dragon deaths. Specifically, Reavers bonded with Maves using the enchantment. Six in one week, more before that.” The gold is swallowed in your fist as you grip it tightly, anger shaking your shoulders. “You’ve seen the reports, Rit. You know just as well as I do that the Reavers bonded using the enchantment over the last two decades have seemingly always encountered some sort of tragic demise. Always written off as an accident, a training mishap, a run-in with the enemy, and any other bullshit excuse…while the Mave bonded with them walks away to just bond another Reaver a week later!” There is a flicker of uncertainty on Goris’ face. One more push… “I saw it with my own eyes, Rit.” You hold up the pin, tossing it at him. He snatches it out of the air and glares down at it. You know he can see the dried blood on it and smell that slightly hot metal scent of dragon’s blood.
“Dried dragon’s blood on a bit of gold means nothing,” Goris whispers, but there is no conviction in it.
“It’s the truth. I know it’s hard to swallow, but you know it’s true. I wouldn’t lie to you…not about something like that.” You watch as warring emotions cloud Goris’ face—a brief moment of defiance, uncertainty, pain, sorrow…acceptance.
Liquid amber eyes meet yours before they slide toward the open end of the tent. Ripley’s eyes are open, rounded, and brimming with unshed emotion. Despite the Helnite cutting them off from each other, the soul-bond still remains and is so deep, that they mirror each other even if they can’t feel it. She gives a mournful whiny, raising her head to look southward—toward the capital.
You spoke loudly and clearly, knowing Ripley could hear you from this distance. You hoped she would listen to the truth in your words and help you convince Goris. Reavers—dragons, deserve respect and care, not to be so carelessly used for their power by malicious humans.
“What can I do to help?” he finally asks, and it’s like the interior of the tent lets out a breath of relief. Jungkook’s stance sags a little, his shoulders relaxing as he drops his hands by his sides. You can’t hold back a soft, sad smile.
You leave Goris and Jungkook to talk, excusing yourself for some fresh air after that heavy exchange. It feels like a victory, which gives you hope for how things are going to go moving forward. If someone had told you a few months ago that you’d find yourself deep in the heart of the enemy camp with a smile on your face and a pep in your step, you’d have laughed right in their face.
Things are still so new for you here. Even though Jungkook has given you a lot of freedom, it’s rare when you truly get some time to yourself. Thinking to take advantage of that, you glance back over your shoulder and pause to listen. You can hear Goris and Jungkook still locked in conversation. Smoothing your hands absently over your thighs, you tuck your lips between your teeth to squash your smile—no need to draw additional attention by smiling like a kid with their hand in the sugar jar.
You’ve studied maps of the terrain in the Andos Forest extensively. You’re intimately familiar with the layout of the land, and you know the encampment is strategically settled close to the lake that’s connected to the inlet to the ocean. The season is just on the cusp of changing here in the lowlands. Perhaps only a few weeks remain of amicable weather. Perfect for getting in one last swim before the water becomes too cold.
The walk through the forest is quick, the underbrush cleared in a distinct and well-worn path. A large clearing dotted with oversized boulders is beside the lake, the sandy shore extending farther than you can see in either direction. The water is like a sheet of glistening sapphire, deep blue with green undertones obscuring its unknown depths.
You hesitate at the edge of the water, suddenly feeling a wash of guilt, having left without telling Jungkook. It’s bizarre to realize that you might care what he thinks of you and feel bad for potentially making him worry. But, deep down, you know the last thing you want to do is give him a reason not to trust you.
Pivoting on your heel, you fully intend to trek back to camp and let him know when you hear a loud crack echo from the treeline. Panic thunders through your chest, causing you to act without much thought, throwing yourself toward the closest boulder dotting the shore and crouching behind it.
Jungkook warned you that there are wild animals in these woods but also bands of mercenaries that come here for trade from Norkham, who won’t think twice about taking advantage of a lonely woman—even if she has magic. Your pulse thuds loudly in your ears as you peer around the side of the boulder. A shadowy figure appears a moment later, and you’re about to bolt into the woods and take your chances when you sag back in relief when Jungkook spills from the darkness between two trees.
You brace yourself on the boulder, intending to use it as leverage to help yourself stand when you pause, mouth going dry as you watch Jungkook rip his fighting leather top over his head. Your knees go weak, and your ass pops back down to rest on your heels. You know you should look away, that it’s inappropriate to be ogling him without his knowledge, but you can’t bring yourself to look away.
He is the epitome of power. The tattoo on his pec stands out in stark relief against his golden skin, the dragon standing like it’s ready to pounce right off his chest. Its long, sinuous tail wraps around his bicep, blending with the other intricate designs etched into his skin. It’s not just power that he exudes; it’s intrigue. Everything about him makes you want to get closer, crawl into his mind, and dig around.
Reading a person is forbidden, taboo…but Jungkook makes you want to break the rules. You watch as he unsheaths his long sword, the silvery blade catching the evening light and reflecting it across the water in front of him. His muscles flex and bunch as he fluidly moves from one stance to another, the blade whirring through the air with practiced movements.
You’re not sure how long you watch him, but by the time he shoves the blade back into its scabbard, he’s covered in sweat, and your legs ache from being in this crouched position.
“You can come out now,” Jungkook calls as he retrieves his top from the ground.
A confusing beat passes. You search the treeline, trying to see who he’s talking to. The hairs on the nape of your neck prickle, and a chill works its way down your spine. You can’t help but feel like you’re being watched like there’s a large presence behind you that you hadn’t noticed before.
Before you can think better of it, you slowly turn your head to glance over your shoulder.
“Fucking hells!” you scream, tumbling forward on your hands and knees and trying to scrabble away from the giant, black dragon that somehow snuck up behind you without you realizing it.
“Calm down, he won’t eat you,” Jungkook says, his tone teasing and light. You push up from the ground, uncaring of the sand clinging to your body and skirt around the still shirtless man, putting him between you and his dragon.
“He scared me.” You wring your hands together. “He snuck up on me.”
A thick, dark eyebrow arches. “Maybe he thought you were trying to sneak up on me.”
You should be embarrassed; you have every right to feel the flush of heat across your chest and cheeks, but it doesn’t come. No, instead, there is a heat of a different flavor. A bold and reckless flavor that you come to realize you like the taste of.
Jungkook makes you feel alive in ways you never have before. It’s surprising and catches you off guard, but it’s freeing in a sense, casting off your inhibitions in such a fashion.
“I wasn’t sneaking.” It’s not a lie, not really.
“Just watching, right?” Mirth colors his words and twinkles in his eyes; you’d almost think he was flirting with you. “Come, let me introduce you.”
The change in subject has you opening and closing your mouth like a fish out of water. “What’s his name?” you ask, warily eyeing the formidable scaly dragon waiting a few feet away. You heard him say it in the flashback you got from the golden pin, but for some reason, the juvenile dragon from the viewing is hard to picture being the same one as what stands before you.
“Onyx,” Jungkook says, giving the dragon an affectionate pat on its large snout. There is a moment where you’re pinned by his golden-eyed stare as he assesses you. You’ve heard dragons have an impeccable judgment of character, being able to sniff out a rotten egg with little effort. Only a genuinely deserving person is offered the soul-bond to a dragon.
Onyx gives a soft snort, the warm air smelling faintly of cloves catches in your hair and tickles along the tops of your cheeks. You have to clench the muscles in your legs to keep from jerking back a step as Onyx steps forward, his head looming in your direction. He taps the center of your chest with his snout—acceptance. A giddy feeling blossoms in your chest, made even more apparent when Jungkook steps around to stand beside you. His close proximity reminds your body of what it felt just moments ago crouched behind the boulder. He may no longer be your enemy, but he’s unknowingly started a war with your self-control.
🖤🖤🖤
Jungkook
It’s been almost four months now since Jungkook had Jimin remove the Helnite from Ripley’s and Goris’ necks. It’s still hard to believe that you were able to convince Rit so easily. If Jungkook knew that’s all it would have taken to sway some of his father’s most loyal commanders, he would have sought out a Psion much sooner. Though, he’s well aware of how much respect Rit has for you because of who you were to Poli. He sighs, fisting a handful of his hair and tugging at it, willing those thoughts away. That ache may never go away, which comes up whenever he thinks of General Marvick.
“You okay?” Namjoon asks from his seat on the bench beside him.
It’s late, far too late to be having another meeting, but Taehyung returned from a scouting trip around the Western Garrison and has urgent news to share.
“Fine,” Jungkook dismisses, straightening in his seat and dropping his hands into his lap. “Continue.” He gestures to Taehyung, who stopped his report for Namjoon’s question.
Jungkook can feel your eyes on him from the corner of the tent. He hates that he’s keeping you from going back to sleep, having woken you up with blaring mage lights when his six closest advisors crowded in. It’s a few hours past midnight, he’s pretty sure.
He forces himself not to look your way, not sure he could stop himself from kicking everyone else out if he allows himself to see the sleepy softness of your face. It isn’t helped by the fact that you’ve grown bold lately with lingering looks and touches. Jungkook is relatively sure you’ve been intentionally trying to catch him with his proverbial pants around his ankles.
It’s slowly becoming a problem, having you sleep in his tent. The tent might be larger than most, but it’s painfully intimate when you share it with someone else…someone who is as alluring and mysterious as you are. Jungkook fiddles with the front tails of his shirt. He didn’t bother lacing it up or doing more than swinging it over his shoulders and shoving his arms through. His leather breeches sit low on his waist, another slight oversight when he dragged them on under his blanket when he was alerted to Taehyung’s arrival.
The first few nights after you joined his cause, he went to bed in full gear. It was with a mix of caution but also out of mild discomfort. He’s never shared more than a fleeting few hours with a woman and never overnight. Your feminine presence put him on edge, but he also wasn’t fool enough to think you might not take the opportunity to stick a blade into his belly. Once he was sure he was safe, at least from the blade, he began to get undressed under his blankets, suppressing the blissful sighs when he could once again sleep comfortably.
He’s made it a point to wake up before you every morning so he could be dressed before you and avoid the awkwardness. But tonight is something that couldn’t be helped. It’s like thinking of it has his eyes sliding your way unbidden. He catches the briefest glimpse of you before jerking his attention back to Taehyung, but it’s enough. There is no way to know for sure, with your blanket tucked up under your chin, but he could almost swear you are naked under there. The thought has the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.
“I can lead this if you need me to,” Namjoon leans in and murmurs into Jungkook’s ear, ripping him from his thoughts once again.
Jungkook’s neck warms along with the tips of his ears. “It’s fine,” he retorts, clearing his throat before focusing intently on the man animatedly speaking. He can’t help but think of his last conversation with Namjoon; he was just as distracted then. Namjoon’s convinced you’ll find yourself in Jungkook’s bed before it’s all over. Jungkook vehemently disagreed—at least, on the outside.
“It looks like Jeon is pulling out some of the forward wings and sending them to assist at Fort Supret.” Taehyung drags his finger from the top of the map to the center. “Niharmer has been given the station of General, though I hear many aren’t happy about that, including Niharmer himself. Powers are shifting. Ta is now Colonel, and Lee has been promoted to Major. A new guy is taking over for Ta, but I’ve only heard whispers, nothing concrete. The golden machine churns on, even after taking such a big loss,” he grumbles that last bit, throwing an apologetic look in your direction. All of his friends are aware of what you lost that day, what Poli represented in your life.
“It might be the perfect time to strike, get on the inside,” Yoongi muses. He reaches out and taps a finger on the map spread out on the table, indicating the cluster of islands at the top. “With the Western Garrison being short a few wings and the chaos of troop movement, we could maybe slip a few far-flight scout wings around The Steppes and move in from the north.”
“You’d be better served to come in from the west,” you say, drawing all their gazes to you. Jungkook masks his surprise at seeing you standing, pulling your blanket tight around you. Your shoulders are bare, leading him to believe he was right in his assumption that you’re naked. The only thing separating his hungry gaze from your delectable body is a thin sheet of linen.
The curves of your body are not well disguised by the fabric. If anything, it hugs and pulls in a way that makes his teeth grind together. Saliva pools under his tongue when he sees your pebbled nipples stand out against the grey-colored linen. Thankfully, you drape an arm over your chest to help keep the blanket in place as you approach the table.
“The north is the easiest way into the compound,” Yoongi states, his eyes flashing silver as they narrow at the map. A sharp, warm puff of air slides the carved golden dragon figurine from its place by the Western Garrison toward the middle of the mountain range where Fort Supret is located. “They’re vulnerable along the north if they’re moving the bulk of their troops south.”
You lean over the table, giving Jungkook a tantalizing view of your cleavage above the makeshift blanket wrap. You have no qualms with your body, much to his personal detriment. He gets up early to get dressed first but also to avoid being in the tent when you crawl out of bed…completely nude. The first time it happened, he stormed out of the tent and spent half the day running Onyx through training drills so that he didn’t tackle you to the ground and become the monster you once thought of him as.
“The north will be vulnerable, yes, but I would guarantee that’s exactly what the King would think as well. He’ll send reinforcements from The Shield and The Serpent to cover the north, anticipating a likely attack with the shift. He’s likely baiting the attack. And it’ll leave his west flank even more vulnerable. It’s the same tactic he always uses. That’s the thing about King Jeon. He’s predictable.”
Jungkook sits back in his chair, allowing himself a moment to appreciate you—because of your well-honed military mindset, of course, and nothing else. “She’s right, Yoongi. We can monitor the movement of the north just in case, but the west will likely be the softest front. It’s what he did at Norkham and what he did when taking The Steppes, to begin with. It’s what he’s sure to do now.”
“Hoseok, Namjoon, Taehyung, I want you three to go. Hoseok and Taehyung, you’re on the west. Namjoon, stay to the north. Be sure to take some curlers with you and keep in touch. Take as many bodies as you need, but move swiftly. Go now, be there before the sun rises, use the dawn as cover for your approach. If we can take out the guards and infiltrate their breeding camp, we can cut them off at the knees. Jimin, Seokjin, you know what to do. Yoongi, we’ll move forward with our plans by the end of the week. It’s time, my friends. It’s finally time.”
This moment has been a long time coming. It was what pushed Jungkook to attack when he did, why he was targeting General Marvick, to begin with. He knew if he took out the central command, his father would have no choice but to shift things around, and in the chaos that followed, it would be the best time to strike.
“On it,” Hoseok nods to the other three. “I want to be in the air within thirty, two squads each. Pick wisely.”
Everyone files out of the tent, Jimin and Seokjin, with the intention of distributing the latest cache of weapons Jimin finished and the rations Seokjin just got done preserving for a mission such as this. Their heads are together, chattering away about the best way to spread that amount of resources in such a short amount of time, as they exit. Yoongi claps Jungkook on the shoulder before leaving, muttering something too low for you to hear.
“Are we really executing the plan in just a week?” Your sleepy voice sucks him in, drawing his attention to you. You adjust the blanket, tucking it tighter under your arms.
He nods, cutting his eyes away from you. “Get some more sleep. We’ll begin preparations first thing in the morning.” Jungkook stands from the table, moving over to his discarded coat. Winter has fully set in. The camp hearth crackling in the center of the tent keeps the interior warm enough, but outside, there is a bitter bite to the air.
“What about you? You haven’t slept a wink.”
That furrows his brow. How do you know he hasn’t slept? For all you should be aware, he was in his bed before Taehyung came and disturbed him. You couldn’t possibly know he was lying awake in bed…trying so hard not to think about you lying five feet away from him.
Before he can respond, you’re circling around the table and crowding into his space. “What are you doing?” he says, voice low and hoarse as you reach up and twirl the drawstring on his shirt around your finger. His stomach muscles flex as you trace the open line of his shirt, your nail dragging lightly along his exposed skin.
“I see the way you look at me,” you say. A slight smirk curls your lips as you look up at him through your lashes. “I know you toss and turn, trying to push away thoughts of inviting me into your bed.”
“Psions aren’t mind readers,” he states firmly. Though there is a slight hitch in his breath, that confirms your words regardless, when your finger glides back up to press against the black dragon head resting at the center of his chest. Jungkook barely breathes as you push up onto your toes and brush your lips against his cheek in a soft kiss.
“I don’t mind you having those thoughts,” you admit, dropping back onto your heels. “But, I do mind you losing sleep over them. So, next time you find yourself unable to sleep…well, all you have to do is ask.” And with that, you drop your hand and turn your back to him. He’s almost sure you exaggerate the sway of your hips as you pad across the ground back to your sleeping pallet. “A distracted commander makes mistakes. I’d hate for that to happen.” Your words drift to him on a whisper, blending with the soft sound of brushing fabric as you settle down and adjust your blanket around you.
Your eyes are closed, and Jungkook watches as your chest rises and falls with even breaths. He knows you probably didn’t fall asleep that quickly, but you’re obviously done with the conversation, and he’s not even sure what he could say to you at this point that wouldn’t be “get in my bed so I can fuck you back to sleep”. Biting his tongue until it aches, he snags his coat, throws it around his shoulders, and disappears through the tent flap, willing the cold to leech away his sordid thoughts.
🖤🖤🖤
“Again!” Goris growls, hefting his sword up, ready to deflect your next blow. You lunge, bringing the long sword down with both hands. He quickly smacks it to the side. “You’re too slow. Again!”
“You’re fucking…crazy…if you think…I can do this again,” you gasp between breaths. “We’ve been at this all day. I’m just getting slower each time. I need to rest for a bit…or forever.”
Goris swings his sword, catching you across the back of your knees with the flat of it, making you hit the dirt with a pained yelp. The sword in your hands goes flying, clattering noisily a few feet away. “You’d be dead if I were the enemy,” he grouses. “Go get cleaned up. We’ll resume this first thing in the morning.”
Once Goris was accepted into the fold of the rebel camp, he quickly took up a place as your personal trainer. You’re getting good, very good, according to Jungkook, who watches your training sessions on occasion. But, according to Goris, you’re as skilled as a newborn babe. Jungkook says it’s just how Goris is, a hardass through and through who will push you even when you’re successful. You appreciate it, even if your body detests the multitude of bruises and aches that are accumulating.
It’s only been a few days since Taehyung returned from the scouting mission, and many of the rebel forces moved in to take over The Stepping Isles. From what Jungkook has told you, they were successful, and you were right about the western flank being the most vulnerable. Even Yoongi murmured his appreciation to you for that insight once it was revealed.
Currently, The Steppes are controlled by Jungkook’s force, and the Crown is unhappy about it. When Dragonkind first left Lork, it’s said that The Stepping Isles were their preferred place of rest. It’s where all dragons reside before being bonded or employed into service. Before King Jeon took over and established his breeding farm, the dragons were always free to roam wherever they pleased as any other beings are. Most people assume they were still free and have always been, but it’s only because it’s so rare to see a Brute in the wild that no one is the wiser.
Cutting his father off at the source is nearly as big of a move as when Jungkook took down General Marvick. Though, the victory at The Steppes is far more palatable than the other. Without more dragons, the Brutes forced into bonds that die due to the enchantment can’t be replaced. The last roster you laid your eyes on quoted there being fifty-four Brutes with Wielders as their riders and nine Reavers with Maves. Six now, if you take away Goris, Krut, and Marvick.
The sun has barely passed its zenith, the weak light breaking through the surrounding trees. Even though there is a light dusting of snow on the ground, you’re sweating from the exertion of training. It won’t last long, you know. The steam rising from your body as you trudge through camp is already dwindling. If you don’t get out of the cold and rid your body of the moisture coating it, you could find yourself with a chill.
These daily training sessions have added to your arsenal of skills. When pointing out that you may not be proficient with a sword, but you had other talents, Goris never thought he might get the chance to remedy that. Once he’s done with you each day, he moves on to working with any of the soldiers and Noks who are willing to learn.
On more than one occasion, you’ve caught Jungkook with a fervent, proud look in his eyes as he watches his own childhood blade master teaching his friends and comrades of war. That’s something you’ve come to appreciate about him. Jungkook doesn’t consider his rebel army to be his lessers or his followers, people to control and throw against the grind wheel, but people who share a common goal and are his equal in worth. It’s highly contrasting to what you’re used to from leaders.
Pushing through the flap, you shudder as the heat of the interior of the tent hits you. It’s so warm against your chilled skin that goosebumps sheet across your skin with a light ache. You snag the ties holding your leather fighting top closed, and sigh softly as you shuck the sweat-drenched fabric. Jungkook is meeting with Yoongi right now, so you should have some time to wash before he comes in.
You can’t help the smile on your face as you peel off your breeches and toss them aside with your top, luxuriating in the instant comfort. The stretch of fabric you use to bind your breasts during training comes off, and you groan at the feeling of being able to take a full, unencumbered breath. The fighting garb you were given was made for a woman with a smaller chest than you, making the binding necessary to avoid pinching and chaffing. It’s a necessary evil if you expect to go to the capital with Jungkook, Yoongi, and Goris—which you do.
A pitcher of clean water is waiting behind the changing screen, just as always. But, considering you have some time, you grab it, bring it out, and set it on the table. The iron brazier in the middle of the tent is popping and crackling with heat, the enchanted stones crowding the bowl emit a bright lavender light and the perfect amount of warmth. It’s been months since you were able to bathe beside a camp hearth like this, and now’s the ideal opportunity to revisit that luxury.
Pulling your small bar of herbal soap and a clean cloth from your stash of things beside your bedroll, you move as close to the crackling rocks as you dare. You soak the fabric in the water, then ring it out over your chest. The water is tepid at best from sitting in the warm tent, but it feels warmer due to the proximity of the brazier. It feels heavenly, rewetting the cloth and repeating the process until your body is dripping. The ground below you dries just as quickly as water can soak into it, another advantage of the enchanted iron hearth.
As you work it into a lather on the cloth, the soap smells of fragrant jasmine and rosemary. You’re lost in the smooth glide of the soapy cloth along your legs when you hear the swish of the tent flap.
“I’m starv—“, the words cut off, strangled around a gasp.
You straighten from where you were bent over washing and glance over your shoulder. Your back is to the tent entrance, a deliberate placement just on the off chance of something like this happening. Turning so you’re facing Jungkook head-on, you reach beside you, dip the cloth in the water again, and hold it out toward him. “Just in time to help me with my back.”
Jungkook’s eyes are large, rounded, and constantly flicking over your body until they finally land on your hand holding the cloth. His lips twitch, and you’re confident he’s about to launch back through the tent flap, but mild surprise rises in your chest when he abruptly steps toward you and snatches the cloth from your fingers. This is a dangerous game, a line being crossed that neither of you can uncross…but if you’re honest with yourself, you can’t find it in you to care.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a siren sent to infiltrate my camp and suck me beneath your spell,” he grits the words out between clenched teeth. “A demon temptress come to steal my damned soul.”
A stilted gasp erupts from you as his chest presses tightly against yours. The rough weave of his shirt rubs against your breasts, eliciting prickles of sharp, pleasured-pain. His eyes look like endless black pools thanks to the violet light filling the tent from the stones in the brazier. They narrow down at you, one corner of his mouth curling up to expose his teeth in a goading sneer.
“You’re the one that stole me, remember?” you whisper. He’s so close you can see the tiny beauty mark under his bottom lip and the intricate closing mechanism of his ringed jewelry in his lip.
The washcloth pressing into the middle of your spine has you arching forward, your chest pressing more firmly against his. Wetness spreads along the front of his cream-colored shirt with water and soap leaching from your body to his. He slides the cloth along your upper back and shoulders in long, sweeping movements.
A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. Your hands automatically come up and grip his sides, fingers fisting into the loose fabric that hides away his perfectly tapered waist. It’s that whiplash again. He was cold and indifferent this morning, grumbling to himself over breakfast before leaving without saying a word. Now, he’s hot enough to make the brazier feel chilled, devouring your sanity like a starving man.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks.
The ghost of his breath tickles across your lips. It wouldn’t take much effort to…your lips press against his in a brief yet searing kiss. “The same as you do to me, I’d wager.”
Jungkook groans, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck,” he curses. The wet cloth plops to the ground. His large hands grip fistfuls of your ass and haul you up, lips hungrily seeking yours. Your legs automatically wind around his waist, resting over his hips, ankles crossed in the small of his back. He fits perfectly between your thighs, and you’re intimately aware of the throbbing presence now pressed firmly against you.
The heady scent of clove fills your nose with your next inhale as Jungkook’s tongue seeks entry into your mouth. You open for him, welcoming the slick pressure of his tongue against yours. He tastes like sweet, toasted spices, a flavor you could get lost in.
A familiar darkness swirls around you, caressing along your hips, back, and ass to replace the grip of his hands. Bands of shadows wind around your thighs and hug the curves of your waist to cup the undersides of your breasts. You’re surrounded by shadows—by him. He invades your senses, drawing them all into one flagrant point.
You shudder under the shadows, realizing they’re holding your weight as his hands slip from your body. His lips remain plucking and strumming against yours, but the solid press of his hips against yours retreats. Your ankles fall off each other, and your legs spread further around his hips until they’re dangling in the air, suspended now by the support of his winding shadows.
He pulls away, lips finally breaking from yours. You can feel the lingering tingle with every thump of your heartbeat. “Jungkook,” you whisper his name like a prayer, an earnest plea for redemption.
“Look at you.” He angles his head down, eyes intently gazing at where you’re being held open by his shadows, wholly exposed to him. “What a mess, so dirty,” he chuckles, flicking a thick digit between your lower lips, then holds it up to shine in the soft, lilac glow from the brazier. His eyes meet yours as he presses his finger against the flat of his tongue before his lips close around it and he sucks. “Baths are supposed to make you clean.”
“I think I prefer being dirty. I was wondering how long it would take for you to break,” you taunt.
Delight sparks in his eyes, raising his brows as he licks his lips. “I should leave you like this as punishment for tempting me so much.” His finger swipes over you again, eliciting a bedraggled moan from you. “It’s been so fucking hard,” he emphasizes the word, drawing it out as he slowly slides his finger into your throbbing center, “trying to resist this bewitching pussy.”
Your lips part, another moan echoing through the tent as he drags his finger back out just to push it back in. “F-fuck me,” you mewl, not caring how wanton and needy you sound.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asks, fitting in a second finger alongside the first. “To have me stretching out your sweet pussy and filling you with my darkness?” All you can do is nod. “I don’t know if you’re ready for that. But there is something,” his words hitch with a smirk as his fingers withdraw, only to be replaced by something lighter and more spectral in feel. Something you’re familiar with, just not probing lightly in such an intimate place. “A small taste of my darkness,” he whispers, canting his hips forward in a mockery of fucking, as a thick tendril of shadow fills you the way you wish his cock would.
“Oh, fuck—Jungkook!” you cry out, arching between the shadows holding your body in the air before him. Your chin drops to your chest, giving you a clear view of the thick, dark inkiness that’s sliding in and out of your cunt, dripping with your arousal. His lips capture yours again, tongue exploring and emploring you to make sweet sounds for him. One of his hands fists into your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss further. The other lands in your lower belly, thumb pressed to your clit to rub teasing circles.
The sounds reverberating around the tent are obscene. You’re both moaning and breathing hard, the perversion punctuated by the slick sounds of the shadow filling you over and over and Jungkook’s thumb working over your arousal-covered clit. “Cum for me,” he pants, breaking from the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw and down your neck. “Take my darkness in like a good girl.” His teeth graze one of your nipples before gently clapping down.
It’s like a punch to your pleasure senses. Everything sparks and fires, creating a conflagration of all-consuming euphoria. Your body clamps down hard around the shadow, making Jungkook groan as if it’s directly linked to his own body. He shudders against you, slumping forward until his chest is pressed to yours again and his lips seal over yours.
As quickly as the shadows wrapped around your body, they disappear, leaving you feeling bereft of their wispy touch. Jungkook keeps you from hitting the ground, his hands catching you under your arms until you’re steady on your feet. “Thank you,” you say, unsure if you mean for catching you or giving you the best orgasm you’ve ever experienced. You’re just about to ask if he would like for you to return the favor when he jerks away from you and adjusts the front of his trousers.
He works his jaw, the muscles flexing as he clenches his teeth. “I—uh, I need to go,” he mutters. “Seokjin has invited us to have dinner with him.” You watch as the blatant lust on his face ices over and turns into an unreadable mask. “Oh, and next time, bathe behind the screen, or I’ll make sure the whole camp can hear how well you’ll be taking my cock.” The words are soft but forced out between taut lips before he turns on his heel and all but runs from the tent.
🖤🖤🖤
Jungkook
It’s clear you’re going to be the death of him. He knows he shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have fucked you with his shadows. Because now he’ll be able to think of little else. The fact his shadows are a direct extension of himself means he can feel the warm clutch of your pussy throbbing around his cock even though he didn’t even take it out. It jerks painfully behind the ties of his breeches, but he pointedly ignores it, hoping the erection will go away before he makes it to Seokjin’s tent.
Jungkook told you Seokjin had extended a dinner invitation. Though, he’s not sure if you’ll even show up, considering what he just did to you. There is a sweet, twisted satisfaction in thinking you might be too blissed out to join.
Don’t let it go to your head.
Oh, fuck off, Onyx. You’ve been silent for months, and this is all it took to get you to talk again? Jungkook scoffs, blowing out a breath that mists in the air.
I was busy mourning a lost friend, much as you have. Onyx’s deep timbre vibrates through Jungkook. It’s full of barely veiled emotion. Lowren and Onyx were hatch mates, practically brothers, until they separated to accept their individual bonds. You should have mated with the Psion.
What the hell? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. The last thing I need to do is make it weird.
What’s weird about mating? I know how she makes you feel. The happiness is unmistakable. Onyx huffs, the sound like dry leaves crinkling between Jungkook’s ears. I’ll never understand you humans.
It’s not that easy. I don’t even know if she likes me like that. That isn’t entirely true, at least based on how you react to him and how you constantly infiltrate his mind and break down his defenses. In fact, you admitted nearly as much just a few minutes ago, right before he filled your dripping cunt with his shadow. Jungkook clears his throat. It’s complicated.
The only thing he gets in reply from Onyx is an indignant snort, the sound rattling around in his head as he approaches Seokjin’s tent.
“Wait up!” He hears your breathy request from a few feet behind him. Jungkook glances back just as you close the distance. You’re securing the belt of your thick wool coat around your waist, a bright smile on your face. Your lips are still puffy, swollen from his kiss. The tremble in your hands might be from the cold, but Jungkook would rather see it as residual effects of what he did to you.
The inside of Seokjin’s tent is cozy and warm thanks to the smaller space and the bright yellow brazier erected in one corner. There’s just enough room for a small camp table and four chairs in the open area between the bedroll and trunk. The tangy scent of spices permeates the air, a promise of delicious food.
“Finally! I was worried you wouldn’t show. Hells know you took long enough, what kept you?” Seokjin asks, fiddling with a steaming pot on the table.
“Umm, well, uh…I, er, we—“
“I’m sorry, Seokjin, it’s my fault. I took too long getting ready once Jungkook told me of your invitation to dinner. I had a hard training session with Rit earlier and was feeling a bit sluggish after.” You move into the space, giving Jungkook a brief, private smile as you save him from having to lie to his friend…or tell the truth and thicken the air with embarrassment.
Seokjin gives you an appraising look. “Is that right? Well, no harm done. Please, have a seat, let’s eat.”
🖤🖤🖤
The steaming pot on the table is filled with a luscious stew with braised meat and chopped vegetables. Crusty bread sits on a plate with various cheeses and fruits, and Seokjin pours three healthy glasses of plum-spiced wine.
“This smells divine,” you say, inhaling the fragrant stew as Seokjin ladles it into the bowl before you.
Seokjin simpers under your praise. “Thank you.”
Jungkook sits across the table from you, forcing Seokjin into one of the chairs between the two of you. The fourth chair sits empty, but not for long. Jimin bustles into the tent a few moments later, grumbling about the cold. “Your asshole of a dragon was being difficult, Jungkook. He wouldn’t sit still while I outfitted the new saddle. It took twice as long as it should have. My fingers are ice!”
Seokjin swiftly fills a fourth bowl and sets it in front of the empty chair. “Well, stop your bellyaching and warm up with some stew. Here’s that chili sauce you like so much that’ll have you thawed and sweating in no time,” he titters, pushing a small glass jar of red liquid toward Jimin.
Conversation drifts through the tent easily. You’d almost think you’d been friends with these men for far longer than a handful of months with how comfortable you feel around them. Seokjin and Jimin have taken you into their graces, doting on you like a sister. Neither of them so much as give you the stink eye for having once been their enemy. When you had asked them about it, they both agreed that it’s not your fault the King is corrupt—you were just doing your job, much the way they were doing theirs when you considered them your enemy.
They’re both Wielders, magic users that don’t require a dragon for their Signis to manifest. Seokjin has an affinity for healing, and Jimin can melt any metal with his bare hands nearly as well as a dragon’s flame can. You’ve heard Jungkook refer to them as the backbone of the camp more than once. He views all of his friends that way, for that matter. The six of them are the brothers he never got to have since his older brother was lost to an illness before Jungkook could grow old enough to know him. At least, that’s what the stories say, and you’ve not had the heart to ask him about it.
“Onyx got a new saddle?” you ask curiously.
Jimin’s eyes widen a fraction, his cheeks coloring as he throws a furtive glance at Jungkook. “He, um, he did. The old one’s chest strap was a bit worn. We try to cycle the saddles every year or so to maintain integrity. The last thing you want is a saddle strap to snap mid-flight.”
“It’s okay, Jimin. We don’t have to keep it a secret any longer.” Jungkook gives his friend an affectionate pat on the shoulder before turning to you. “The new staddle is a dual seater, similar in build to the one Poli used for you. That way, you can ride comfortably on Onyx when we fly to the capital. I was going to keep it as a surprise, but…” he trails off, shrugging.
“Oh.” In all the planning and preparation work, you hadn’t even considered how you’d be traveling to the capital. Flying with Jungkook makes the most sense, considering it’s only two days by dragon and nearly two weeks up to two months by land since you’d have to either skirt around the Gilded Ranges or traverse them. The hold on The Steppes is secure but cannot be held indefinitely. The sooner you execute the plan at the capital, the better for everyone; time is a precious commodity that you have little of. “Well, thank you.”
Jungkook gives you a warm smile that contrasts so wildly with the hungry, salacious man who ravaged you in his tent not too long ago. You can still feel the phantom ache of his shadow between your thighs, the memory making you squeeze your thighs together under the table.
“Dinner was delicious, Seokjin, thank you,” Jungkook says once everyone has had their fill of the hearty spread. “Going to bed with a full belly will do us all some good. We leave as soon as the sun rises in less than two day’s time. Best we all get some sleep now so we can have a full day of preparation tomorrow.”
Jimin settles in for a cup of tea, deciding to have a chat with Seokjin about tomorrow’s work before turning in. You and Jungkook leave Seokjin’s tent with smiles on your faces.
“That was lovely,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around yourself against the chill. There is a soft flurry of snowflakes lazily drifting from the sky.
You walk in companionable silence for a while, the low drone of the camp settling in for the night, filtering through the hush of the night. It’s eerily beautiful, with the moon full and bright in the sky, bleeding silvery moonlight through the barren tree branches overhead.
“I’m sorry if earlier was too much. I’m not sure what came over me,” Jungkook breaks the silence with quiet words. “But, I can’t say I regret it.”
“I would have said no if I didn’t want it. I have no regrets either,” you reply in kind. A fluttery feeling settles in your belly, and your heartbeat picks up a fraction when Jungkook slides his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in against his side. He’s warm, a welcomed comfort from the cold.
Never in all your years would you have imagined you’d be where you are right now. But as Jungkook leads you into his tent and pats the blankets of his bed in invitation, you know without a doubt that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. You both undress in silence, quickly doffing your clothes in heaps on the ground. His bed is warm, heated by the enchanted brazier.
A whole foot of space remains between your bodies, but even with all that room, there is no awkwardness. You lay on your side, facing him. His arm extends above his head, elbow bent, and his other lay atop the blankets. You can see the black dragon tattooed on his skin with perfect clarity now. It stands out so starkly against his creamy skin.
“I’m not sure what will happen,” he whispers into the quiet of the tent. “Even if everything goes according to plan and we are able to put a stop to my father’s misdeeds and expose the truth…I’ve worked constantly for the last ten years towards this one goal, and now that it’s within my grasp, I don’t know what there is for me after that.” He rolls onto his side, dark eyes finding yours in the low light. “But, whatever comes after, know that you’ll have a place by my side if you want it.” You go to open your mouth, intent on telling him your thoughts concerning that offer, but he reaches out and presses a finger to your lips, halting your words. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. Just think about it, okay?”
You nod, his finger falling from your lips. His hand searches under the blankets until it finds one of yours. His fingers lace with yours, and he lets out a slow, easy breath and closes his eyes. A few minutes later, his breathing is deep and even with sleep. You let yourself indulge for a moment, taking in every facet and detail of his serene face, filling it all away into your infinite space. You never want to forget him—no matter what comes after.
🖤🖤🖤
Jungkook
Jungkook is sure he could have laid in bed and stared at you all day. But duty calls, and as long as he plays his cards right in just a few day’s time, maybe he can spend an entire day laying in bed staring at you. Right now, though, he needs to focus on something other than your supple body stretched out on his bed.
Tugging on his discarded clothing and jacket, he snags an apple from the bowl on the table and slips out of the tent into the early pre-dawn light. The camp is just starting to wake up; fires crackling from hearths fill the air with fragrant breakfast smells. Someone is already stoking the forge fires in the smith’s work tent, Jimin most likely getting ahead on the day’s chores.
Yoongi is waiting for him at the far end of the encampment, near where there is a clearing for the dragons to take flight. Onyx and Yoongi’s green dragon, Holgrin, patiently wait a few feet from Yoongi.
You mated the Psion. It’s such a matter-of-fact statement that it catches Jungkook off guard.
He throws a glare in Onyx’s direction before turning to Yoongi. “Ready?”
“I’ve been the one waiting on you,” Yoongi drawls, giving Jungkook a knowing look. “Get caught up with the big brain?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call her that, and if you have to know, no, I wasn’t caught up with anything. I’m here at exactly the time we agreed on. You’re just early…as always.”
“How else would you explain a Psion other than a big brain? I’m just calling it as I see it. It’s a compliment.”
“We both know that’s not how you mean it.”
Your silence, along with the way her smell lingers on your body, is all the confirmation I need. Onyx sounds amused. Jungkook is sure if he looked at the dragon, there’d be a macabre smile on his snout—not that Onyx is inherently disturbing, but that’s really the only way one can describe a dragon’s smile…it’s the teeth, definitely the teeth.
I’m silent because you’re being too much right now. I didn’t mate with her, you nosy beast.
Jungkook jerks back when Onyx suddenly snakes forward and presses his snout firmly against his chest. He gives a large sniff that tugs at Jungkook’s clothes. No. He sniffs again. Perhaps not this time, just the tender half-coupling of last night…but you will. She will be a good mate for you. Tender, sweet-smelling, sturdy–
Quit playing around, and let’s go. Jungkook pushes at Onyx’s snout, firmly ignoring everything else he said.
“Holgrin says you smell like her. Are you sure you weren’t caught up?” Yoongi muses, his tone light with jest.
Grumbling under his breath, Jungkook vaults up on Onyx’s back and secures himself in the saddle. Once Yoongi is astride Holgrin, Jungkook meets his eyes. “I fucked her with my shadows last night.”
The surprise in Yoongi’s eyes is reward enough for sharing that intimate detail. He’d rather have held on to that secret a bit longer, but the opportunity was too great. He’s also not entirely sure how you’d react to knowing he’s let it loose to someone else. He’ll have to come clean once he returns tonight.
Before Yoongi can come up with a clever quip in response, Jungkook urges Onyx into the air. Holgrin follows a moment later, the heavy beat of his wings carrying him into position at Onyx’s left flank. They climb in altitude until the air is so thin and cold that there is a slight ache with every breath. It’s safest this way. No other dragon rider in their right mind would fly so high. It doesn’t bother the dragons. Jungkook is almost sure they could fly into the farthest reaches of the atmosphere without even flinching.
Are you ready to face your father?
Jungkook thinks about lying, embellishing his feelings with false bravado, but he knows Onyx would be able to tell instantly. I’m not sure. And that’s the truth.
I am unfamiliar with Vikmag as he was long bonded to your father when I was still only a hatchling, but I shall do my best to keep him from interfering.
That thought makes Jungkook feel queasy. He hates the idea of Onyx locked into battle with his father’s Reaver. Vikmag is a nasty dragon, just as vicious as his Mave. Jungkook never thought there would be a dragon in existence that would support his father’s nefarious deeds, but as far as he knows, Vikmag doesn’t care in the slightest.
Holgrin, Onyx, and Ripley will all be waiting to keep Vikmag and any other Reavers that might be left in the capital busy while Jungkook, Yoongi, and you slip inside. It’ll be hard to approach without King Jeon realizing it otherwise. It’s Jungkook’s hope that they can make it inside and to wherever his father is before all hell breaks loose.
You’ve been a critical piece of the planning when it comes to that. You weren’t wrong when you said the King was predictable. And it’s that predictability that Jungkook is relying on. His father has kept the same routine for years, so they know pretty much exactly where he’ll be and when.
Glancing back at Yoongi, Jungkook sees his mouth moving but can’t hear his words. He pulls his curler, a small enchanted conch-shaped piece of heartwood, from his pocket. It fits snugly into his ear. As soon as it seals into place, he hears the soft hubbub of chatter. Yoongi’s voice rings out louder against all the others as if the volume is turned up, but only for him.
“We’re close to Orit. Do we want to do a sweep just in case as we descend toward Supret?” His voice is crackly but clear enough. Their ability to use the curlers is all thanks to Namjoon. He found the enchantment for them rotting away in some dingy book he found on a raid mission in Ft. Dupre. If it weren’t for the small curved pieces of wood, they’d have no way of communicating over distances or while in flight. It’s how Jungkook has kept in the loop about what’s happening at The Steppes.
Jungkook glances over Onyx’s side, catching small glimpses of the mountain peaks through the grey cloud cover. “Let’s be quick about it. I don’t want to get caught in the storm brewing in these clouds.” Ice glitters on the reigns in his gloved hands, and he can feel the crust of it gathering in his hair. “Once we’re sure of the status at Supret, we need to head northwest to meet with Taehyung.”
At the mention of his name, Taehyung’s baritone filters in, sounding like he’s standing at the other end of a lengthy wind tunnel. “Take your time. It's better to be safe. There’s a rumor that Jeon has ordered a few ballista engines to be constructed at the garrisons. I haven’t spotted one myself, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.” That knowledge churns sourly in Jungkook’s stomach.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Yoongi says. “We’ll see you shortly.”
Scoping over Orit and Supret takes little time. Jungkook keeps a keen eye out for the wooden scorpions but doesn’t see any. Perhaps it is just a rumor. The making of the large torsion weapons was outlawed after the peace treaty between the three nations of Filasdurn. If his father is making them, it shows just how desperate he is now to risk open war with Lork and Norkham.
The storm offers good coverage as they descend and sweep over the mountains. Onyx and Holgrin, being the dark colors they are, blend in against the harsh steel-colored rock. Only a few Reavers are in sight. Niharmer’s red, Petre, is the only one they recognize.
“I’ve seen all I need,” Jungkook says to Yoongi, pressing his knees against Onyx’s side in silent command. They bank to the right, gaining altitude with every sweep of mighty wings.
Relaxing in the new saddle, Jungkook can’t help but think about what it will feel like with your thighs pressed to the outsides of his hips. The saddle Jimin made has a cushioned back separating the two seats. If it weren’t a safety concern, Jungkook would have insisted there be nothing between his body and yours. But Jimin insisted on the safer aspects, and Jungkook begrudgingly relented.
He hates that he will be gone all day, leaving you alone. One of his favorite pastimes recently has been watching you train with Rit. You're quickly picking up the technique and honing your skills for someone who may have only had sparing weapon training prior. The way your body moves and even the grunts of frustration and exertion you make are things not easily forgotten. You invade his mind and have managed to sink your claws right into his soul—and he finds he likes it, probably more than he should.
Jungkook isn’t sure what to call the thing that’s blossoming between the two of you. It’s an enigma of feelings and actions. Never before has he been so drawn to someone so quickly. He’s also never met another being so capable and quick-witted. You breathe life into him and make him want to reach beyond his own limits. There’s no denying you recognized the hunger in his eyes the moment he first exposed your Psion rune. It was hard to mask his reaction. It was so visceral and sudden. He’s curious how it made you feel to be looked at like that. Did you think you were a morsel about to be devoured or a goddess about to be worshiped?
The sudden dip of Onyx’s wings pulls Jungkook out of his thoughts. The clouds break around his body until they’re swooping toward a clearing northwest of the Andos Forest. The sun is low in the sky, making it so Jungkook can barely see the pearl and pink coloring of Dallise, Taehyung’s white dragon, standing out against the brown and dark green of the grasslands where she and Taehyung wait.
Waves ripple through the knee-high grass as Onyx and Holgrin come in to land, their wings stretching wide to catch air and slow their momentum. Jungkook thumps to the ground beside Onyx, shaking out his limbs so they don’t stiffen up from being in the saddle all day.
I require food.
“Go for it, take Holgrin and Dallise with you. But steer clear of the mountains. Just because we didn’t see any ballistas at Supret and Orit doesn’t mean there aren’t any at Dupre.” Jungkook pats Onyx on his powerful flank before stepping away so the dragon has room to launch back into the sky. Dallise and Holgrin follow a second behind, the wind from their wings making all three men sway on their feet.
“What news do you have? How are The Steppes?” Yoongi asks, getting to the point.
Taehyung pushes a hand through his unruly brown waves, his hair longer than he usually keeps it, and thoroughly windswept. “The Steppes are fine…for now.” When Jungkook and Yoongi exchange a look, Taehyung continues, “We spotted a dozen fleet ships just south of the Western Garrison the day before yesterday. They’ll be upon the first island within the week.”
“Noks?” Jungkook asks.
“A mix,” Taehyung drops his hand, shrugging. “From what we could see without getting too close, there are Noks on deck but a few Wielders as well. Only one dragon in sight, a brown I didn’t recognize. But, based on the numbers, there are at least twenty squadrons and one wing—practically the entire reserves. I’d bet boots to buttons that only a handful of soldiers remain at The Shield and The Serpent. The capital will be empty, ripe for the plucking. Speaking of plucking, you get the Psion in your b—”
“That’ll be enough.”
Yoongi chuffs. “He’s sensitive about her.”
“I knew it. She’s far too pretty for you to keep in your tent without—“
“Say it, and I’ll punch you.” Jungkook crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at them both. It only lasts a minute before they all break into fits of laughter.
“Seriously, though, she’s nice, and I’m happy for you,” Taehyung says, elbowing Jungkook affectionately in the side. “It’s about time things started looking up for you.”
Not for the first time does Jungkook think about how he’d not come nearly as far as he has without his friends. When he ran away ten years ago, none of them so much as questioned his reasoning or called him insane for what he accused his father of. They simply packed a few scant belongings and helped smuggle him and Onyx out of the city.
They’ve been there since the beginning, his constant reminder that there’s good in a world of evil hidden under the guise of authority. Because that’s really what it is, why no one else thinks twice about questioning his father—power; they’re blinded by it, and kings can do no wrong in the eyes of people on their knees.
“Thanks,” Jungkook says with an easy smile. “We leave at first light in the morning. You’ll be keeping someone on the curler, right? Just in case.”
Taehyung taps the small wooden curve still nestled in his ear. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” The dragons burst from over the Andos Forest, banking hard before dropping to the ground in a cascade of ground-shaking thumps. “Looks like they’re enjoying full bellies. I should be getting back. Hopefully, there will be more than crumbs left from dinner.” He pats his stomach and waves farewell before clamoring into the saddle on Dallise’s back. “Godspeed, my friends, I’ll see you at the top!”
Yoongi and Jungkook watch as Dallise and Taehyung turn into nothing more than a grey dot on the horizon. The sun is almost entirely down, the sky a deep blue with a blush of purple and orange.
“We best get back. Try to get as much sleep as we can before dawn.”
The ride back is silent except for the sound of the wind whipping by. Even Onyx is surprisingly subdued, considering all his banter earlier. The moon is high in the sky by the time they make it back. Yoongi offers Jungkook a parting squeeze on the shoulder before disappearing into the camp, heading toward his own tent.
🖤🖤🖤
A gentle hand on your arm pulls you from sleep. You blink your bleary eyes until Jungkook comes into focus. He’s kneeling beside your bedroll, his brow creased with a frown.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
The question is confusing, so you answer hesitantly. “Umm, sleeping?”
“Well, yeah,” he puffs out his cheeks, gesturing vaguely at your pallet. “I just thought—never mind, I’m sorry.” You watch as color suffuses his cheeks and the little sliver of his neck that you can see over his flight garb.
“No, what is it?” you press, even more curious now.
Jungkook straightens, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Jungkook, don’t be afraid to speak your mind with me. Please.”
He raises a hand, rubbing at the back of his neck as he intentionally angles himself away from you. “I just thought—perhaps hoped—that I’d return to find you in my bed.” He swings around and gives you an apologetic look. “But, I realize now that’s awfully presumptuous and really just…I don’t want you to think I expect anything from you that you’re not giving to me willingly, that’s all. I’m sorry for that.”
Tucking the blanket under your arms, you sit up. “I thought about it,” you say, standing and wrapping the blanket further around your body. “But, I wasn’t sure. You left this morning without saying anything, and well…I didn’t want to presume myself.”
“This is my first time doing something like…this,” he gestures between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to leave this morning without saying anything. But, I knew if I let myself linger, I would have just told Yoongi to go by himself.”
“How did the scouting and meeting go? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything is okay.” He winces. “Well, mostly. I’ll explain everything, but first, I want to give you something. I stopped by Jimin’s on the way through camp. He promised me he’d have it ready when I returned tonight.”
Jungkook moves over to a wrapped bundle lying on his bed. It’s large, bulky, and oddly shaped. Golden filigree fabric is gathered with a length of red ribbon, holding the bundle closed. He ushers you to sit down on his bed, the package beside you.
The soft, earthy scent of leather blooms in the air as you tug on the ribbon and rumple the golden fabric. Peeling back the folds of the package, you pause, hands lingering in the air over the exposed contents. “Jungkook,” you whisper, your voice laced with awe. “You didn’t.”
But he did. Nestled inside the wrap of the golden fabric are brand-new fighting leathers. The stitching is delicate, and the leather is supple and smooth under your trembling fingers, like soft chestnut-colored cream.
“It’s adjustable,” he indicates the cross bone lacing along the sides. “And there’s enchanted foam padding along the inside that will mold to your body. I know the tight banding you’ve had to use with the other fighting leather was restricting. I wanted to ensure you were as comfortable as possible going into tomorrow. You’ve been working hard, and you deserve it.”
You’re unsure you’ve ever received such a thoughtful and precious gift. “They’re beautiful,” you murmur, picking up the leather pants that were tucked under the top. It has the same fine stitching; you can tell it’ll form to your body like a second skin but not impede your movements. “Thank you, really and truly, thank you.”
Jungkook cups the side of your face, his palm resting solidly against your jaw. He slowly kneels in front of you, his hip pressing against the side of your thigh. “I may have told Yoongi I fucked you with my shadows last night,” surprise lights in your eyes, so he quickly presses on, “and there’s an entire fleet on their way from the capital to The Steppes. Taehyung thinks they’ll arrive by the end of the week. If we are unsuccessful tomorrow, I’ve arranged for every able-bodied dragon to be granted asylum in Norkham. All other dragons will be protected at all costs by everyone at The Steppes now.” He pauses and swallows, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Even with all that, it was hard for me to concentrate, to think of anything other than you and what comes after.”
“A distracted commander makes mistakes,” you repeat the words you said to him nearly a week ago. “What can I do to help alleviate your wandering mind?” You give him a demure look through your lashes, lips slightly parted as you let the blanket slide free from your body to puddle on the bed.
“Hells,” he curses under his breath. “Maybe if I drink my fill of you, it’ll help with this troublesome thirst.”
His lips find yours, kissing you with every ounce of desire coursing through his body. You can feel it in the way his lips pluck at yours, and his tongue invades your mouth to pull moans from deep in your chest. His flight garb is scratchy against your skin, so you tear at the ties and shove until you feel the warmth of his body instead.
The muscles of his chest and arms flex as he helps you rid him of his top. He stands, breaking the kiss as his hands move with yours to undo the stays on the front of his trousers. You push and tug, just as frantic as he is, until he’s standing before you in all his naked glory.
It’s the first time you’ve had more than a fleeting moment to appreciate his body. He’s lean but fit, broad shoulders complimenting his trim waist and muscled thighs. Your eyes track the smattering of scars covering his body, their puckered pink lines standing out against his golden skin, until you allow yourself to settle on the one thing you’ve tried so hard not to stare at.
The sight of his cock has saliva instantly pooling under your tongue. You instinctively swallow, your lashes fluttering along your cheeks as you take a shallow breath and try to gain control of yourself. A familiar ache blooms between your thighs like your body is keyed to respond to the proximity of his.
A phantom brush against your nipples brings your attention back to him. The heavy scent of cloves hangs in the air as his shadows fill the space around you. You can feel thin tendrils of darkness feathering over your body, caressing over your most intimate places.
“You’re beautiful.” The words slip out without your permission, but you don’t regret it as the praise swells his chest and the hunger in his eyes deepens. His skin feels smooth like velvet under your hands as you trace the lines of his body, mapping out the curves and peaks.
“And you’re going to make me lose my mind if you keep touching me like that,” Jungkook growls, the sound contrasting wildly with the gentle way he pushes you back. He follows you down as you move into the center of the bed. His weight settles over your body, hips fitting perfectly between your thighs.
He shudders against you, cock jerking where it’s pinned between his stomach and yours. Shadows continue to writhe over your body, bringing tiny blips of pleasure to the surface of your skin.
“Let me show you how thankful I am for your gift,” you whisper. He lets you easily push him until he’s on his back beside you. You soak in the sight as you slowly position yourself to kneel between his legs.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “You don’t have to thank me for anything. I also don’t want you to think this is transactional or anything like that.”
“How about you just let me suck your cock because I want to, then?” Your teeth press into your bottom lip as you look up at him, trying to tell him with more than just your words how much you want this.
He blows out a shaky breath, chest hollowing. “I can deny you nothing.”
Satisfaction warms your cheeks. You curl your fingers around his bobbing length, angling it up and away from where it rested fat and long on his belly. You’ve never done this with a Mave before, but you’ve heard stories. The first swipe of your tongue over the crown of his cock confirms they’re true; a flavor that’s as sweet as honey with the faintest hint of clove bursts on your tongue. You moan, firmly wrapping your lips around him and sucking, chasing after that candied flavor. It’s pure rapture.
You jerk, mouth popping wetly off his cock as you let out a surprised, “Oh!” A thick, pulsing presence slides between your slick thighs. Your knees widen, automatically accommodating Jungkook’s shadow. The kiss of it against your clit has you bowing your back, jutting your ass out in supplication. “Fuck. That feels so good,” you babble as it pushes in, just as delicious and filling as you remember.
The sensation spurs renewed vigor into your lips and tongue as you take him in your mouth again. Your throat convulses, squeezing his cock as you take him as far as possible. “Look at you. You’re a goddess, delivering transcendence. Ah,” he groans, hips bucking up to meet each stroke of your mouth.
“I’m going to cum,” you whimper around the head of his cock. It slips from between your lips, smacking messily against his abs. As if on cue, the shadow pumping between your thighs increases its pace, and another thread of darkness snakes off to circle your clit. The orgasm snaps through you, ebbing away clarity and coherency until all you can feel is the intense pleasure contracting low in your belly.
“It’s no wonder I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Come here.” He beckons you up, guiding you with his hands until you sit astride his hips. It’s hard not to puddle atop him, your limbs feeling loose and gooey in the aftermath. The shadows slip away until it’s just him, your body alight at every point it’s pressed to his. “Allow me,” he whispers, kissing softly against your sweat-slick temple.
Jungkook eases you into changing positions with him. You stare up at him, marveling at how his lithe body moves. The violet brazier burning hotly in the middle of the space casts striking shadows across his features. It’s with certainty that you think you could get lost in this man if you’re not careful. Lost with him and never found again. Though, that doesn’t seem so bad…maybe—maybe in the after.
Something soft moves along your sides, his shadows cradling your body in an embrace of safekeeping. Your sensitive body reacts to him, goosebumps popping up in the wake of his fingers as they skim along your thighs. “I need you,” you voice lightly.
His eyes soften as they take you in, his hands pushing your thighs apart. “And you shall have me—all of me, I’m yours.”
The weight of him on your body is comforting as he lowers until his chest presses against yours. In the flickering light of the brazier, his lips find yours, and he swallows your moan as he notches himself against your pussy and drives his hips forward. The air wooshes from your lungs in a hard exhale. Your body quivers, accepting the entire length of him with ardor.
Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back as he retreats until only the tip of him remains before he languidly rocks forward again. Jungkook moves like the ocean, his body following the push and pull of the tides, guided by the moon. With each roll of his hips, you feel yourself drawing closer to another hedonistic release.
The indulgent way his lips ply yours, and his tongue fights for dominance, added to the decadent stroke of his cock kissing the perfect spot, has you reaching that peak and barreling right over the other side into oblivion. “Oh, gods, Jungkook! I ca—I’m cumming!” You dive through the waves, hurtle along the shoreline, and get sucked into the raging, swirling riptide that makes up Jeon Jungkook.
Warmth simmers in your chest, and suddenly, you can feel him, see him, breathe him in. Everything that is Jungkook—all the pain, loss, joy, and current toe-curling pleasure—files itself neatly away into your infinite space. His face goes slack, lids dropping low, a moan rumbling from deep in his throat as your power slithers up his spine and invades his mind.
“Fuck!” he pants, burying his face into your neck as his hips jerk and sputter. Heat floods around his cock in intense pulses as he cums. It pours from him in hot jets, filling you to the point it gushes and seeps out, sliding down your ass.
A chill replaces the warmth as you realize what just happened. “J-jungkook, I—I’m sorry, so sorry!” Panic grips you by the throat, stealing your breath. “Please, I didn’t mean to do that.”
One of his hands slides over your mouth, cutting off your next round of pleading. “Shh,” he croons. “It’s okay. I swear it by all the hells. It’s okay. You do not need to fear my retaliation for being what you are. Ever, okay?”
You watch him for a moment, trying to gauge whether or not he’s being truthful. There’s nothing but raw, open honesty in his eyes. You nod the best you can, with him still pressing against your mouth. His lips replace his hand, hushing you further into silence over the matter.
“Thank you,” you whisper when he finally relents. His lips are kiss-swollen and glistening, the sight making you feel a wave of smug satisfaction. Jeon Jungkook, Shadowsword, the exiled evil prince…brought to orgasmic ruin by you.
“Are you thanking me for the two orgasms or for accepting you for who you are?” It seems you’re not the only one feeling a bit of pride.
The words on your tongue become a gasp as Jungkook moves, sliding free from your body with a rush of sticky mess. “Mmm, both,” you answer. It’s silly to feel shy suddenly, but when Jungkook leans back, and his gaze locks onto your cum-filled pussy, you feel the urge to press your knees together.
“Uh uh, don’t you dare,” he chastises coyly. “I want to see what I’ve done to you.” With one hand, he swirls two fingers in the wetness gathered along your asscheeks. He holds it up for you to see, his digits covered in creamy white. One of his fingers goes into his mouth. He hums in satisfaction, then offers you the other.
As soon as his finger hits your tongue, you’re reminded of how delicious he tastes. There’s a subtle mint flavor that mixes perfectly with the clove of him. Jungkook’s other hand cups your pussy, reawakening that hungry ache as he gathers more of his cum and pushes it back inside.
“Gods,” you whine, arching your back as he begins to move his fingers, thumb stroking over your clit. Tingling pinches play over your nipples, the scent of clove in the air intensifying as his shadows come out to play again, wrapping around your breasts. “You’re going to make me cum again.”
A wicked gleam alights in his eyes as his fingers move faster, drawing your orgasm closer to the surface. “That’s the plan,” he smirks, a single brow raising in challenge.
A moment later, you’re cumming on his fingers, body squeezing and undulating around them. “Jungkook!” you cry his name like a prayer.
“I like it when you say my name like that,” he says between placing soft, nibbling kisses along your jaw.
It’s minutes, or maybe hours later when you’re lying in his arms on the cusp of sleep, entirely and utterly satiated, unsure of how many orgasms he plucked from your body. Dawn isn’t too far off, that much you’re sure of. You will the sun to hold out, wishing for a little bit longer in this hazy, bliss-filled bubble before you face the potential of having it all ripped away. Unknowingly, Jungkook has given you hope. He’s slowly rubbed away at the armor encasing your heart, turning it bright and burnishing, just as golden as he is.
As much as you hoped it wouldn’t, the sun rises, and it’s finally time to seek justice—not just for yourself and all the lies you’ve been fed over the years, but for all others who have been deceived, but most of all…for him.
🖤🖤🖤
Jungkook
The world is cruel. Jungkook is sure he’d give up just about anything if it meant being able to live out his life with you. Well, almost anything. The taut bond-tether to Onyx is a constant reminder that there is something bigger out there than his own personal feelings and desires.
You help him dress, cinching the stays and ties of his armor to keep it snugly in place. The new fighting garb he had Jimin make for you is exquisite quality. The smooth leather molds to your body, accentuating the feminine curves of your hips and breasts. Jungkook wishes he had your ability, if only so he could perfectly encase his vision of you right at this moment. You’re looking at him like he crafted the world and breathed life into your soul.
Last night is something he’s still trying to come to terms with. The moment your power reached out and slid within his psyche, he was a goner. It was the most intense and euphoric experience he’s ever had. He felt connected to you on such a deep, carnal level. It was similar to how it feels with Onyx, a connection that goes beyond the normal plane of existence. The feeling is still there, but more a phantom of what it was. There is no bond in place, not truly, but he can feel you beneath his skin all the same.
The air outside is cold, the sky still a deep, rich navy color. Yoongi and Rit are waiting in the fight field; Holgrin and Ripley are standing near Onyx. Three dragons, three Maves, and one Psion. That’s all there will be to execute this daring plan. Jungkook spent months—years, really—thinking about the best way to infiltrate the palace and confront his father.
It wasn’t until you started to paint the inner picture for him that he was able to decide small and quiet was best. The bulk of his force is far better suited to guarding The Steppes than trying to barrel through the gates of the capital anyway. It would just be messy and end up with more lives lost than necessary.
The citizens and people of The Golden Kingdom of Bolas are loyal to a fault. Though it’s not his father they’re inherently dedicated to, it’s the power he represents. This is where Jungkook is putting his whole trust into the knowledge you’ve gained in your years of service to the Crown. You’re confident that if the power shifts to him, the whole of Bolas will change their loyalties without a fight. It’s not a secret that many loved Jungkook before malicious lies were spread about him supposedly going rogue by his father, and more that defamed his character.
“Ready?” Jungkook asks, nodding at the two men waiting.
Rit flexes his hands, opening and closing his fingers before jerking a thumb toward the dragons. “Full bellies and clear heads. Ready as we’ll ever be.”
“Taehyung reached out a bit ago. The fleet of ships are still steadily drawing closer to The Steppes, but nothing else has changed,” Yoongi informs, stoic and unemotional as ever.
“Great. Let’s go.”
Onyx gives both you and Jungkook an assessing look as you approach him. Mated. As I said you would be. I approve. She is good for you.
Don’t let it go to your head. Jungkook repeats the very words Onyx used a few nights ago. We can talk more about this after—if there even is an after.
There will be. Onyx sounds so sure. Jungkook wishes he had as much confidence. But, truth be told, he’s terrified. All he’s wanted to do the last ten years is confront his father. Now that it’s finally happening, he can’t help the trepidation making his steps sluggish.
Once seated on Onyx, he reaches down and helps you up. Jungkook knows you’ve ridden a dragon before, but just in case…Don’t bank too hard, and try to keep above the clouds so we don’t get caught in any snow flurries.
A golden eye glares back at him as Onyx sways his head to the side. I am no hatchling. You’ll do well to remember that. Besides, I have no desire to make her sick all over my hindquarter.
Jungkook gives the rough scales at the base of Onyx’s neck a hearty pat. I didn’t mean any offense. I’m just full of nerves.
Then let’s be done with it so we can move past this, on to a better tomorrow.
Onyx rockets skyward, launching up with a graceful flap of his wings. Twin swooshes of air echo through the clearing as Ripley and Holgrin launch after him, taking up positions along his backdraft in a flanking formation. It’s been years since Jungkook has flown in such a dynamic. Hopefully, he never will have to again.
The sun begins to crest over the horizon just as they fly over the Gilded Ranges. It’s still quite dark above the clouds, but the blush from the sun slowly begins to filter through. By the time they’re over the mountains and approaching the Golden Wood, the sun is reaching above the clouds and spurring them on from behind.
Even with the bitter cold of the season as well as the high altitude, the sun is a welcomed warmth in addition to the heat of your thighs nestled against his hips. Not that conversation on the back of a dragon is easy, but you’ve been very quiet and withdrawn since getting dressed this morning. It’s been on the tip of Jungkook’s tongue several times to ask you to share your thoughts with him, but it never feels like the right time to do so.
When Jungkook gauges that they’ve passed the Gold Wood, he directs Onyx to begin the first descent, sending them below the cloud cover. The Kingdom stretches out before them, all rolling hills and farms. It doesn’t often snow this far to the west, but the cold leeches the brilliant greens and golds of the spring and summer crops leaving the landscape a drab palette of muted colors.
The last time Jungkook saw the Golden Palace was the day he fled from his parents' bedchamber. It’s odd to think he’s never once in the previous ten years thought to come back and execute any reconnaissance. His friends have always taken on that role, and he’s only realizing now how grateful he is for their vigilance and dedication to him, considering he’s not sure if he would have been able to stop himself from seeking instant gratification and storming the palace all on his own had he laid eyes on it.
It’s eerily quiet, the city walls completely devoid of guards. Jungkook catches a few glimpses of scurrying figures down below between buildings, but none with the notable golden armor. The capital looks meek, like a defenseless animal waiting to be plucked up by a dragon’s maw. It raises Jungkook’s hackles, his unease dripping down the bond to Onyx.
I don’t like it.
Maybe your father has grown desperate, throwing everything at his disposal at The Steppes. Dillase said there were enough Noks aboard those vessels to have withered the primary defenses.
Even if that were the case, he’d never leave the palace unmanned. Not while my mother is there. There’s only one thing my dad loves more than power, and that’s my mother.
Jungkook misses his mother every day. He’s wondered countless times since he left whether she missed him, too. After losing his brother to illness, she became as protective as a mother dragon over him. Yet, he never heard anything from or about her after he escaped. As far as he knows, she’s still willingly by his father’s side. Maybe she believes whatever lie his father spun for her. As soon as Jungkook finishes confronting his father, whatever the outcome of that, his next priority is finding his mother.
The dragon corral is a sobering sight as they land in the training yard. They wait for a moment, expecting a rush of guards to come busting through the postern door leading inside the palace, but after several long minutes of silence, they all share a look before dismounting.
There are no dragons resting in the corral, nor are there any dotting the training ground. The only sign of dragon life is the bloated body of a young yellow dragon lying in the dirt outside the corral doors. It’s a sickening sight, seeing this again, the careless way his father just disregards the dragons he’s forcing to die for him long before their time.
“The dragons will remain here, waiting for any air advancements from The Serpent. If anyone comes up from The Shield, there’s no way they’ll make it here in time to be a difference,” Rit says, pointedly ignoring the sight of the dragon, not out of disrespect but out of sheer will to not be sick. Jungkook can see the green tinge coloring Rit’s face as he surveys the expanse of the lower city and the road leading to The Shield. “I didn’t see any sign of Vikmag, and Ripley says his scent is only faint here like he hasn’t been within the corral for days.”
“Odd,” Yoongi states, narrowing his eyes at the large wooden structure that usually houses dozens of dragons. “Where is everyone? Taehyung said there was only one dragon with the fleet, a brown he didn’t recognize. It doesn’t make sense. We should be swarmed in gold and scales by now.”
Jungkook helps you down off of Onyx’s back when he deems they won’t be ambushed. “Are you okay?” he asks under his breath. He cups your face, eyes feasting on yours.
Onyx moves over to the yellow dragon, sniffing the air around it. He gives a mournful coo that Ripley and Holgrin echo before turning his fierce golden eyes on the sky above the palace, ever vigilant.
“I’m fine, let’s not waste time.” You glance around him at the yellow body, and he can feel the tension settling into your body. It’s no wonder he’s so attracted to you. The fact you’ve got your head in the game and can remind him to get back on track is more than he ever thought he’d get from a partner. That thought halts his thoughts. A partner? Is that how he sees you already, as his partner? The realization has an unbidden smile gracing his face. He presses a chaste kiss to your lips before nodding and stepping away.
Gesturing toward the lone postern door leading into the family quarters, Jungkook says, “Let’s find my father.”
He approaches the entryway, much like he did that fateful day all those years ago, brimming with just as much anger at his father as he was then. Yoongi and Rit fall into place behind him, with you between them. Even though you’ve gotten better at fighting and Jungkook is confident you could take on a cluster of guards on your own, he still feels better with them taking the brunt if it comes to it.
The smells of cedar and cinnamon flood the hallway, complimenting Jungkook’s own clove. A glance back shows Yoongi’s hands fisted around hazy balls of air, and as they pass by one of the enchanted fire sconces on the wall, Rit’s fingertips spark with teardrop-shaped flames. Pulling more on his own power, Jungkook directs shadows to slither along the walls, seeking ahead for any signs of life.
A crashing sound draws Jungkook to a stop. He holds up a hand, halting everyone else. Another wave of clamor echoes down the hall. There are faint voices, one pleading and the other full of acid. A feminine scream rings out, followed by another thunderous boom.
That starts Jungkook into a sprint. The slapping of feet behind him lets him know you’re all following. He careens around the last corner before barreling through the open doorway into his parents’ chambers. The door hangs off the hinges, splinters of wood scatter under his feet as he skids to a halt. The outer parlor is a mess. Furniture is overturned and scorched, feathers and stuffing dot the floor with swaths of cream looking like fallen snow on the charred remains of a house.
A crack of lighting illuminates the inner bedroom, drawing Jungkook’s attention. “I won’t stop!” screams a familiar voice, only it’s broken and far more frantic than he’s ever heard it before. His father crosses the doorway, steps churning across the floor as he continues to rave. “I can’t idly sit by and watch you die! I’ll go to The Steppes and murder them all myself if it means getting another hatchling for you!”
“Love, please,” rasps his mother’s voice, sounding as frail as glass.
The floor rumbles as more lightning flashes through the bedroom. His mother's whimper barely carries to his ears under his father’s anguished roar. The sounds are punctuated with another round of thunder.
Jungkook nods at Yoongi, jerking his chin toward the doorway. He points a finger at Rit, indicating from him to you. Rit moves closer to you, putting himself between the crumbled door into the hall and your body. Yoongi steps up between Jungkook, ready to do whatever needs to be done.
Stepping into the room, Jungkook barely recognizes the space. The furniture is even more destroyed than the parlor. The only thing not utterly decimated is the small chaise lounge his mother is lying on.
Her weepy, cloudy eyes find him first, and a choked cry sputters from her thin lips. Pale, veiny skin and rheumy eyes framed by thinning black hair. Her skeletal fingers grip the front of her robes as she heaves in sobs. There are songs written about the beautiful golden queen of Bolas. But now, she looks like a wisp of what she once was…all that beauty wasted away into a heart-wrenching reality. She’s dying. Somehow, someway…Jungkook knows it’s true.
“What’s happening?” he asks, his voice cold and distanced from the sorrow pounding away behind his breastbone.
King Jeon wheels around from where he was staring out the broken window. His eyes are wild, huge, and shot through with a spiderweb of red, ruptured vessels. “You!” he hisses, jabbing a finger in Jungkook’s direction. “It’s all your fault!”
Lightning careens across the room in arching jets of blue and blinding white. Jungkook’s mother screams, and the room explodes into motion. A wall of air sweeps around Jungkook, blowing the lightning strike apart and sending it scattering around the room, where it chars and causes even more destruction.
Exhaustion is evident in how his father wields his Signis, hurling bolt after bolt of light at Jungkook. Being tired doesn’t lessen the power to begin each attack. It just makes it more erratic and unpredictable. There’s a reason Maves should never wield for long periods of time without resting.
“Stop!” his mother cries. “Please, stop!”
Another concussion of air, mixed with Jungkook’s own shadows, deflects the next barrage of bolts. His mother’s plea turns into a curdling scream as an errant spark of light hits the chaise she’s on, the wood frame splintering and snapping under her, sending her toppling onto the floor.
The lightning stops instantly, Jungkook’s father wailing in anguish as he rushes across the room and throws himself on the floor beside his wife. Jungkook can’t understand the babbling from his father as he gathers her into his arms. The incoherent stream eventually clears to a constant string of apologies.
“What’s going on?” Jungkook tries again through clenched teeth. His muscles ache from holding onto such a large amount of power, but he knows he can’t let his guard down yet. Yoongi is vibrating with energy behind him. Surprisingly, Jungkook notes that you and Rit have also moved into the room behind Yoongi. Rit gives him a subtle jerk of his chin when their gazes meet momentarily. It’s clear; no guard is coming to intervene.
Onyx, what’s happening out there? Any sign of Vikmag?
We spotted him out over the ocean not long ago. He’s circling The Serpent but doesn’t seem intent to face us.
“I just wanted to keep her,” his father sobs. “I just wanted to keep her!”
“Keep who?” Jungkook takes a few tentative steps toward his parents. His mother’s eyes are closed, blood trickles from a shallow cut on her face from where she fell, but her chest still rises and falls. Tension, which he didn’t realize was there until he could ensure she was still breathing, bleeds out of Jungkook’s shoulders.
King Jeon tips his chin up, finally meeting Jungkook’s eyes. His father looks like a ghost. The dark, luscious mane of hair he always kept so well groomed is greasy and stringy around his gaunt cheeks. White flecked stubble covers his jaw, and dried spittle crusts at the corners of his mouth. His stare is lifeless, like he’s already been defeated by a foe bigger and darker than Jungkook.
“My sweet, sweet beloved,” he whispers before his gaze drops back to his wife. King Jeon smoothes a trembling hand over his wife’s hair, brushing it back from her face. It’s then that Jungkook sees it: the light golden webbing spreading out from her temples, down her neck, and over the backs of her hands. Golden Blight, the disease that stole his brother and is now eating away at his mother, named for the yellowing of the blood vessels as they die and no longer supply the body with vital blood.
“Impossible.” Jungkook balks. He retreats a step, bumping into Yoongi, who places a steadying hand on his shoulder. His mother always had a delicate constitution, easily catching coughs and fevers, but he never once thought she had the Blight. When he was old enough to understand, he spent countless hours sequestered in the royal archives, learning all he could about Golden Blight, wanting to know what cruel disease stole his brother away from him. How could he have not known? Where were the signs?
Jeon continues to stroke his wife’s hair as words dribble from his lips in a stream of emotion and lost hope. “She fell ill shortly after Junghyun died. The Magus believed it was brought on by her grief. I was desperate and did everything I could…even things that were unthinkable to others. I discovered the enchantment for dragon bonds. It worked. It kept the Blight at bay, but only for a short period. It worked, but I couldn’t just selfishly covet it for myself. People would have grown too suspicious of me…of your mother. It would have been found out, my weaknesses revealed to our enemies. So, I did what I had to.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Jungkook asks, his tone low and dangerous. No matter how much he loves his mother, he’s not sure he could damn an entire species to save her. However, a sinking feeling fills his belly when his thoughts turn to you. He’s not saying he loves you; it’s far too soon for that, but would he willingly enslave and condemn an entire race to death if it meant having you for a bit longer? He shudders to think of even having ever to decide something like that.
“The last dragon died two days ago,” his father proclaims instead of answering Jungkook, the anger returning to his tone. “And now you’ve sentenced your mother to the same fate, you hateful, insolent, backstabbing little shit!”
A swirl of light cracks through the room, buffeted by an onslaught of air and shadows. Fire erupts, the powerful heat seeming to absorb the stinging seer from the hot bolt before Rit directs it out the window. Flames pour out of the room, taking the lightning with it. “My mother!” Jungkook yells, using shadows to shove his father back from her unresponsive form.
He sees you dart forward in his peripheral, gathering her into your arms and sliding behind the ruin of the chaise. It’s not foolproof protection, but it’ll have to be enough. Jungkook is intimately aware you’ll do everything within your means to keep her from harm.
Fire rips through the room again, being spurred on by a gust of air as Yoongi and Rit combine their strength. King Jeon snarls, flicking a hand that sends a strike of power into the heart of the flame, making it bisect around him and crash into the walls, catching the hanging tapestries on fire.
“I’ll never forgive you! You’ll die for what you’ve done!” The words echo through the room before they’re swallowed by a staggering succession of blasts. Smoke and heat fill the room, forcing Yoongi to change focus and use his ability to funnel everything through the window.
“You should have told me!” Jungkook screams, lobbing a fistful of shadows forward. They snake around his father’s arms and legs, tightening until he’s struggling to extend his hands for attack. “I could have tried to help!”
“The only help you can offer me is your death,” his father hisses, blood covering his rictus smile. “Your death as payment for your mother’s!”
Energy pours from King Jeon, crackling and radiating through the room. Jungkook can feel his hair standing on end, chills coursing over his body. He’s unsure if there’s such a thing as a soul bond between humans. But, the unspoken solidarity with which Yoongi and Rit stand with him feels as close to that as he’d guess it would be. He doesn’t have to utter a word. They just move with him, pulling on their Signis’ to join with his, creating the perfect balance of wind, fire, and darkness.
The air in the room seems to combust, hurtling everyone back several steps. His father must have broken free from his shadows in a last-ditch effort, putting him directly in front of the giant, gaping hole where the window used to be. He catches a glimpse of his father stumbling backward from the blast, right before he disappears into the open air, much the way Jungkook did all those years ago when he flung himself from that very window. Only this time, no dragon is waiting below to break the fall. Vikmag is miles away, perhaps making his own peace with the end.
Rit makes to go toward the window, but Jungkook grabs his shoulder. “Don’t. He doesn’t deserve another moment of your life.” Jungkook knows Rit must be feeling similar things to what he is. The fact that most of his life was dedicated to the Crown in some form. There is an unreadable look in Rit’s amber eyes, but finally, his shoulders sag, and he gives him a subtle nod.
“Jungkook,” your soft voice carries to him from across the room in the silence that follows.
He leaps into action, sprinting across the room and swinging around the splintered chaise. Yoongi is already kneeling on the other side of you, one of the Queen’s hands tucked between his.
“Mom,” Jungkook whispers, dropping to his knees before you. He takes the paper-light weight of his mother from your arms, cradling her against his chest. “Mom, wake up.”
Her lashes flutter, and her eyes slowly peel open until cloudy, muddy-brown irises show around a sickly grey pupil. The whites of her eyes are shot through with faint tendrils of gold.
“My sweet boy,” she sighs. Her hand trembles as she tries to bring it up to Jungkook’s face. He catches it and holds it against his cheek, now wet with free-falling tears.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry,” Jungkook quietly cries.
Tears gather along her lashes, making the gold slowly overtaking her waterline seem more prominent. “Never be sorry for standing up for what you believe in,” she says. “I never meant for anyone to get hurt, for this to go on for so long. He told me…he told me it was safe. It wasn’t until l-later that I found out the t-truth, and by then—” her words cut off as she’s overcome with a coughing fit. Gold flecks dot her lips, mixing with the crimson blood frothing at the corners of her mouth. “By then, it was too late. Nothing would stop him. Even when I refused a new dragon…he would force me.”
“Shh, Mom, you don’t have to explain. It’s over now. He’ll never hurt you again,” Jungkook coos, offering his mother assurances.
“Just p-promise me. When you find love,” her rheumy eyes glance your way, and her thin lips spread in a semblance of her once beautiful smile, “don’t lock her away in a cage.”
“Never, I swear it.” Jungkook holds his mother tighter, feeling the slow drain of her strength. Gold feathers along her cheeks. It blooms faster, snaking like roots beneath her skin, as the disease runs rampant for the first time in decades without a dragon bond to stop it.
Jungkook isn’t sure how long he’s been kneeling on the floor, but you rouse him with a soft shake to his shoulder. “Jungkook, it’s time to go.” He looks down at his empty hands. How long have they been empty?
“Where is she?” he asks, frantically gaining his feet and jerking in a circle to look around the destroyed room.
“Hey, hey, calm down. I’ll take you to her if that’s what you want?” you ask, hesitant to offer that option.
He knows then that she’s gone. You’re simply trying to be gentle with him. He wants to yell at you not to coddle him, but all he can do is gather you into his arms and shake his head. “No, no, it’s okay. There’s nothing left for me here…we should go.”
This is the after he’s so often spoken of, yet he never fully considered what he would do once he reached it. There’s a lot that needs to be taken care of, but right now, he could care less. Jungkook just wants to climb on Onyx’s back with you and launch into the sky, soaring into oblivion, just the three of you.
So, that’s precisely what he does.
🖤🖤🖤
One year later
“Jungkook!” you call out. After a few minutes of no response, you sigh, pushing up from the comfortable spot you had by the fire. “Jungkook!” you try again once you’re on the garden terrace just outside your chambers.
Grunts of exertion and whoops of laughter echo from down in the courtyard. “Just a moment, dear!” Jungkook responds, his voice carrying up to you.
“I swear, if you and Rit are at it again with those swords, I’m going to turn you over my knee!” you teasingly shout, repeating one of the first flirty threats Jungkook ever said to you, and earn yourself peals of laughter in response.
Life with Jungkook is easy. Everything has been, for the most part, since King Jeon fell from the window that fateful day. Things were initially chaotic in the aftermath of the Golden King’s downfall. Especially considering Jungkook whisked you away on the back of Onyx without so much as a word to Rit and Yoongi. But that seemed so insignificant in hindsight.
You spent nearly a month with him on the shores of Lork, just basking in the sun and eating fish and coconuts. When you had returned to the capital, Namjoon, and Yoongi were swift to hand the reins back over to Jungkook as if he hadn’t disappeared like that.
Just as you had assumed, the people of Bolas accepted the transition of power well. The guards took a little more convincing, but Taehyung got the point across real quick when the fleet landed at The Steppes.
There are no more forced bonds, and no dragon, regardless of their power or ability, must take on a Mave if they do not wish. However, the fact that Jungkook saved their entire race has curried him favor with them. It was worrying, at first, everyone thinking that dragons would simply refuse—not that anyone would blame them at all.
You glance at the inky-scaled egg soaking in the heat from the sun a few feet away. It’s nestled in a basket filled with soft blankets. It’s one of the first hatchlings to come after. Apparently, Onyx took a liking to Ripley during their time together at the rebel encampment, much to Jungkook’s dismay. He only grumbles about it occasionally now. But every time he looks at the egg and then at the swell of your belly, he can’t stop his smile or the warmth in his eyes.
The child growing in your belly will be a powerful Mave, or so Jungkook says. Though, everyone agrees with him just from the power that radiates from you. The hatchling from the egg is sure to be a powerful Reaver as well, considering Onyx’s teleportation ability—which you didn’t learn about until much later and left you shocked for hours—and Ripley’s chameleon ability.
Jungkook and Rit are barechested in the courtyard as you step up to the railing and lean over as far as your belly will allow. Namjoon, Seokjin, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin, and Taehyung are all sitting around the outer ring of the training pit, hooting and encouraging one man or the other. “Be up soon,” Jungkook grunts, swinging his sword in quick movements that Rit easily parries.
A shudder catches in your peripherals, drawing your attention to the egg in the basket. It rocks gently, with a slight vibration. “Huh,” you muse aloud to yourself. “I wond—oh!” you exclaim as a rush of liquid pours down your leg. “Oh, no.”
It’s sometime in the middle of the night that you watch Jungkook gently sway and dance around your bedchamber, cradling your newborn son in his arms. He sings softly, his gentle words filling the room with such beauty. You had no idea Jungkook could sing so well. It seems like he’ll never stop amazing you.
The last several hours are a blur. But, no matter what went on, you’ll never forget the surge of power that flooded the air around you when your son took his first breath. A mewling dragon cry joined him in testing out their lungs. Ripley and Onyx’s egg cracked the instant your contractions started. Both beautiful boys entered the world at the same time. Fate, Jungkook calls it.
Maybe it is fate; a story that will be passed down through the ages—one that will be carried on wings of mist and memories.
↳ DragonRider!Jungkook x FieldScribe!f.Reader
⤜ Enemies to Lovers, Exiled Royalty, High Fantasy
⤜ Rating: MA | angst
⤜ WC: 7,937
⚠️ Crass language, combat/violence, sword fighting, minor character deaths, talk of war, mild torture for information (punching), brief nudity (nonsexual, mostly), sexual references and feelings
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◅ Back to series masterlist
Glossary
Mave - dragon rider who can wield magic, tethered to the soul of their dragon when they bond (death for both if one dies)
Psion - infinite memory/recall
Reaver - a dragon that can wield magic, tethered to the soul of the rider they bond (death for both if one dies)
Noks - infantry soldiers, humanoids who can enter berserk/rage mode
Rider - regular dragon rider, no magic, uses bows or scouts
Brute - riderless dragon, usually wild and very dangerous
Wielder - magic user, no dragon needed
Signis - the designated/specific type of power someone wields
“General Marvick!” a harried voice, muffled by the wind and snow, shouts from outside the tethered tent flaps.
The large, formidable form sitting at the head of the war table throws a murderous glare toward the canvas-covered entryway. “Bulwark, let him in,” General Marvick growls before resuming assessing the map stretched over the table.
The Nok lieutenant by the door—Bulwark—snatches at the short length of the tassel used to secure the tent flap against the harsh winds coming off the mountain. As soon as the tie loosens, the large swath of canvas covering the command tent's entrance billows inward, bringing with it a sharp gust of biting wind and a messenger bundled in snow-covered furs.
“General,” the messenger says, bringing an arm up to cross over his chest in salute. “I bring a missive from the Crown.”
General Marvick glances at you before nodding toward the messenger. You push up from your small camp stool placed a few feet from the edge of the table. A place close enough to hear the words spoken around the war table but far enough so you don’t get in the way.
The messenger glares at you as you approach them. You hold out an expectant hand, meeting that sneer with a steady gaze. The messenger clearly knows who—what—you are, and just as most people, he already has a preconceived opinion on it; a hatred that extends back thousands of years, an ingrained fear of what you represent.
“If you don’t mind,” you politely urge.
The distance between you and the snow-covered man increases as he takes a few steps back to try and skirt around you. “General Marvick, this is a missive directly from the Crown. I’m to place it in your hand and your hand alone.”
Silence falls in the tent after his rushed proclamation. The creak of General Marvick’s chair sounds a moment before you feel a large presence filling the space immediately to your side. In the many years you’ve been in service to the general, you still find yourself in awe at the sheer amount of muscle and brawn contained within the lightly bronzed, leather flight armor.
“Her hand is my hand. Give her the parchment before I run you through with my sword, boy!” General Marvick growls, looming over the now trembling messenger. The folded missive is thrust into your still-waiting palm. “Now, get the fuck out of my sight!”
The messenger’s retreating footsteps are swallowed by the snow as he scrambles to leave. Bulwark quickly secures the tent flap back into place, sealing out the blustering wind.
“Fuckin’ Golden Birds,” grumbles Colonel Rit Goris, second in command, from his spot to the left of General Marvick’s empty seat. “Always think that because they’re direct messengers from the Crown, they somehow hold a higher status than the gods damned War General.”
General Marvick swings your way, glancing at the letter. “Read it, then report.”
You nod, watching as the general settles back at the table. General Poli Marvick is the only woman you’ve ever seen serve in such a position. Sure, there are plenty of non-males within the varying military wings, but never one in such a high position as War General—commander of all.
You were scared when you were first assigned to General Marvick’s service. Just laying eyes on the mountain of a woman made you a bit weak in the knees, larger than most men you’ve seen. A permanent scowl mares her angular face. A jagged scar bisects her right eyebrow and slashes in a stark line across her cheek to the corner of her severe mouth. If her hair weren’t shorn so close to her scalp, she would be sporting wheat-colored curls. Her glacial eyes are unnerving, such a bright blue that they’re almost white, and they miss nothing.
You resume your seat, perching on the small camp stool and tucking your ankles under it. The cloak around your shoulders sways, covering your arms as you lean forward a bit. Your uniform is simple, fur-lined leather pants and a thick wool tunic, all in muted colors to blend in with the mountainous environment you’re in.
Being stationed at Fort Orit—the furthest northern garrison in the Gilded Ranges, the large mountain rift that divides the Kingdom of Bolas—means there is a constant drift of snow coming down, and the air outside is cold enough to split skin if you’re not careful. The light leather and linen clothes you’d typically wear have been tucked away in a trundle under your camp cot ever since you arrived at Fort Orit with General Marvick almost a year ago.
War has ravaged Bolas for nearly ten summers. It’s almost like that’s all you’ve ever known, having been barely into your teen years when the kingdom seemed to implode in on itself. From everything you’ve been taught—everything you believe you know—blame is laid at the feet of the last son of the Crown; the heir that wanted power before it was his to claim by rights. The texts and scrolls filling the war archives talk of a malevolent son who tried to murder his parents in their sleep. He’s been fighting to steal the kingdom and the throne ever since.
Focusing on the letter in your hands, you take a slow breath and focus on how it feels. The parchment is smooth and high-quality, denoting a communication from the Crown. Warmth spreads over your chest, trickling between your breasts with a familiar caress as you seek the inner well of your power. You direct the heat and probe at the letter, feeling for any blemishes that might indicate sinister intentions beyond the golden wax seal.
Nothing stands out as you continue to assess the parchment. Satisfied you won’t get immediately hexed or explode, you slide your thumb under the fold by the seal and pop the wax. You watch as the golden wax, imprinted with the dragon signet of the Crown, pulls away from the paper, and you delicately smooth out the trifold sheet, all while keeping a tight hold on that warmth in your chest in case something lies in wait within the scrawled ink.
Your eyes rove the page, consuming the words and filing them away into your infinite space of recall. That space—it’s why you’re here, why you’re feared…but also why you’re valued above all else. The words are typical of what you’ve come to expect in General Marvick’s service, a meeting to discuss military affairs.
As if sensing your impending disruption, the chatter at the table subsides with a raised hand from Marvick, her wintry eyes sliding your way. You give her a barely perceptible nod before standing and folding the paper back up, pinching it between your fingers as your hands automatically slide to rest on the small of your back. Your shoulders roll back, and your chin rises slightly as you recite the words of the missive verbatim.
“A summons for a redirect…today? Noon?” Goris asks once you’re finished, his silver-flecked bushy mustache quivering with the flurry of irritated words. “Hours before we’re set to advance the forward lines?”
General Marvick turns to take in the faces around the table, meeting all their eyes as they digest your words and Goris’ remark. They’re all leaders of some kind, designated to different quadrants across the whole of the flight wings. Below Goris in command are Majors Elis Niharmer and Hern Ta. You’re familiar with the men, as they’ve frequented the command tent more than the lesser two leaders, Captains Ulgrin Krut and Moojin Lee.
“If that is what the Crown wants, then so be it.” General Marvick’s words might be in subservience to the summons, but you can tell by the tautness of her shoulders that she’s not happy in the slightest with the request. Noon is when the lines are meant to be marshaled for forward advancement down the mountain before winter sets in and freezes out the entire fort. The first winter storm has been slowly gaining momentum on the peaks, adding to the existing snowdrop.
When General Marvick took over this post a year ago, she realized that the casualty ledgers recorded almost as many deaths by cold than by rebel hands. She immediately put in a directive that would see the entire garrison safely below the winter deathline of the mountain before the season changed.
There is a smaller garrison, Fort Supret, further south, and one valley back that is to be where the outpost settles until the season rolls over again. It’s not nearly as defensible as the ruins of Fort Orit, nor is it advantageous in keeping an eye on the Andos Forest—the gnarled and dark-looking wood the rebels find refuge in when they’re not trying to break the Front Wing’s lines.
Captain Krut, a rotund man with a glaring bald spot, shrugs his meaty shoulders. “I sent a few Maves and Riders ahead yesterday. They can handle the forward orders for the Eastern line. As long as this summons doesn’t last more than a fortnight, all should be well on my end.”
“Ta, Niharmer, Lee?” General Marvick asks of the three remaining men around the table.
Major Lee nods toward Krut. “The same as Ulgrin. I sent ahead two Maves and three Riders. They should be able to get things rolling if I am needed elsewhere.” Krut grumbles at Lee’s use of his first name. The man is quite prickly about being reminded he’s named for his treasonous father. The senior Ulgrin Krut was part of the rebellion uprising that led to the war currently being waged across the Gilded Ranges—the war that has brought you and all these war leaders together here.
“Well, I would hope I could sit this one out,” Major Niharmer grunts, his chain armor straining around his substantial, scarred bulk. Dark scars criss-cross over the backs of his hands and along his neck and cheeks, the ebony skin puckered in some places and divoted in others. He’s seen more battles than all of them combined, except for Marvick. The only reason he doesn’t hold her or Goris’ higher position is because he refuses to take on more responsibility. “A few detachments suffered greatly last month along my western line. I think I’d be better suited riding out with reinforcements than meeting with the Crown. Even with the Maves and Riders I also sent out last night, I’d feel better going myself.”
Major Ta quirks a smile, his filed teeth glinting in the mana globes suspending over the table. His teeth have always put you on edge. Word has it, he files them nightly to keep them sharp and enjoys using them as much as his sword in battle. “If I didn’t know any better, Elis, I might think you rather hated wearing anything other than your armor with as much as you avoid taking it off in favor of dinner finery.”
Niharmer cuts a glare toward Ta, his austere eyes flicking over the other man. “Better than the fancy silks you cover yourself in,” he mutters. “Damned fool, slide right off your mount.”
“Gentlemen, please,” General Marvick cuts in. “I’ll have your answer now, Ta.”
Major Ta shifts in his seat, the silk of his trousers hissing over the hardwood of the chair. You’ve never seen him wear anything besides silk, even against the frigid temperatures outside. He wears nothing more than a silken doublet and trousers with supple leather boots. You know he’s a Mave, as are the others seated at the table, but unlike the others, you’ve never been granted the knowledge of what his Signis, the power the Maves wield, is. You speculate it’s what keeps him from needing a coat, though.
“None of my company have ridden out yet,” he admits, glancing around at the others to see if they react to that confession. Goris’ muscles flex in his forearms, but that’s the only indication that any of them disapprove of Ta’s seeming lack of forethought. “Much like Elis, I’d prefer to accompany my forward line. We lost more than a dozen Noks during the last push from the rebels. I need to be there before we move again.”
Marvick clears her throat, glancing down at the war map on the table. It indicates the losses, so she’s well aware that some of the front lines are weakening with every push from the enemy. “Very well. Niharmer, Ta, you’ll return to your forces. Lee, I want you to ride out with Ta. Provide him with any reinforcements you can spare since your garrison is the closest. Expect a farflight Rider within the week for any updates this summons from the Crown provides. In the meantime, I’ll send word to the capitol, requesting an advance on the next rush of support. We’re set to receive a dozen new squads at the end of the month. We’ll see if that can be expedited.”
“Very well, General,” the three men murmur as they salute and then excuse themselves from the table. Bulwark loosens the ties on the tent, letting the canvas flap in the wind as the men leave.
“Goris, Krut, you’ll be accompanying me. Meet me at the flight deck in one hour's time. You’re dismissed.”
“General,” Goris and Krut say, tilting their chins and crossing an arm over their chests toward Marvick before disappearing beyond Bulwark, still holding the tent flap.
Marvick stands from the table, her eyes sweeping over the map one last time. “Igno,” she whispers. The sweet scent of vanilla soaks the air within the tent as General Marvick’s magic blooms. The miniature figurines that represent squad and garrison locations shimmer before disappearing completely. Where they go, you’re not sure. You’ve never mustered the courage to ask her about her Signis in depth. All you know is she can make anything smaller than the Gilded Ranges without a heartbeat vanish and reappear as and where she wills it.
“You’ll be attending with me,” she says to you as she turns for the open door. “Be ready to fly.” She stops at the tent entrance, her gaze locking on the man wrestling with the flap against the wind. “Call in the Bearers, Lieutenant Bulwark. I expect to see the command tents erected at Fort Supret by the time I return in one week’s time.”
Left to your own devices for the next hour, you know you need to ready your tent for transport and change into your flight garb. Moving past Bulwark, you give him a slight nod before trudging into the knee-deep snow surrounding the tent. Cold seeps through your thick leather boots quickly, the fur lining doing little to thwart the chill kissing your toes.
The tent you use is next to General Marvick’s, which has already begun being dismantled by a hustle of Bearers. They’re efficient, even with the heavy snow. You know they train in these mountains before joining whichever garrison they’re assigned, ensuring they’re as good as possible in the sometimes 10-foot snowdrifts.
You tug at the flap to your tent, kicking away the snow collected in front of it. “Fucking shit,” you curse as a chunk of snow slides off your tent and catches you in the shoulder, sending a blitz of snow straight down the collar of your tunic.
The cacophony of camp noise muffles behind the thick canvas of your tent once you’re inside. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to just how loud it is here. Despite the mountain's utter stillness and quiet air, the tens of thousands of combat-ready bodies filling all the crooks and valleys between peaks make it feel more like you’re stuck in the middle of a great city instead.
Though, you suppose Fort Orit is a city all its own. There is no proper “fort” to speak of, just old crumbling ruins that help keep the worst of the wind out. You can’t imagine what it would be like to go patrol beyond the broken masonry. Thankfully, you should never have to find out. The summons is set to take place in the furthest western turret of the fort, the only one still intact after thousands of years of weathering the cold and snow.
From what you’ve heard, Fort Orit used to be one of the greatest mountain garrisons, but it was nearly destroyed when the rebellion first launched. Until a year ago, the rebel forces had claimed it as their forwardmost outpost. Thanks to General Marvick, though, the rebels have been pushed far beyond the Barren Wake and into the Andos Forrest at the base of the mountains.
As long as the Gilded Ranges remain under the control of the Crown, the rebels are considered to be ‘losing’. Considering what you learned in that war meeting, though, you’re not sure how much losing they’re doing. Several places along the front lines have been devastated over the last few months, more so in the previous few weeks.
It used to be that most of the pushing to overthrow the Crown’s forces took place at Fort Orit, hence why that’s where General Marvick was stationed. You hate to admire the enemy forces, but it seems they’ve wised up and altered their tactics, acting more like a real army than a band of rebels. But that line of thinking can only spell trouble for you if anyone finds out. They are power-hungry rebels, chaotic and disorganized, nothing more—according to everything you’ve been taught.
🖤🖤🖤
Less than an hour later, your tent is with the Bearers, and you’re waiting on the flight deck—a large outcropping of sheer rock—for General Marvick. Goris and Krut are locked in a private conversation a few dozen feet away. The flight deck is clear of snow, thanks to the rock being enchanted with a warming spell to keep the ice from accumulating and impacting launches.
The creak of leather draws your attention to the swayback stairs cut into the rock face that leads to the deck. General Marvick comes into view, her flight goggles already down over her eyes. You’ve learned they help in the air and on the ground against the stinging wind. Your own goggles sit firmly across your face, the clear lenses only occasionally catching an errant snowflake.
“Let’s go, gentlemen,” General Marvick calls to Goris and Krut, who snap apart, startled by her sudden command. They both salute her and fish under the neck bindings of their flight uniforms for tiny bone whistles. The cries from the whistles are imperceptible to human ears, but the sudden thrum of concussed air coming from over the lip of the flight deck lets you know they work.
You glance at General Marvick as she’s tucking her own whistle back under her uniform. She gestures for you to move behind her, which you obey. A moment later, your breath wheezes from your lungs as three hulking figures rocket over the ledge and land with ground-shaking thumps. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to seeing them—dragons.
They tower over you. The largest, General Marvick’s red dragon, Lowren, is three times taller than she is as he settles back on his haunches, wild barbed tail flicking restlessly behind him. The other two, Krut’s brown named Erle and Goris’ green called Ripley, are slightly smaller but no less fierce looking. Their thick membrane wings flex as they naturally accommodate the wind ripping across the flight deck.
Strapped to each dragon by adamantine supports crossing their chests are flight saddles. Most dragon saddles seat a single rider, but General Marvick special ordered a dual-seat saddle so you can accompany her without the need of a horse, which is ‘slow and dull’ according to her.
She once had to wait nearly a fortnight for you to arrive at a war brief simply because the horse and caravan you were riding with traveled far slower than Lowren. Ever since, you’ve had the pleasure of riding in the small extra seat crafted behind hers.
“Shouldn’t be more than an hour’s ride,” Goris calls, shielding his eyes with a hand as he gazes up into the swirling sky to judge the weather. “Wind’s against us, but it doesn’t look like anything worse than usual coming in from the east. Plenty of time to wait for the portal to the capitol to form.”
General Marvick nods. “Mount up. Let’s get this over with.” She launches herself up, grappling with the pommel and reigns of the saddle until she’s settled in her seat. Then, she extends a hand down to you. You are grateful for Lowren; he lowers himself until his scaled belly scuffs the hard stone, and you only have to jump about a foot to grab onto Marvick’s hand to be hoisted up.
The first time you met Lowren, you could barely breathe as his green eyes flicked over you, assessing whether or not you were worthy of being astride him. After several moments where you thought your heart might explode, he finally huffed a warm puff of air into your face and then nudged the center of your chest with his snout—approval.
Lowren straightens, and the now familiar sinking in your belly as he prepares to launch skyward is comforting. You’ve never felt more powerful than when sitting on the back of Lowren. Even if you’re not the one in control of the reigns, the sheer mass and energy of the creature under you is enough.
You’re aware that General Marvick and Lowren can communicate without words. During your years of training as a field scribe, you learned enough about Reavers—dragons like Lowren who can wield magic and have a soul-deep bond with their rider—and Maves—those magic-wielding riders. The bond allows telepathic communication, something you’ve envied from the moment you learned it. Being who—what—you are, you can’t help but feel some sort of kinship because of that.
You can feel the tight coiling of Lowren’s flight muscles a second before his wings snap out and scoop the air, rocketing into the sky. There is a full grin on your face, even as the wind tears at your exposed skin. You can’t help it. Before frost can nip at your cheeks further, you hastily pull up your wool neck scarf to cover everything exposed beneath your flight goggles.
At the peak of the flight, the clouds clear enough that you catch a glimpse of the Andos Forest. It’s hard to believe it’s filled with tens of thousands of rebels, apparently led by the rebel prince himself. You’ve never seen him, or at least you don’t think you have. Marvick tries to keep you as far away from the fighting as possible. But, you have witnessed a few skirmishes and raids, even with her vigilance.
The shudder that runs through you has little to do with the cold and everything to do with the fact you’re sure you saw a large dark shadow move within the trees before your view is obscured by clouds again. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but if it wasn’t…there’s only one thing in that forest that would be that big, and you’d rather not think about that right now.
The western turret of the fort comes into view, the stone crenulations on top jutting into the sky like an open maw lined in teeth. The side of the turret has been opened, exposing the belly of the main room, making it big enough to accommodate the bulk of the dragons as they land. They still snap at each other as they vie for space. Elre snorts a puff of smoke at Ripley when she gets too close but sidesteps completely when Lowren bares his teeth at him.
“Right on time,” Goris announces as Lowren brings you and Marvick between Elre and Ripley. A soft glow forms across the room, indicating the start of a large portal being opened. The summons said to be here at noon and await an outlet from the capitol to bring Marvick and her attendees to the barracks courtyard back at the palace. You all dismount, as it’s easier to go through a portal not on the back of a beast. One false move and you could injure yourself on the pulse of the portal itself.
You pull your cloak tighter, trying to keep the cold from digging too deep while being exposed like this so high up in the turret. You’ve seen hundreds of portals opened. Once the bluish glow begins to form, it should only take a few breaths before it’s opened. But, for some reason, the blue light is only pulsing, not extending into a gateway.
Marvick shifts on her feet beside you, the clink of her chainmail seems too loud in your ears as nerves prick along your spine. Something’s wrong. You look at the other two, gauging their reactions. Goris glares at the blue glow like he could will it to open with his sour look. Krut’s focus isn’t on the blue light. Instead, he’s staring skyward, a tilted smirk on his lips.
Your eyes sweep up, following his gaze. The sky swirls overhead, clouds scuttling across the dim beams of sunlight that manage to penetrate the wintry haze around the mountain. Your chin tilts up, the neck scarf sliding below your nose as you try to see whatever it is that has his attention.
You’re about to bring it to Marvick’s attention when a silhouette appears against a murky beam of pitiful sunlight—fear claws at your throat, silencing the scream that wants so badly to escape. Lashing out with a hand, you clamp it around the bulge of Marvick’s forearm, shoving up as hard as possible. Her head whips to the side before snapping up with your silent plea.
It all happens so quickly. The blue glow disappears, and a vast black form drops from the sky with a piercing screech, a dragon’s cry louder than any you’ve ever heard. The turret shudders under your feet before it begins to crumble as the dragon slams down, separating your party from their own dragons. You pitch forward, knocked off balance by the sudden sway and slope of the floor.
“Run!” General Marvick bellows at you before drawing her sword. You catch sight of Krut and Goris also brandishing their own weapons. The bulk of the dragon blots out most of the light from the open side of the turret, obscuring your view of the rider on its back. All you can see is an iron-clad leg tucked behind the massive wing of the beast. The dragon is monstrous, with sable scales glinting like wet tar. Golden eyes sit above a vicious row of snarling teeth as it snaps its jaws in the air and roars again.
“Shadowsword!” Goris snarls, keying you into who the rider is upon the dragon’s back. You’ve only heard that name whispered on currents of fear, breathed into tales of nightmares; Shadowsword—the military commander of the rebel army and one of the strongest Maves to ever draw breath.
Your feet skitter over the stone floor as you try to keep your balance and escape through the archway exit of the turret and into the stairwell leading down. Two more ground-shaking thumps hit the turret, and hope surges in your chest, thinking that two of the other dragons are trying to assist. You spin, backpedaling toward the exit, hoping to confirm. But, you nearly lose your footing as shock barrels through you.
Two dragons are ripping at the edge of the opening to the turret, but neither of them are dragons you recognize. One is a snarling burnt orange dragon with a large crown of red spikes jutting from behind its eyes, and the other is pearly grey with pinkish wings. They rip at the stones, trying to bring the walls down.
Ear-piercing dragon screams rend the air before you catch a glimpse of green, brown, and red flashing beyond the bodies crowding the turret. The floor shudders so hard it clacks your teeth together and weakens your knees. You hit the ground, sliding on your hands a few feet in the opposite direction from the exit.
“Go, you fool girl!” Goris yells, appearing in front of you just in time to parry a lashing dragon tail coming right at you. The scale appendage rebounds off the steel of his weapon, and you can tell it sends pain radiating up his arms from the cry he lets out. Goris launches forward, but a sweeping wing knocks him off his feet.
A primal wail echoes from somewhere outside the turret, and then a solid thump hits the floor beside you, drawing your attention before you can think better of it. Krut’s unseeing green eyes stare at you, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. You scream, scrambling backward on your ass to get away from his body, which you now realize is missing everything from the waist down.
You never see him dismount, much less circuit the room so he’s behind you. But you knock into his solid legs all the same. Your face snaps up, instinctively seeking out what’s halted your progress toward the exit, only to stare up into the most menacing brown eyes you’ve ever seen—Shadowsword. A golden helmet covers the rest of the face, but you don’t need to see it to know he looks like a reaper coming to ferry your soul into the After.
“You will not!” roars Marvick as she bodily rams into the man, shoving him several feet away from you. He’s not even drawn his sword yet, until now. The ringing of steel sliding free rings above the cacophony of dragon screams and crumbling stone.
Before you can continue your scuttle toward the exit, the man—Shadowsword—lunges toward Marvick in a fury of whirling metal. She immediately goes on the defense as she meets him blow for blow. Her grunts of frustration and strain hit your ears as he backs her right into a wall with his advancement.
Shadows begin to coalesce around the room, bringing with them the distinct scent of clove, growing and pulsing as they fill all available space. “I’ve waited so long for this,” a deep, snarling voice proclaims as Marvick is forced to her knees, her sword held up to keep the other blade from cleaving into her shoulder.
“You’re a disgrace! I’d never betray the King!” Marvick grunts, shoving hard against his blade to send him back a step. She switches to press her attack, straightening to her full height and changing her stance in a fluid motion. His sword meets hers, sparks flying as they clash over and over.
A draconic roar shatters the air, and Shadowsword snarls in response. He shakes his head. “You should have listened to me. It didn’t have to be like this!” he bellows before the crunch of metal tangles with the wet shriek that pours from Marvick an instant before her body flops to the side, splattering a coppery tang of fluid all over you.
Your breaths are coming in shallow pants, and you can’t seem to move no matter how much you will your legs and arms to do so. Belatedly, you glance down, seeing the thick tendrils of shadow encasing your limbs. You blink up at the room, realizing the space's sudden lack of motion and fury.
“P-poli,” you whimper, choking back a sob. The strongest person you’ve ever met…decimated so quickly by this monster they call Shadowsword. Who is now so casually looking around the small space, even as the floor shifts further and more stones rain down from the walls. The only dragon remaining on the turret is his, the large black one with the golden eyes.
You try to swallow the panic bubbling in your throat. You’ve been trained for this very moment. The small blade tucked into the top of your boot calls your name. If you could only move your right hand a few inches, you could grasp it and do as you’ve always been instructed to when faced with such a situation. But, the shadows holding your arm refuse to budge no matter how hard you strain.
“A scribe, guessing by your garb,” the man who just destroyed everything says, calm in a way like he’s discussing the weather. “I guess between you and Goris, it’ll have to do. Hopefully, this wasn’t a waste.” He gives General Marvick’s body one last glance before stomping over, scooping you up, and throwing you over his shoulder.
You scream, emptying your lungs repeatedly as you struggle against the dark bands still holding you. Getting to the blade in your boot is paramount. He can’t take you. Rule number one for what you are—never be taken alive. Your fingers manage to graze the top of your boot just as you’re tossed onto the back of the giant dragon. The shadows keep your hands and feet bound, but you’re able to scrunch up, getting your fingers into the top of your boot. Triumph has a manic grin spreading across your face as the knife slides free, and you pinch it between your fingers.
“NO!” you scream as the tiny blade is plucked from your fingers.
“As if you could stick me with that tiny thing,” the man grumbles as he settles into the saddle seat, promptly dragging you face down across his lap and adding a thicker band of shadows across your back. There is no sense in trying to correct him that the blade was, in truth, meant for you. “Don’t squirm too much, unless you want to fall. We have a long flight and I might forget to maintain my shadows.” His tone says he could probably care less. You open your mouth to tot off some snarky reply when a thickness shoves between your lips, filling your mouth until you can only elicit muffled noises. “Enough screaming. I prefer flying in silence.”
Your stomach somersaults as the dragon beneath you launches into the sky. Your adrenaline wanes and nausea rolls in a moment later, sucking you in deep. Your eyes flutter behind your goggles as your consciousness ebbs. The last thing you see are twin spots of orange and grey ahead of you before it all fades to nothing.
🖤🖤🖤
You awake to meaty thwacks and pained grunts. Blinking slowly, the first thing you see are splatters of dark red covering the ground in front of you. The heavy, coppery tang of blood in the air makes your stomach knot. You throw your head to the side, dry heaving as your body protests. You can’t lean far, your body forcibly held in place by familiar shadows.
The room spins as you shake your head to try and dispel the double vision clouding your eyes. Your chest squeezes, your stomach threatening to heave again. The sickening crunch of bone draws your head up, your eyes finally focusing.
A pitiful whimper slips out as you watch Shadowsword rear back to throw another punch. Goris is tied to a tent pole, much the way you now realize you are, shadows banded around his chest and his arms, legs sprawled in front of him. His feet jerk, leaving ruts in the dirt as that fist meets his face in another brutal attack.
“Please!” you cry. “Please, stop!”
Those menacing brown eyes cut your way, his bloody fist suspended in the air, ready for the next hit. Goris groans, frothy red bubbling past his lips to dribble down his chin. You’re not sure how long he’s been enduring the assault, but it doesn’t look like he can take much more.
“I’ll stop when he gives me what I want,” Shadowsword informs you.
When he shifts his weight to throw the next punch, you can’t help crying out again. “You’re going to kill him!” That hand remains lofted in the air, the muscles along his arm visibly shaking with the effort to hold back. “If you kill him, you won’t get what you want. Please. Don’t.”
Shadowsword chuckles, letting out an airy breath. “I can’t say you’re wrong about that.” He crouches down in front of Goris, gripping his chin and turning his face from side to side. “You still with us, Rit?”
Goris coughs, spewing little drops of blood to rain down onto his leathers. “Fuck. You. Bastard. Where’s Ripley?”
“Bastard? Now, now, we both know I very much do have a father, unfortunately.” Shadowsword grimaces, releasing Goris’ chin to stand up. “As for your precious Ripley, she’s somewhere safe, behind shields, so don’t even think to try connecting with her to use your Signis. You’ll only cause yourself pain.”
The sigh of relief you let out when he steps away from Goris’ bloody form turns into a gasp when Shadowsword moves toward you. “Please,” you plead, cowering the best you can with the restraints. “Just kill me quickly, or let me go.”
He clearly ignores you. “You know, I’ve been trying to come up with a good reason why Marvick would choose to bring her field scribe to a war meeting when the Crown would have provided all the scribes needed.”
“Don’t you touch her,” Goris snarls, the words sounding wet as he coughs up another wave of blood.
Shadowsword’s brows rise in surprise. “Why would you care what I do to a scribe, Rit? I’ve never known you to care what happens to a common woman. You’ve trampled your fair amount of flowers.” He drops to one knee beside your sprawled legs. Warm wetness smears along your jaw as he caresses your face with the backs of his fingers. “Though, she is quite lovely. Perhaps you’ve taken a liking to how she warms your blankets. Is that it, Rit? Finally found some pussy you want to keep, and now you’re scared I will ruin your pretty little songbird?”
You shudder and jerk away from his touch. “What is it that you want?”
“I want what Krut promised me.”
“Krut?” you ask, dumbfounded. The memory of him standing in the turret, looking up at the sky with a smirk on his face, surfaces in your mind. “It can’t be. He wouldn’t betray—”
“That’s dragonshit. You and I both know he would,” Goris interrupts, grumbling at you from across the tent. As much as you don’t want to believe it, you know Ulgrin Krut was always more like his father than just in name. “So, tell me, Shadowsword,” he says, directing his attention from you to the man still crouched beside you, “what did that yellowbelly promise you?” He hocks a glob of bloody phlegm onto the ground, grimacing.
Shadowsword tsks softly. The gold of his helmet glints wickedly in the mage lights above as he tilts his head as if he’s just thought of something clever. “Why, Rit, old pal, have you grown addled in your old age? I told you what I want—what he promised me.”
The familiarity at which Shadowsword seems to keep referring to Goris has the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. They interact like they know one another as more than enemies across the battlefield. Dread fills your belly, sitting heavy like a chunk of glacier ice.
“I can’t give you what I don’t have.” You’d think Goris would be better at controlling his tells, but the brief flicker of his eyes to you might as well be a giant red signal.
Shadowsword looks between the two of you. “No, you can’t…but you seem to think she might.” He nods toward you. “Don’t you?”
Goris balks. “A simple field scribe? Nonsense.”
A dark chuckle fills the air. “Just as shitty at lying as you’ve always been, Rit. Truly something I’ve always admired about you. So honorable. Too bad it’s about to get this sweet little songbird into a lot of trouble.”
“I’ll tell you everything I can,” Goris offers, his voice hard as steel. “I know things that can help you. Just leave the girl be. She’s innocent and doesn’t deserve anything you’d do to her.”
Even though all you can see are his eyes, you know he’s far more interested in what Goris is trying to hide from him than what he’s now offering. “No, friend, I don’t think I will leave her alone. In fact,” he says, reaching around his back and pulling free the small blade he plucked from your fingers before, “I think I’ll have as much fun with her as I want.”
You press as far back against the pole you’re secured to as possible. If he was intent on just ending your life, you might not be so scared, but you know there’s so much more to it simply because he’s now suspicious.
“Shadowsword!” Goris barks. It does nothing to stop the blade from pressing against your neck.
“What are you hiding? There’s no way you’re just a simple scribe. It’s not adding up,” he mutters as if to himself. You flinch at the slightest prick of pain under your chin. “You bleed like a scribe.” He leans forward, inhaling the air in front of you deeply. “I don’t smell the stink of dragon magic on you.” The blunt side of the knife presses into the skin of your throat as he trails it down, over your scarf, and to the top of your wool tunic. “I wonder,” he whispers before quickly flicking the knife over and snicking through the ties holding your top together.
“Leave her alone, you disgraceful fuck! Come punch me some more if you need to terrorize someone.” Goris spouts off brazen attempts to draw Shadowsword’s attention. But, he might as well be nothing more than a buzzing fly.
“Please stop!” You struggle against the shadow bindings, frantic to get away from him before he—too late.
The front of your tunic falls open, revealing your true nature to him. He lets out a low whistle. “Oh, pretty bird, look at that.”
He’s leaning in so close you can see your reflection in the depths of his eyes. The light blue runes etched into your skin catch the overhead lights and shimmer like the ocean at midday. The whorls and points zig-zag across your chest, just under your collar bones, and spread down the valley between your breasts to flare out across the expanse of your ribcage.
You’ve never been ashamed of what you are. The issue is with everyone else. They think you’ll steal all their secrets, tell the world…but that’s not how it works, and they’d know that if they ever truly cared to find out.
But he’s not looking at you the way most people do. No, there’s something different about how his eyes rove over your chest. You don’t care about the nudity. The pebbling of your nipples and chills that pop up along your exposed skin has little to do with the blatant perusal of your skin.
It’s the hunger you see plain in his face that ignites a flare of warring feelings inside your chest and belly. You shouldn’t like how he looks at you, but it makes you feel powerful, potent because he’s not afraid. If anything, he’s enamored.
“Fucking hells,” Goris sighs, resigned.
“Fucking hells is right, Rit. Seems Ulgrin forgot to mention Poli was keeping a sweet little gem in her pocket. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Poli was ever the strategist.”
Shadowsword straightens to his full height, towering over you. He flicks the blunt edge of the blade under the flap of your tunic, affording you some modesty by covering you back up. The laces are ruined, but once the glittering blue runes are hidden, you seem to snap out of your reverent spell. Embarrassment floods your face, heating you from within.
“Now you’ve had your fun. What is it that you want?” you reiterate your earlier question that he never fully answered.
Your knife is slid back into a small sheath lost amongst the gold plates of his armor. “That’s simple, my little bird—or should I say, my little gem. Yes, that seems more fitting with those beautiful marks on your chest.” He chuckles. “To think, all this time, all I needed to end this farce of a war was to get my hands on General Marvick’s personal Psion.”
“Go fuck yourself,” you spit. “I’ll never give you anything.”
He does that head tilt again like he’s assessing you deeper than surface level. Like, somehow, he can see inside you. “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re going to change the tides for me, little gem. I’ll know everything inside that head of yours before the mountain thaws and the flowers begin to bloom—that, I promise you.”
“You’re a fool if you believe that. Empty promises.” You hope he can see the determination and resolve in your eyes. Despite your earlier vulnerability and odd lapse in judgment as he laid you bare, you won’t give up your secrets easily. Being a Psion has both haunted you and given you tremendous power in life. The ability to remember everything you’ve ever heard, seen, or read…it’s no wonder most people fear you. You have enough information and knowledge to bring kingdoms to their knees…which, you realize, is something Shadowsword is counting on. “I’d never betray the King,” you state, repeating General Poli Marvick’s last words.
The man shifts his weight from foot to foot, the tent silent except for the crunch of dirt under his considerable form. The creak of his armor echoes in the small space as he brings his hands up and unclips his helmet before pulling it off. You stifle a gasp.
Shadowsword is so named because he’s described as a sword of the shadows. You thought it was simply because of his Signis being shadow manipulation. But, now you’re thinking it might have more to do with his inky black hair and angular face that seems to hug and kiss the shadows cast by the overhead lights. He’s breathtaking, and you can’t decide if it’s in a good way.
“My father? The King? Do you mean the king who has been deceiving his entire kingdom? The same king who kills—“
“Blasphemy!” Goris’ roar interrupts whatever Shadowsword is about to say. “Say it, and I’ll stick you through with your own sword, you lying, rebellious bastard!”
Those calculating eyes snap from you to Goris. “Idle threats, and we both know it, Rit. You couldn’t hurt a fly being trussed up like that. This isn’t our first time doing this dance, friend, do us both a favor and give it a rest,” he snarks, a smirk curling his full lips.
“Wait,” you whisper, his words finally registering. “Your father?” You knew the exiled prince led the rebel army, but you’d also heard Shadowsword was just his muscle, his attack dog. You wonder how many people know the truth, that they’re the same man.
You glance at Goris, and the resigned look on his face tells you that he, at least, knew the truth. Are you the only person that didn’t know? Confusion threatens to overwhelm you because if you got that wrong, what other falsities are filed away in that sacred space in your mind? But Shadowsword—Prince Jeon—draws your attention before the wave of panic can fully suck you in.
“I guess it seems there are things even you don’t know, little gem.” That reality cuts deep, slicing right to your marrow. “Tomorrow, the real fun begins. I suggest you both try to get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”
And with that, he strides out of the tent in a flash of gold armor and shadows, taking your confidence and self-assurance with him. Whereas a moment ago, his eyes made you feel so potent—you now feel entirely and utterly…powerless.
↳ DragonRider!Jungkook x FieldScribe!f.Reader
⤜ Enemies to Lovers, Exiled Royalty, High Fantasy
⤜ Rating: MA | angst
⤜ WC: 11,632
⚠️ Crass language, talk of war, blood, mild violence, flashback minor character death, mild sexual tension, suggestive inner thoughts
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Glossary
Mave - dragon rider who can wield magic, tethered to the soul of their dragon when they bond (death for both if one dies)
Psion - infinite memory/recall
Reaver - a dragon that can wield magic, tethered to the soul of the rider they bond (death for both if one dies)
Noks - infantry soldiers, humanoids who can enter berserk/rage mode
Rider - regular dragon rider, no magic, uses bows or scouts
Brute - riderless dragon, usually wild and very dangerous
Wielder - magic user, no dragon needed
Signis - the designated/specific type of power someone wields
Helnite - metal ore that can cut off magic from its user
It’s not cold in the Andos Forest like in the mountains. In fact, it’s the opposite with sweltering heat and thick humidity. It reminds you of growing up in the farming villages near the Southern Garrison. Stretches of open farmland, open to the blaze of the sun and humidity coming off the ocean to the south. You haven’t missed the constant stickiness coating your skin or how breathing became harder as the sun peaked in the sky.
The constant trickle of sweat down your body and the cottony feeling in your mouth makes it hard to sleep. Your clothes are fur-lined and thick, even your boots, which are making your feet ache from how warm they are. You’d give anything for a drink of water or for Shadowsword to come back and finish shredding your clothing—the heat is clearly making you delirious.
“Goris, you awake?” you ask, trying to blink the sweat from your eyes.
You haven’t heard anything from him ever since Shadowsword left, and that was hours ago, you’re sure. The tent fell into silence, you and Goris both closing in on yourselves. Whether lost in thought—you—or trying to compartmentalize the whole-body ache from getting tortured—Goris—there wasn’t much to be said then.
But, now, after trying and failing to get some sleep, you want to use what little time you have left before Shadowsword returns—there’s no telling how long that’ll be, could be hours more, could also be just a few minutes—to your advantage. It’s hard to gauge the passage of time or where the sun and moon are without being able to see the sky. The canvas of the tent is thick, and the overhead mage lights neither dimmed nor brightened with indication.
You watch as Goris’ chest rises and falls with a deep breath before a sigh whistles between his swollen, blood-crusted lips. “Hard to sleep with the pounding in my head. Quite certain that asshole concussed me.”
“Thank you…for what you did. For trying to keep him away from me.”
He grunts. “You stopped him from pounding my face further.” His jaw pops as he works it like he’s trying to ease the tension from the swelling. “It was the least I could do.”
Silence fills the space again, making you feel awkward as you form your next sentence. “How do you know him?” There is no need to specify who the ‘him’ is. With the way Goris shifts uncomfortably under his shadow bonds, you can tell he was expecting you to question him about it eventually.
You’re not sure he will answer you with the pregnant pause he allows to settle between you. The swelling in his face is getting worse, his left eye is completely swollen shut, and there is a weird bend in his nose that wasn’t there before. You watch as he continues to shift, flexing his fingers where they rest on his thighs and rotating his ankles, the heel of his boot drawing ruts in the dirt.
Goris has always been kind to you, if a bit standoffish in a broody sort of way. You’re sure he fancied General Marvick on a deeper level than just as his commanding officer. He’s not an unattractive man. His auburn hair is braided tight to his skull and dangles down his back. His eyes have an amber hue, not quite brown but not orange either. You think, in another life, one without wars and violence, he and Marvick would have made a great couple.
Thoughts of Poli have you pressing your lips into a thin line. Now isn’t the time to linger on thoughts of the dead. You need answers, information, something you can store in your arsenal for later use. The more you know about Shadowsword—the exiled fucking Prince of the Golden Kingdom of Bolas—the more chance you have of getting out of here alive and with at least some of your dignity intact.
“I taught him how to wield a blade,” Goris finally says, his voice low but carrying to you in the quiet of the tent. “When he was just a boy, I was the weapons master at the palace. I was there the day his Signis manifested, and the day he bonded with his dragon. I’ve known him for a long, long time.”
That explains the familiarity Shadowsword showed Goris. It’s clear they had a bond. You don’t work so close with someone for an extended period and not grow close to them. Your heart threatens to squeeze tight as you think about your own time spent so close to someone—you shove that feeling away again before it can take hold.
“How do we get out of here?”
Goris grunts a laugh that turns into a pain-filled cough. His breaths wheeze as his coughing tapers off. “I don’t think there is any getting out. Not for me, at least.” The words are spoken solemnly. “Look at me,” he commands, embodying the commander that he is. “No matter what he does, you remember your training. You may not have learned swords and shields, girl, but you can fight just as well without them. Use your words, mind, and body if you have to…you’ve been trained for this. Don’t let him win.”
The one amber-hued eye you can see glints in the mage lights as he stares you down until you give one quick downward jerk of your chin. May the wings of death be swift if ever I let loose my tongue. You repeat the Psion mantra that was hammered into you from day one of your training. Goris is correct. You may not know how to swing a sword, but you know the mind is a far sharper weapon anyway.
You have little time to think about that or ask Goris for more information. A gruff voice draws your attention to the tent's flap momentarily before it’s drawn aside, and Shadowsword steps in. It’s a bit surprising to see him not wearing his armor. You were sure the gold and iron were what made him seem larger than life, but you now realize he’s just as intimidating without it.
Black hair, wet from sweat or a bath, covers his forehead and curls around his ears. It’s not slicked back like yesterday when he took his helmet off. Maybe it was the shock, but you don’t remember seeing the small metal jewelry adorning his mouth or the whole sleeve of ink covering his right arm. He looks like an entirely different—but no less dangerous—person.
He’s wearing a light linen top with the sleeves ripped off and the ties at the neck undone enough that you can clearly see the shadowy depth between the muscles of his pecs. As he moves into the small space, the shirt breezes open enough that you catch a glimpse of black curling from his left peck to over his shoulder. But, the fabric bunches and moves as he crosses his arms over his chest, obscuring it before you can decipher what it is.
“Good morning, friends.” The cheerfulness in his voice doesn’t fit the way he’s standing there, feet shoulder-width apart, arms banded over his chest, hips slightly tilted forward. His stance screams predator, while his tone offers up what you know is undoubtedly a false sense of security. You can already tell it will be tricky to navigate around this man. He’s cunning, dangerous, and completely removed from what you’re used to—that much is clear.
“You don’t get to call me friend, Jeon, not after everything you’ve done,” Goris harumphs.
Shadowsword swings around to face him. You can’t see his expression, but the confusion on Goris’ face makes you curious. “Have you ever thought to stop and ask any questions, Rit? Or are you just mindlessly following and believing anything and everything that comes out of my father’s mouth? You know, I always thought you were the smart one, someone that might at least be curious enough to do his due diligence regarding people he cares about. But, maybe you never did care as much as it seems.” Those thick, broad shoulders push up in a shrug before he reaches back and pulls two shiny, metal, circular collars from where they were tucked against the small of his back, hooked into a holster you hadn’t noticed before.
“I-is that…are those Helnite collars?” Goris chokes out the question, his confusion replaced with wild panic.
“Just a precaution, Rit. You understand, don’t you?”
Before Goris can respond, Shadowsword crouches before him and swiftly clamps one of the collars around his neck. The sound he makes can only be described as a wail of mourning. He thrashes so violently against the tent pole that the whole structure sways as he continues to bellow and curse.
“Did he say Helnite?” you whisper. Despite how loud Goris is, Shadowsword still seems to hear you. He pivots where he’s crouched before Goris. Those dark, calculating eyes appraise you. A new wave of sweat breaks out across your brow and down your neck, competing with the chills working their way down your body as that look alone confirms your fear.
Helnite is the only thing in all of Filasdurn that can cut off a magic user from their power. The glittery silver ore is mined in Lork, the land where dragons supposedly originate from. No one knows more than that, as travel to and from Lork is forbidden, thanks to a centuries-old peace treaty between them and The Golden Kingdom of Bolas.
When Helnite is smelted down, it can be forged into weapons or imprisonment implements. When formed into a completed circle, it acts as an instant castration of any and all power. The use of it on innocent humans has been outlawed for decades. It’s been limited to being only used on criminals or Brutes in the wild that need to be caught for gentling so they can bond.
You’ve never been subjected to Helnite, with it being outlawed and you not being a criminal and all that, but you’ve seen the effects of it. It’s different for each magic wielder. The magic between a Mave and their Reaver is soul-deep—which is why when one dies, the other does, too. Right now, with that collar around his neck, Goris has been completely cut off from Ripley. It’s been explained to you that it feels like a piece of your soul is literally missing, the pain immense and full of dark thoughts—death without dying. It can leave lasting, unseeable scars, even after it’s removed and the connection re-established.
As for other magic users, such as yourself, it’s said to feel like—the collar snaps into place, your mind instantly goes blank, and you cannot finish your internal thoughts. Your chest rises and falls in rapid succession, the air wheezing from your lungs. The metal burns where it touches your skin, setting an instant ringing in your ears. A thick, cottony feeling pulses through your head, like the beginnings of a migraine.
“You’re going to kill her!” Goris yells.
“Is it too much?” Shadowsword asks. His voice is soft, almost sounding like he really cares.
You blink to clear your vision, and he slowly comes into focus. There is concern on his face as he kneels on one knee beside you. He’s close enough that you can smell the soft, clean scent of soap coming off of him. If your arms weren’t bound to your sides by his shadows, you wouldn’t have to reach far to touch his face. The sudden urge to smooth your fingers over his furrowed brow has your fingers twitching.
“If I say ‘yes’,” you have to pause to think, “will you take it off?” Your voice warbles, and your tongue feels too thick. It’s weird to have to think of how to form words. The effects of the Helnite impact everything. For someone like you, that means all your cognitive functions as well. It’s a weird sensation, feeling like your thoughts must slide through thick mud before they can form.
“Helnite isn’t typically used on Psions,” he says as if you don’t already know that. Though, you’re not sure if you do? Everything feels so uncertain, like you know nothing about anything but also still know everything all at once. It’s disorienting. “I was told it should be okay. And it’ll only be until you agree to cooperate.”
Your lips twitch, and you open them to respond, just for them to slide closed again. You shake your head instead, trying to tell him that won’t ever happen. He’ll get no help from you.
“You’re going to kill her!” Goris says again, his voice cracking, hoarse from screaming.
“Ripley is fine! I’m not going to kill your Reaver. I wouldn’t do that.” Shadowsword glares over his shoulder at the still-struggling man.
“Not Ripley, you idiot. Her!” He jerks his head in your direction. “That’ll destroy her! Helnite shouldn’t be used on a Psion of her caliber! She’s as good as dead if you keep it on!” Goris yells, sucking in air between his raging words. He’s still thrashing, rattling the canvas all around. “She’ll become a shell of a human, suck the life right out of her! She needs her magic more than any of us!”
Shadowsword’s glare softens out to a slight frown. “There’s no real proof of that. The archives are just full of speculation.” The roar of a dragon rings through the air somewhere outside the tent, and Goris screams along with it. “Fucking hells,” Shadowsword curses, pushing to his feet and throwing back the tent's flap. “Get her back under the shield, now!”
“W-what?” you try to ask them what’s going on, but the question only comes out as a single word instead of a complete sentence.
Just as abruptly as it began, Goris’ and the dragon’s cries stop. Thick pants fill the air, Goris trying to heave in air. His face is a deep scarlet, nearly purple from how long he was screaming without breathing. “Fuck. You.” Tears cascade down his ruddy cheeks, and his mustache quivers as he chokes back sobs. “You’ll pay for this, Jeon.”
This is the second time Goris has used Shadowsword’s real name—his real surname, at least. It’s not lost on you. Or maybe it is. You’re still unsure if the information and realizations are filing away correctly in the thick fog filling your mental spaces. What was once an infinite space resembling a placid lake that you could quickly dip into for recall is now more of a boggy marsh that threatens to overwhelm and drag you down each time.
“You,” Shadowsword stabs a finger toward Goris, “shut up before I gag you. Someone will be in shortly with some food. Try not to be an asshole to them, or you’ll go without. We’re not done, you and I. There’s still a whole lot we need to talk about, Rit. But, it’ll have to wait.” He moves toward you. “Fuck!”
The shadows holding your arms and chest fade away, leaving you to list to the side heavily. You manage to catch yourself before you hit the dirt. “My…head,” you whisper, bringing your other hand up to clutch at your temple.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck!” He continues with a litany of curses as he stoops down and grips you around the waist before hauling you up and over his shoulder.
“Agh!” Your world spins, and your stomach threatens to heave up its nonexistent contents. “Please,” you slur, tongue feeling thicker than ever.
As Shadowsword pushes through the loose tent flap, you get your first lungful of fresh air since being brought here. The inside of the tent was far more stifling than you imagined. Though the air outside is still warm, the sweat covering your face and neck begins to wick away by the gentle breeze making the leaves on the surrounding branches of the trees whisper and dance.
“Park!” Shadowsword yells as he carts you off toward a line of what looks like work tents. All their sides are open, revealing various workstations. You spot a loom and a weaver cart before he spins on his heel, and your view blurs. “Park! Where the fuck is Park?”
“What is it?” snaps a delicate voice from back toward the work tents. “Stop screaming. I can hear you just fine. Gods know it’s not like I’m busy trying to fulfill the orders you already dropped on me this morning.” Whoever is speaking continues to grumble as they draw closer.
Shadowsword spins again, making you convulse on his shoulder with a dry gag. “Those Helnite collars I had you make. You said they can’t be taken off unless you do it. I need you to do it.”
“Well, that was quick. How did you manage to fuck that up?” they quip, but the tone is teasing more than anything.
“Shut up and go. Hurry!”
You try to steady your breathing, pulling in air through your nose and pushing it out between your dry lips. If he doesn’t put you down soon, you feel like you really will be sick.
The smells of hot metal and ash roll over you as Shadowsword steps into the shade of one of the tents. There isn’t much you can discern from your perch over his shoulder, and lifting your head to look around feels impossible.
“Lay her over here.”
As Shadowsword slides you off his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of the man standing on the other side of the cleared work table you’re being lowered onto. He’s wearing a leather apron, similar to the ones you’ve seen smiths wear. The soot and ash smears on his hands and face lend to that even more. With his soft features, kind eyes, and brown hair kissed with golden highlights, you think he’s more beautiful than handsome. A startling contrast to the harshness of the forge glowing red behind him.
“You said the Helnite would work on the Psion,” Shadowsword growls at the other man, posturing aggressively with his hands braced on the table by your hip.
Those soft eyes take on a fierceness that fits more with a metal worker. “I said, in theory, it would work. And well, it clearly has worked.”
Shadowsword jerks up a finger, jabbing it at the man across the table. “It’s practically turned her into an invalid. You said it would only limit her ability to read magical signatures and retain new memories.”
“I also told you it would depend on her strength in ability. You refused to let me in the tent to see her runes, so it was all guesswork, you arrogant prick. You wouldn’t even tell me how big it was,” Park gestures animatedly at your chest, where your tunic has fallen open slightly to reveal the top half of your rune and your breasts, “it’s massive! Just because you feel possessive over—”
“Just shut up and take it off! Fucking hells, Jimin, you can berate me more once I know I haven’t ruined my chance at getting what I need.”
“You mean once you know that you haven’t ruined your new toy,” Park—Jimin—grumbles as he leans over the table, and his eyes, once again soft, meet yours. You blink lazily at him, trying and failing to filter through and latch onto their conversation. You know there are significant bits you should be retaining, but they’re like grains of sand slipping between your fingers.
Jimin slides a finger between your skin and the collar, working it around until he’s nodding and hurrying away from the table. The short moment his finger was between your neck and the band felt like a drink of cool water, the heat from the metal subsiding substantially.
“How long is it going to take?” Shadowsword questions.
The reply comes from a distance, accompanied by the sound of metal clinking together. “Not long. The Helnite can only be removed using a special cutter and must be imbued first. You’re lucky I have the right tools for this.” Coming closer, he says, “You should really get her some better clothes suited for the warmth here. The heat is making her even more muddled.”
“I’m such an idiot. I got one of the most valuable people in existence just to nearly kill her,” Shadowsword grunts under his breath, you barely catching the words. “Just get it done so I can,” he says louder for the other man to hear.
Jimin fingers the metal collar again, pulling it as far from your skin as he can to slip the curved edge of a pair of clippers under it. “The shock might make her pass out,” he mumbles, bracing himself against the table as he grips the long handles of the tool.
The collar tugs on your skin as he applies force, the Helnite groaning under the pressure of the clipper. There is a distinct sound of metal screeching as it tears, and relief floods your system. Your senses buzz, the sensation growing until you feel like you’re on the verge of drowning.
The air in your lungs isn’t enough. Your back arches off the table. You try to cling to the tiny tendrils of reality surrounding you, but your consciousness is swept away in the rush, sucking you into a numb, static-filled state as your mind fights the sudden maelstrom of information.
🖤🖤🖤
Jungkook
“Gods, I really am an idiot,” Jungkook grumbles to himself for what feels like the thousandth time since he laid your unconscious form on the pile of blankets and furs he uses as a bed in his tent. He sits across from the bed in a low-slung camp chair, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.
In all his years, he’s never nearly botched something so thoroughly. He knew the instant the Helnite clicked into place around your neck that he royally fucked up. The vibrant fire in your eyes that he had come to seek out anytime he was in your space instantly dimmed.
He could barely think over the panic that held his chest in an iron grip. It didn’t help that Rit wouldn’t shut up, confirming what he already knew—that the Helnite would ruin you if he didn’t do something about it quickly.
The fact he had disregarded Jimin’s insistence on seeing your runes to be sure the Helnite wouldn’t hurt you is something Jungkook hasn’t stopped kicking himself over. He might have avoided this whole fiasco if he had not been so obsessed with you and consumed with this ridiculous possessiveness.
None of this is going to plan at all. Trusting Ulgrin was his first mistake. He should have known there were things that Ulgrin was keeping from him. Most important among those is that Marvick was holding one of the, if not the most powerful, Psion in her employ. He would wager to guess that even his father is unaware of your potential; otherwise, you’d have been under his thumb instead.
Thinking of Marvick makes his stomach twist and knot. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. He never wanted her to die, not by his sword, at least. Though, he’s not even sure she did die by his sword. The timing was too close between the moment Lowren crashed into the side of the mountain and his sword cleaving into her neck. Either blow could be attributed to her falling.
Neither was supposed to happen. According to Taehyung, Lowren caught a bad downward draft because of the storm kicking up outside, and after he broke away from engaging with Hoseok’s dragon, Rubel, his wing was clipped, and he went down hard. It’s never easy hearing or watching another Mave or Reaver take a fatal blow, knowing the bond will kill them both. It makes Jungkook realize just how precious that bond is and how easy it would be for someone to take him out simply by targeting his own dragon.
You’ve been out for hours now, and the fact that Jungkook doesn’t want to leave you in here unattended and doesn’t want anyone else to take over watching you means he’s shoved off most of his responsibilities onto Yoongi and Namjoon. They’re both in his inner circle. They know easily as much as he does about what must be done. If it weren’t for his friends, all six of them, he knows this camp wouldn’t function as smoothly as it does. For a rebel encampment, it resembles a well-oiled military station pretty well.
Jungkook’s attention jerks to you when you moan softly. He watches as your brow pinches and your lips turn down in a barely-there frown. It’s curiosity that has him pushing up from his camp chair and approaching the bed. Your eyes flicker behind your closed lids, frantic. It looks like you might be having a nightmare.
Sweat glistens on your brow, and he can see how it shines along your neck and the small part of your chest exposed from where he just had to cut the ties on your top. Jimin said you needed cooler clothes, the heat not helping what the Helnite did to you. He wonders if you might recover and wake up quicker if you cooled off.
Slowly, Jungkook settles onto the bed beside you. His knees press into the thick layers, shifting your hips slightly as his weight sinks in. With timid motions, he pinches the loose flap of your tunic and begins to pull it open slowly. Just as the more significant swath of your rune that spreads over the tops of your breasts comes into view, you jerk a hand up and slap his hand away.
“What are you doing?!” you croak, scrambling away from him until you flip off the edge of the bed, your legs flying into the air. “AH!”
“Oh, shit! Are you okay?” Jungkook launches across the bed and tries to help you sit up, but you just scream and frantically start swatting and kicking at him. “Okay, okay! Stop! I’m just trying to help you!” One of your boots connects with his jaw, and he jerks back, his ears ringing and his vision blurring. “Fucking hells,” he groans.
“I’ll gut you!” you snarl, brandishing a very familiar knife. The small, leather-hilted dagger he usually keeps under his pillow waves in the air before him, clutched in your trembling hand.
It’s kind of cute the way you’re threatening him. He knows he could quickly disarm you with his shadows and a simple thought. But, erring on the side of caution, he doesn’t want to scare you any more than you already are. Holding his hands up and out to either side, he rocks back onto his heels and slowly sits on the ground a few feet from you.
“Sorry. That probably looked terrible, didn’t it? I wasn’t trying to…well, I was, but not like that. I was worried you were too warm, and it was affecting your ability to recover from the Helnite.”
Your other hand goes up and circles around the front of your throat. Relief sags your shoulders when you feel the collar is gone. The only thing that remains is a slightly raised line where your skin was mildly blistered from the short time the Helnite was on.
“Why did you take it off?” The suspicion is evident in your tone, accompanied by the narrowing of your eyes and the steadying of the blade in your hand.
His lips twitch. “Believe it or not, it wasn’t my intention to hurt you. I should have done more research, but I was blinded with desperation and—er, I’m just sorry, okay? I had it removed as quickly as I could because I realized I’d made a mistake.”
Disbelief clouds your eyes. He doesn’t blame you. He wouldn’t believe himself either. It sounds like a trick, a farce to get you to trust him when you have every reason not to.
“You killed General Marvick and Captain Krut. You’re a rebellious, murderous monster. It’d be reckless of me to believe anything you say.”
“Ulgrin Krut was a traitor, both to me and to the Crown.” Not like pointing that out is going to make it any better. “And Poli…it wasn’t supposed to be like that,” he sighs, repeating his earlier thoughts. “Something happened with Lowren and…” he trails off, his shoulders pushing up in a sad shrug. “I wish I could take it back.”
That seems to deflate you a bit. Your chest sinks as you blow out a breath. Jungkook watches as your tongue swipes over your cracked lips. “What do you plan to do with me? What about Colonel Goris?”
“Well,” he slowly lowers his hands to rest on his bent knees, “Rit will remain bound in Helnite for now. He’s too volatile for me to let him roam free without it, but I plan to move him to a place that’s closer to Ripley so they can at least see one another, and it’ll be less likely that she tries to escape again.”
“So, you really are as cruel as they say you are,” you state plainly. “Might as well kill him. It would be the greater mercy.” He knows it probably seems that way. But, with how this conversation is currently going, he’s hopeful you’ll hear out everything else he has to say…perhaps change your mind on how you see him. “And for me?”
“You’ll be free to roam the encampment, no Helnite. Though, you will be watched and warded closely. If you try to make it beyond the outlying sentries, they have been instructed to prevent you from leaving…at all costs.” That has your hackles rising again, so he quickly presses on. “I don’t want to treat you like a prisoner, but I have a pretty good idea of what’s churning inside that head of yours. You think you know who I am, what I’ve done, and how I’m just a power-hungry son blinded by his need to dominate. All I ask is you listen, hear what I have to say about the last ten years. Hells, use your ability on anything you need…even me—“ you gasp, and he assumes due to the fact you know that using your Psion ability on another living being is strictly forbidden and goes against all the oaths that you’ve ever taken “—if you have to so you know the truth.”
“I’m not an oath breaker like you,” you sneer before dropping your hand, the dagger still gripped tight but with the tip now resting on the ground. “If you think I’ll tell you all the military secrets and information I am privy to, you can think again. I’ll read whatever objects you want me to. I’ll even listen to whatever bullshit story you want to tell me. But I won’t betray Poli by giving you everything I know, no matter what you say or do to me.” The promise comes easy, but for some reason, it tastes bitter on your tongue.
🖤🖤🖤
The only reason you’re agreeing to even listen to him is because you can’t shake what Goris said to you earlier. Use your skills, whatever you must, to get free, even if that means offering him your ear while still plotting his demise. Who knows, maybe you can learn something valuable.
“Can I have my dagger back, now?” Shadowsword asks, one of his brows quirking.
“I think I’ll keep it,” you state, fitting it into the holster in the top of your boot. It’s a bit bigger than the dagger you usually keep there, but the hidden sheath holds it well enough.
Shadowsword nods toward a changing screen on the other side of the tent. “Would you like something lighter to wear? Perhaps something to eat and drink as well?”
It’s on the tip of your tongue to refuse his hospitality, but with the subtle burning around your eyes from sweat and how your chest hollows each time you drag in a too-warm breath, you decide to bite back the tart reply instead. “That would be great, thank you.”
He moves slowly as if he’s scared of spooking you. You watch as he gains his feet, his linen shirt falling open even more than it did earlier in the tent with Goris. Instead of looking away, you focus intently on making out the splash of black on his chest. It’s definitely the silhouette of a dragon, its head almost centered on his chest, its body covering his entire pec and disappearing over his shoulder.
You’ve seen plenty of Mave’s Signis marks, but never one so big or dark. Most marks are a good indicator of someone’s ability, a reflection of their inner self and their bond to their Reaver. There are other peoples, like yourself, who have different kinds of markings that denote their specialties. The runes on your chest mark you as a Psion. Though every Psion has their own unique marking, it’s always in the same place and the same color. The bigger the mark, the more innate ability one is said to have.
Noks, the bulk of the military foot soldiers, also have their own indicators in the form of red lines slashed diagonally across their cheeks. It’s said the red signifies the blood of battle and helps them channel their rage. You’ve seen them in action, so focused that even grievous wounds won’t stop them. The only way to keep a Nok from gutting you is to gut them first, and even then, you probably need to take their head off as a secondary precaution.
You clasp the front of your tunic closed the best you can as you stand up, only wavering slightly as lightheadedness washes over you. It’s been far too long since you had something to drink, and the heat is nearly unbearable. You push yourself to focus on crossing the tent to the changing screen, one step closer to hopefully getting that drink he’s offered.
“There’s a change of clothes behind the screen, a blouse, and some breeches. It’s the best I could find in something size appropriate. We don’t have many females around here, and the ones we do have more often than not wear fighting leathers, so it was slim picking for non-battle gear.”
Stepping around behind the changing screen, you realize with the way the lights are positioned overhead if he stays there, then he’ll be able to see your shadow in full as you change. You chew your bottom lip, contemplating asking him to afford you some privacy, but as Goris reminded you earlier, the body is just as much a weapon as a blade.
A short table sits off to the side, a shallow basin of water and a cloth sit beside a pile of folded clothes. “Thank you again,” you offer, anxiously cutting your eyes toward the screen. You can’t see him through the panels, not even a flash of his shadow, but you can feel his eyes locked on your form as you slowly shrug out of your ruined tunic.
It feels good to have the thick wool top off. The air in the tent is mildly warm but nonetheless refreshing now that your skin has a chance to breathe. Glancing at the screen, you slip the dagger from your boot and tug them off. You can still feel those eyes on you. So, as much as you want to shuck your fur-lined pants quickly, you take your time sliding them over your hips and down your legs, arching your back, and creating the perfect silhouette.
Keeping your eyes trained on the central panel of the changing screen, you pick up the cloth and dig it into the cool water in the basin. Your eyes flutter shut, and you try to suppress a groan of relief as you press it to your neck and swipe away the accumulation of sweat and grime, but something between a moan and a sigh slips out. A smile pulls at your lips as you hear a throat clear on the other side of the screen—so, he’s listening just as much as he’s watching. It’s tempting to continue with the show to eke out as much advantage as you can, but the rumble of your stomach has you tossing aside the cloth in favor of grabbing the clothes.
The breeches on the table are thin dark blue cotton, molding to your legs and ass once they’re on. They’re infinitely cooler and tuck nicely into the tops of your boots. You replace the dagger and then pick up the blouse. It’s a mossy green color with a cinched, banded waist that gathers with corset-like ties down the front. You purse your lips, giving the blouse a once over before pulling it on and securing the ties. It’s far more flattering than you anticipated, accentuating all the right areas.
There is a small commotion on the other side of the changing screen; hushed words are exchanged, and the distinct clinking of dishes. You step close and peer around the edge of the paneling, catching a glimpse of a smiling man in a rose-colored apron tucking a hand towel over the top of the apron and pointing to something on the large platter sitting on the table opposite the bed.
“I smoked the cheese just this morning, and those are fresh apples right off the trade cart. You let her eat before you touch anything,” the finger that was pointed at the table swings to wag in Shadowsword’s direction. “Just because she thinks you’re a beast doesn’t mean you have to try and prove her right. This could be our last chance at—oh, hi!”
You hadn’t realized you were leaning so far out beyond the edge of the screen. Embarrassment warms your cheeks, and you school your features before stepping out fully and giving the man a tight smile. “Hello.”
“Out,” Shadowsword shoos the man toward the tent opening. “Go.”
“Remember what I said, don’t make me sic Hoseok on you for being disrespectful!” the man spouts even as Shadowsword is pushing him out, both laughing lightly.
It’s interesting, maybe even a little surprising, to see such genuine lightheartedness in a place that’s been notoriously dubbed a blight of darkness on the kingdom for the last decade. You never imagined being in the rebel encampment, much less that the encampment would be so…normal—drab even.
“Please, sit, have as much as you want.” He gestures to the wooden table lined on both sides with benches. The tent is large, similar to standard war command tents you’ve been inside. The bed you woke up on is farthest from the entryway, the changing screen to the side of that, and the table closest to the entrance with various smaller tables, chairs, and a few trunks scattered in the remaining space. Stacks and stacks of books and papers are strewn across most surfaces, and an entire barrel of maps is stashed in the corner by the larger table.
You take your time approaching the table, allowing yourself to take in the tent's interior, tucking away all vital and essential pieces of information you can. The fact you can so effortlessly function now and file things away appropriately is like a drink of water all its own, but the metal pitcher on the table glistening with condensation beckons you still.
Sliding onto the bench on the opposite side of the table so your back is to a canvas wall. It’s the most advantageous seat, letting you continue to keep an eye on Shadowsword. You snag an empty goblet, give it a tentative sniff, and then pour a generous amount of water from the pitcher before gulping it down. It’s so cold it hurts, but the instant relief as it hits your stomach is like a soothing balm to the ache.
“It’s cold,” you murmur, taking a smaller swallow before refilling the cup. “Enchanted?”
“We collect it from small rivulets that come down off the mountain. Natural filtration through the bedrock and bubbles up here before emptying into the outlet to the southeast that goes to the sea.” It’s an easy explanation and makes sense to you.
It comes naturally to focus on the goblet in your hand and the water sliding over your tongue. The crisp liquid takes on the slightest hint of mint as you draw on the warmth in your chest, testing the validity of his words. The mountain's chill and the earth's integrity bubble like added flavors as you take another sip.
Calm clarity swirls within the mix of sensations, dripping from the goblet and supporting the water. Whoever formed and worked the metal to make this vessel enjoyed their craft and created it with extra care in mind.
So, he’s at least telling you the truth about the water and didn’t offer you a poison-laced goblet to drink from. That’s no guarantee he will speak honestly or have no ill intentions when it comes to anything else. “What is it you wish me to listen to, Shadowsword?”
His brow pinches as he draws closer, grabbing a chair and spinning it around to straddle the back and rest his elbows along the top. There is intention in the fact he chose to sit several feet away, close enough to talk but far enough away that he’d have time to react if you tried to take a jab at him…or for him to catch you before you could bolt for the loose tent flap over the entrance.
“Jungkook, you can call me Jungkook. I don’t really care for that name…Shadowsword, it sounds more like a curse.”
“You are a curse to many,” you say, dropping your eyes to the stretch of food before you. The large platter on the table has a plethora of different morsels, everything from cheese and meat to jams, slices of bread, and fresh fruit. “Are these really apples?” you ask, the word feeling foreign on your tongue.
There is a moment of hesitation that has you glancing up at Shado—Jungkook. You might not be able to hear his thoughts, but you can read the micro-expressions on his face well enough. He’s uncomfortable with what you said about him being a curse. But, he sighs and answers your question instead of pressing the other, “They are. Quite delicious, too. Very sweet, juicy, but still crisp. We’re so close to the border that it’s been easy to establish a trade route with Norkham.”
“I didn’t realize they would be so willing to trade with an enemy of the Crown,” you mutter, grabbing one of the fleshy red and yellow dappled fruits.
Jungkook lets out a derisive snort. “Norkham doesn’t care for the ‘Golden War’,” he scoffs, twisting the name the conflict between him and his father has been dubbed. “My gold is just as good as my father’s. But, unlike my father, I’m not scared of red fruits. Contrary to what is believed, they’re not poisonous. Well, most aren’t, at least.”
You rub your thumb along the shiny peel before bringing it to your nose and inhaling the slightly sweet fragrance. Letting the warmth settle in your chest, you open yourself to tasting not the fruit itself but its journey and memory. It’s passed through a few hands, always handled with the utmost care.
There is the subtle taste of fresh, clean water soaked into the soil and drank through the tree's roots that nurtured the fruit. Nothing about the apple tells you it’s dangerous. If anything, you pick up on the fact that it’s been paired and prepared with other foods that mean you no harm; the whole platter is safe.
With that in mind, you put the apple against your mouth and take a bite. Or you try to, at least, the skin is resistant and then snaps as your teeth sink in, surprising you. “Oh,” you muffle against the fruit, unable to hold back a laugh as you break off a chunk.
Sweetness bursts on your tongue, mixing with the mildly floral taste. It’s something you’ve only ever dreamed of experiencing. Your chuckle turns into a cough as you see the look on Jungkook’s face as he stares at you. His lips are curved into an easy smile, and his eyes are soft, like he’s enjoying watching you.
“It’s good, right? Apples are one of my favorites.” Your eyes track his as they flick from the fruit to your mouth as you take another bite.
He’s right. It is crisp yet still juicy. Your mouth floods with flavor. A drip collects at the corner of your mouth and slips down your chin. A flutter of confidence lights in your chest as Jungkook licks his lips before tearing his eyes from the juice on your chin and how you swipe your tongue out to try and collect it.
As with washing behind the screen, you’d spend more time playing your game if you weren’t so hungry. You gather some of the more familiar foods onto a small plate and begin to eat in earnest between more bites of the apple.
Right now, it’s hard to say how far you’re willing to take this game. Your training has instilled pretty much no boundaries regarding mission objectives. Though, due to your level of power, after you finished your fourth year of standard scribe training, you were sent to a specialist at The Serpent, the Mave-specific garrison on an island west of the capital.
The intention wasn’t necessarily to keep your potency a secret. Everyone knew you were pretty powerful. But, no one knew you were more powerful than even the Crown’s own Psion, who just so happens to be your cousin, Larzon. You haven’t seen Larz in years, and even then, it was only in passing at your graduation ceremony before you were promptly assigned to General—then Colonel—Marvick’s care.
What’s essential for you to remember is that you have an end goal; get out alive and, if possible, take Goris with you. He doesn’t deserve to be chained with Helnite, regardless of what he’s done as a war colonel. You know all about the casualties of war and that when it all boils down to it, each side thinks they’re in the right while the other thinks they’re wrong. War leaves very little room for a grey area, making it all simply black, white, and copious amounts of red.
“I have one question before I listen to whatever it is you want to tell me…” you pause before adding his real name instead of the one he’s been given by the Crown for his rebellion, “Jungkook.”
His shoulders roll back, and he tilts his head from side to side. “Sure, if that will earn me your undivided and apt attention.”
“Goris told me of your relationship to him. How is it you could so easily, so callously beat him to a broken, bleeding mess?”
A harsh breath hollows his chest as he shifts in his seat. “Easily? There was nothing easy about it. Callously? I’m sure you know all about doing what you have to in order to get what you need. I didn’t want to hurt Rit. I’ve considered him a friend for longer than I’ve thought of him as my enemy. Perhaps what I have to tell you will help you see that I didn’t enjoy it. It’s just a necessary part of the bigger picture.”
You can hear the genuine nature of his words. They sound like the truth, but you’ve not been around him long enough to honestly know how good he is at deception. All you have to go off of is everything you’ve read. The rebellion started when you were still in training, just before you began the additional time at The Serpent. It’s hard to believe that was a decade ago now. Though, it feels like a much shorter time. War moved at its own pace, chugging along whether you can keep up or not.
“Go ahead, let’s hear your reasoning behind the last ten years.” Your gesture toward him with a chunk of bread. “I’ll listen.”
“I’ll start from the beginning,” he says. “But first, I’d like you to have this.” Jungkook stands and moves over to one of the smaller trunks near his bed. He kneels, the soft scent of clove permeates the air as shadows slither out from seemingly nowhere. They undulate and cover the chest before an audible pop sounds, and they drift away, revealing the chest now open.
“What’s that?” you ask. He holds up a pin that’s a golden dragon surrounded by a crown.
“It was my father’s,” he murmurs. “It’ll show you the validity of my words when you’re ready to bear that burden.”
The pin is heavy in your hands. He settles back in the chair as you observe the dragon’s form. There are distinct, crusty splotches caught in the fine details. Even without opening yourself to the warmth in your chest, from the barely-there scent of hellfire and metal, you can tell it’s blood…old blood—dragon’s blood, shed in violence. You shiver, your eyes meeting his as he begins to explain.
🖤🖤🖤
Jungkook
It takes far longer to tell you everything than he thought it might. He hadn’t realized just how much there was. You didn’t ask many questions, just making noncommittal sounds when he revealed more sensitive bits of information. But it’s all out there now. You’ve heard it all…every gritty, unbelievable detail. Jungkook knows how hard it is to believe. If he was the one listening, he’d probably have laughed and walked out halfway through. The fact you’re still sitting there, idly swirling a slippery piece of rockmelon on your plate, gives him at least a tiny bit of hope.
“Let’s say I do believe you. What is it you want from me? How can I possibly help you?” You shove the plate away, leaning your elbows on the table as you stare at him with a pinched expression on your face. You pocketed the pin shortly after he started his explanation, and you haven’t touched it since. He wonders if it’s burning a proverbial hole in your pocket. “If you haven’t been able to make a difference in ten years, what makes you think you can now?”
He’s been thinking about this, too. Since things went wrong with Krut at the turret in Fort Orit, he’s been scrambling to devise an alternative plan and the best way to utilize you and Rit to his advantage. In an idyllic world, he would have taken Poli as captive as intended. He had it on good authority that she would have listened to him without much persuasion.
What he knows that you seem not to is that Poli was more of a sympathizer than she appeared to be. It was the key Jungkook clung to, the fact that Poli Marvick cared more about the people—all people—than she did the Crown. The first mention of innocent lives being on the line and she would have been like a bee drawn to a flower, unable to resist the powdery grains of justice.
Though, he knows bringing that up right now will just shut you down. You might be willing to listen to his bizarre story, but you wouldn’t entertain the thought of your precious friend being capable of being a rebel sympathizer…not yet, at least. Ulgrin Krut is another story. You relented on that pretty quickly. He’s curious about who else you could easily see being a weak link in the Golden Chain of command. But that’s a thought for another time.
“You’re the most powerful Psion I’ve ever encountered.” That’s the crux of what sparked his near-instant obsession with you and what’s been fueling his possessiveness. You represent the hope and opportunity he’s been desperately searching for—the answer to finally putting a stop to a decade of struggling. “You have the ability to discern fact from falsity. That in and of itself could help sway the tide of my cause. If you believe me and stand by me and say it’s true, they’ll believe you.”
Your laugh surprises him. “You can’t think it’s that simple, can you? You realize they’ll think I’m just as daft as you are. They’ll think I’ve been corrupted. Just because I’d say something is true wouldn’t make it so. Having the power I do doesn’t mean I can’t still lie, too.”
“Perhaps, but if I could just get into the palace, I know where there is evidence that can back up my claims, and no one would be able to argue it. Just as that pin in your pocket can help you understand, what’s in the palace can make everyone understand. That’s really what I needed from Krut and what I now need from you. Help me get into the palace, and I’ll prove it all to be true to the rest of the kingdom.”
“Are you just going to beat me into submission? How are you going to make me agree to help you?”
This is something he hasn’t quite figured out yet. He’s not sure what else he can offer you other than the freedom to use your power as you want to find all the answers you need. So, he starts with that. “As I said before, you’re welcome to use your power on anything or anyone you wish. But please start with the pin.” You flinch when he says anyone, but not as hard as before.
There isn’t a lot of public knowledge about Psions for apparent reasons. But, one thing he does know about all of them, including you, is that finding the answers and retaining factual information will always be your first goal. It’s something he’s kept in mind every time he’s brought it up, offering that small nugget of temptation. It’s forbidden, taboo…but maybe, just maybe, he’s piqued your curiosity enough that you’ll be too curious to resist.
“What is this supposed to show me?” you ask, finally pulling the pin back out. It catches in the overhead lights, glinting like a guiding star that will lead you to all the answers you need.
Jungkook licks his lips. This could be the moment of truth. “My father was wearing it the day I confronted him.” He hopes he’ll get to see your gift in action. Watch the realization steal across your features as you see his words for the truth they are.
“What an innocuous little thing. Who would guess it could potentially lead to the end of a decade-long war?” The words are spoken softly, as if you’re talking more to yourself than to him.
He feels like he’s viewing a private moment, but no matter how intrusive it feels, he can’t seem to look away. Jungkook is realizing that it’s not just your power that’s alluring. There is an exotic quality to you that is calling to his inner desires. He’s never noticed it before, but the color of your eyes seems to shift, never staying the same shade of brown, green, or blue. In fact, if someone were to ask him what color your eyes are, he’s not sure he could answer them.
If there ever was something he wishes he would have paid more attention to, it’s the history of your kind. Being the crown prince, he had access to any and all information available, even to the more obscure texts and subjects, like Psions.
You caress the ring of gold surrounding the dragon, like you’re stalling or perhaps putting off reading the pin with your ability. It’s obvious the dark rusty-looking splotches are blood. Anyone would be able to discern that. But, he’s reasonably sure you can tell it’s not just any blood but the blood from a dragon. Dragon’s blood has a distinct smell to it, even after being dried onto a chunk of metal for a decade. It’ll still smell subtly like brimstone and hot metal.
The pin has sat in that enchanted chest for almost the entire time he’s been in exile. It was on a whim that he put it in there, thinking that one day when he finally meted out justice to his father, he’d perhaps melt the pin down and turn it into something else. He came by it by accident, anyway. Now, it’s a talisman of the truth and maybe an indicator that he was meant to tuck it away for all these years; for this very moment.
🖤🖤🖤
You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you as you take a deep breath and let it out slowly. There’s an urge to meet his eyes to gauge his reaction, but you push away that distracting thought and let your eyes go unfocused as your fingers tighten around the pin. The first thing you feel is bone-deep indifference, then a brief flit of hope, followed by anger so malevolent it makes your teeth ache…the emotions and feelings ingrained in the pin sweep in, painting such a clear picture for you.
————
“Father, call for the healer!” Jungkook shouts, cradling the large adult blue dragon’s head. Blood leaks from its open mouth, soaking quickly through his green flight garb. “Onyx, get back!” He shoos his juvenile dragon away when it becomes too curious. “Father! Father, please!”
“Jungkook, come away from the beast. Leave it be. It’s too late.” The fact the dragons are beginning to die after barely ten years of service has been an unforeseen nuisance.
The wild-eyed teenager lumbers to his feet, blood-covered hands trembling by his sides. “Leave it be? It’s the sixth dragon to die in less than a week! You said the new bonding was safe! If it’s safe, why are they dying?”
“Just terrible coincidences, nothing more,” King Jeon mutters, internally rolling his eyes as his son quivers beside him. “That’ll be all for today. You’re dismissed.”
Jungkook swings around and grips the front of his father’s robe, fingers pinching around the golden pin denoting his status as king. “But, Fathe—“
“You. Are. Dismissed.” King Jeon holds up a hand to silence any more protests. “Now.”
“Yes, sir.” Jungkook jerks his hands back, turns on his heel, and stalks away. It’s evident that Jungkook is becoming far too curious about the recent deaths. He can’t find out the truth, no matter the cost.
Moving to the parapet, King Jeon glares out over the wall surrounding the dragon corral, the large stable-like building that serves as a coop where the Reavers reside when their Maves are attending to other duties. Tearing his eyes from the expanse of the sprawling capital city, he casts an indifferent look at the large blue-black body still bleeding on the ground of the training pit.
The scuffing of boots draws the King’s attention to the dark doorway of the dragon corral a moment before Fenrin appears.
“Your Grace.” Fenrin bows deeply, sweeping his arms out to either side. “I come bearing fortunate news.”
“Speak plainly, Fenrin, the hour is late, and I’d like to retire to my wife’s side before dinner.”
Fenrin straightens to his full height, towering over the king by a few inches. “We’ve found a strong Brute close to the Western Garrison, fresh from The Steppes and powerful if his build is any indication. He’ll do well for you.”
“Would be better news had you told me we finally found a way to keep them from dying,” the King mutters. “Very well, Fenrin. When will you have the beast ready?”
“Just a few days' time. Sooner if we leave now, Your Grace.”
“Make it so.” The King flicks a dismissive hand, turning before Fenrin can bow in departure, and briskly closes the distance to the postern door leading into the main living quarters for the royal family. He stops just before disappearing inside, glancing over his shoulder. Fenrin is staring at the dead dragon, his face blank and devoid of emotion. “Oh, and Fenrin?”
The man cuts his eyes up, an oily smile sliding onto his face. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“See to it that’s taken care of,” he says, jerking his chin toward the scaly body. “Same as the others.”
The palace is divided into different sections, the living quarters one of the most guarded interior spaces. He passes several guards, all dressed in their golden armor. The few Maves that are attached to the capital are currently doing rounds across the city, patrolling the skies before the sun goes down. Luckily, the blue dragon’s Rider is presently undergoing additional tutelage at The Shield. He won’t know the dragon’s dead for another fortnight. By then, a new dragon will be ready for him to bond, he’ll forget all about the other.
“Your Grace,” one of the liveried servants bows as King Jeon enters the parlor that leads to his sleeping chambers.
“My wife?” he asks, glancing around the open space. When the Queen isn’t leading tutoring sessions with the younger ladies of court, she spends her time tucked in the window seat of the parlor reading or working on needlepoint. It’s too late for the classes, yet she’s not relaxing in the window seat either.
“In the garden, Your Grace. She wished for a bit of fresh air.”
He nods, moving toward the door leading to the sleeping chamber. The windows are open, letting in the sweet musky scent of the plum flowers that like to climb and snake along the walls of the palace.
Unclipping the stays holding his golden cloak in place, King Jeon lets it flutter to the floor where he stands in front of the cold fireplace. It’s been a long day, one warranting at least a chalice of the fire brandy that gets imported from Norkham. It’s rumored they use apples when making it, and that’s what makes it have that unique flavor and burn. People say the burn is the poison of the fruit, slowly leeching into the drinkers' bloodstream—fairytale nonsense.
As he turns to head toward the small console table where a collection of liquor bottles is waiting, something in the corner of the room catches his attention.
“Jungkook, what are you doing here?” His son sits in one of the armchairs opposite the liquor table. Shadows coalesce in the corner, pulsing softly as Jungkook leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees: his eyes, a near mirror of the King’s own, glint from the darkness.
“You’re a murderer.”
The heat of anger fills King Jeon’s chest, making it expand. He grips the thick strand that attaches him to his Reaver, Vikmag. Lightning crackles along his veins, fizzing and sparking at his fingertips before he can reign it in.
“Watch your tongue, boy.”
“I overheard you and Fenrin. You thought I left like a good little soldier. Father, you shouldn’t be so loose with your tongue lest you reveal your madness to the world. I guess I’ll do it for you,” he snarls, launching to his feet. A wicked blade catches the light coming in from the open windows, poised perfectly for an offensive attack in Jungkook’s hand. “You said the new bonding was safe…you lied! You knew they were going to die. You knew they’d grow sick and weak. You’re a monster! They’re sentient beings, for gods’ sake. They have souls, and yet you still force them to bond!”
“You insolent fool, you think you know so much, but yet you know nothing!” King Jeon sneers.
“I know you’re willfully killing beautiful beings. And for what? So you can stay alive while your dragon dies? So you can reap the benefits of their power even in death? Are you so greedy, Father?”
“I knew you’d never understand. Nothing I say will change how you feel. So what if the new bonding kills the dragons, it’s better them than us.” The King sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head toward the ceiling.
It’s the perfect opportunity. Jungkook lashes out, blade and shadows striking. The room fills with the rumble of thunder and a flash of brilliant light. Heat sears across skin, blistering flesh beneath green cloth. A second strike of lightning rends through the open space between the two men, the pressure of the electric power directing the wave of shadows and the small blade.
In a large, concussive blast, the two combating powers slam into the center of the room. Wood and feathers spray into the air as an entire half of the bed takes the brunt of the strike.
As shadows swirl and fill the room, swallowing the erratic snaps of lightning and rolling cracks of thunder, the cold edge of a blade parts warm flesh. The King jerks back, hand flying to his cheek and sliding through the blood dribbling down his face.
Jungkook lunges again, swinging the blade for another swipe, but King Jeon jerks again, the dagger missing his face but biting into the muscle of his chest. Fabric rips free, a slight weight tangling it around the blade.
“Your Grace!” the words echo from the parlor before a flood of guards pours into the room.
“Seize him!” King Jeon screams, stumbling backward.
Jungkook and his father exchange one last look before Jungkook snags a small whistle from inside his bloody top and then sprints across the room, golden soldiers close on his heels and flings himself out the window.
————
The golden pin falls from your limp fingers, landing with a soft thud on the ground between your feet. It’s hard to tell whether it’s sweat or tears coating your face. You swipe the back of a trembling hand over your eyes.
“W-why haven’t you...why haven’t you sought out a Psion before th-this?” Your voice warbles, and you have to swallow hard a few times to keep from losing the food you just ate.
It all feels too raw, far too real. You’ve never experienced something so visceral when reading an object. Your body aches. Your cheek burns, even though there is no cut there. There’s a fiery line that feels branded across your stomach. It’s like everything from that day is imprinting itself upon your body with phantom pains.
“Psions are rare. It’s not like I could have requested one from the capital. You’re part of a coveted kind, precious and protected. Had it not been for—“ he pauses, not needing to remind you how you came to be in this encampment. “The important part is you’re here now, and you’ve seen the truth.” Your bleary eyes slide up from where they were gazing at the pin on the ground to land on him. He tugs the bottom of his shirt out from where it’s tucked into the tops of his breeches and then pushes it up to expose his stomach. A long, puckered scar slashes his otherwise pristine skin. “His lightning strike nearly killed me. All because I found out the truth.”
You wet your dry lips, staring at the bubbled skin until he drops his shirt back down to cover it. “So, when he discovered the new way to bond that doesn’t tether a dragon soul to their rider…it’s not—they really die?”
Jungkook blows out a breath. “I’ve been gathering as much intel as possible about it since that day. He was right. No one truly cares. Not the right people, at least. Everyone here,” he sweeps a hand out, indicating the encampment, “they held no true power out in the world. We’re all just a bunch of outcasts, the misfits, and the unwanted. But all the Maves and Reavers here are here because they believe me. We all have soul-bonds, we all know what that means and how sacred it is. After I found out how my father has desecrated and forsaken that...not even him having his own soul-bond can change that ultimate betrayal. All of the beings here know just as well as I do that my father is a cruel man with no regard for the beautiful lives of the dragon kind.”
“The Stepping Isles are sacred ground. It’s protected,” you insist, reciting words that have been ingrained in you through the teaching of the capital. “If you take your forces there, you can stop him from gathering more dragons.”
“We’ve tried sending parties to The Steppes, but the islands are controlled by the Crown and he has them on such a tight lockdown now that it’s nearly impossible even to get close to the Western Garrison. The few Brutes we’ve come across over the years have been ones that escaped into Norkham. The last glimpse I got of The Stepping Isles was one of a breeding farm. They’re mating the dragons and then forcing them to bond to Riders. It’s barbaric…yet no one is raising a hand to try and stop my father because everyone who has any sort of influence and power are the ones who are reaping the benefits.”
Even as someone who doesn’t know what it feels like to have a bond like that between a Mave and their Reaver, you’re still aware of how utterly atrocious this is. It can’t continue. The revelation settles deep in your chest. You’re about to forsake everything you’ve ever known to be true. You’ll be an oath breaker…something that churns your stomach sourly but not as bad as how the bitter tang of betrayal coats your tongue. You believed in the Crown, you’ve defended the Crown…now you’re going to destroy it.
“I’ll help you,” you whisper.
“What did you say?” There’s no denying the lilt of hope in Jungkook’s voice.
You clear your throat, sitting up straighter and meeting Jungkook’s dark, liquid eyes. “I’ll do it. I’ll help you.” Something deep in your chest cracks and bleeds with your words. Whether it’ll turn into a festering wound or a beautiful opportunity for growth, only time will tell.
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Just piggybacking off your response to the anon ask that you posted a little while ago. I absolutely love fantasy stuff, and dragons are my favorite. I've found a couple really good dragon JK fics on tumblr, but I wish there were more. I guess it's such an obscure trope. Even hybrid isn't liked by a lot of people. I don't know why. I love the world building idea. There are no rules, and you can let your imagination run free to create. So I'm really glad you wrote a dragon fantasy piece. I hope you decide to write more fantasy stuff in the future, whether it be another dragon story, or vampires or fairies. We need more fantasy fanfics out there.
Lovely Erica!
Lucky for you, I have 8 fantasy or fantasy adjacent WIPs right now, everything from vampires to A/B/O and demons. Then, there’s 11 on my ML already (including On Wings of Mist & Memories). I’m glad to be able to provide at least one more dragon JK fic :) !
The ‘no-rules’ aspect of fantasy is what attracts me the most, I think. I’m a huge world builder enthusiast and it gives me so much serotonin to do. I’m a big D&D and RPG video game enjoyer, too, which definitely bleeds into my fic writing when it comes to crafting lore and creating worlds. I love, love, love all things fantasy, pure and simple hehe :)
