Dragon's Heart

W
elcome
to the world of the Dragon Fey Saga. This is my first foray into the world of pure fantasy. As a reader, I tend to skip past large chunks of world building in fantasy novels, choosing to go right for the story. That’s also how I write. So, if you’re like me and want the story but don’t care so much about how long a week is or who rules what kingdom unless it comes up in the story, you can skip this. If you are interested in those details upfront, keep reading. I’ll try to keep it short and sweet.

T
ravel is
slow since the major modes of transportation include, walking, horse, carriage, and sailing ship.

T
here are (so far
) three major races in the world of the Dragon Fey Saga: Humans, Dragon Fey, and Dark Fey.

Humans live out in the open and are the major race in the world. Men and women are equals and women serve in the military, as rulers and artisans. The average life span for humans is about fifty to sixty years.

Dragon Fey are an exceptionally long-lived race that legend says was born out of a mating between the Fey and Dragons before both races disappeared from the world, forever. Dragon Fey live a nomadic lifestyle, can appear human, and are able to become dragons. Most of the time, they appear human with dragon wings on their backs.

Dark Fey are what remain of the Fey. These are twisted creatures of magic who desperately cling to their existence. They have forsaken the peace of their race’s afterlife seeking power and influence over a world that believes them to be nothing more than stories told to scare children.

T
he kingdom
of Illedria is where our tale takes place. At this point in the story, I am certain other kingdoms and nations exist, but we’re not too worried about them. Not yet.

Queen Anastasia Rhys rules Illedria. She is the widow of King Killian and has reigned for thirty-five years. Anastasia is thought to be a wise and just queen though her health has been in steady decline for several years. Some of her subjects say it is by sheer force of will that she continues to live.

Heir to the throne is crown prince Mathias, the queen’s only child. He has two children with his late wife, Princess Deliah. With his mother’s declining health Mathias has begun taking on more responsibilities at court, acting as a liaison between his mother and the council of thirteen provincial governors.

Prince Killian is the eldest of Mathias and Deliah’s two children. Groomed to rule since he was a small boy, he is considered by many to be a hard-working, studious young man. His one rebellion against tradition is his desire to master the sword. Killian is an accomplished swordsman and regularly trains with a lieutenant in the royal army.

Coleen is Killian’s younger sister. A charming and disarming young woman, she married Prince Devon of the Western Territories a few weeks after her seventeenth birthday.

T
he keep buzzed
with nervous energy. Every hearth held the light of a blazing fire in spite of the warmth of the night. High in the star-speckled sky, the full moon traced its path as though nothing was out of the ordinary. The twins, Baylenn and Sloane, paced the hall in front of their parents’ chamber while their baby brother, Kirin, sat on the floor, his back against the rough stone wall, sharpening the blade of his least favorite sword. The soft hiss of the whetstone against steel, a counterpoint to the quick clipped taps of his brother’s boots. Screams of their mother, the queen, could be heard through the walls and heavy wood door, echoing down the hall.

Masculine shouts reverberated from the opposite end of the corridor, and in an instant, all three young Dragon Fey warriors had their blades bared, ready to fight. Though they should have felt safe within the castle walls, too many of their kind had fallen to Dark Fey trickery and blades for them to go unarmed anywhere. Rafe and Dalton ran at the head of a group of black armor-clad warriors.

The King of the Dragon Fey had dark hair and eyes that seemed to peer through his boys as they stood between him and his mate. Rafe slowed to a walk as the brothers parted, making way for their father. A moment later, he pushed through the door as the baby’s first cries filled the air. Dalton, the eldest sibling, closed the doors and turned his back to them. Every warrior took up position guarding the doors, waiting.

Once in the royal bedchamber, Rafe felt out of place. Though he and Ellesandra, his mate, already shared four children, each time felt like the first. He twisted his hands together, leaning first to the left, then the right trying to catch a glimpse of the child.
Ancestors, please let the babe be healthy, I do not care whether or not it is the daughter we so desire, I only ask that they both are well. Rafe
offered up the silent prayer as three midwives fussed over the child.
Why is this taking so long? Certainly I had the boys in my arms by now and was presenting them to their mother.
He forced himself to keep his feet rooted to the ground as tradition required and glanced at the healers attending to Ellesandra’s needs. She offered him an exhausted smile.

“I love you,” he mouthed, and his mate smiled back. Her deep red hair clung to her forehead. Exhaustion was written in every line of her features, but to him she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

Minerva, the senior healer and soothsayer among the clans, stepped in front of him breaking the king out of his reverie.

“Your Majesty, may I present your daughter.” She held the child out to her father.

Rafe took the baby and snuggled his little girl close. She had a light dusting of reddish gold hair covering the top of her head. Delicate red and gold scales circled her eyes, covering even her closed lids. A smile curled his lips. He shifted the child’s weight in his arms, wanting nothing more than to spend some time with his mate and bond with their daughter. First, traditions had to be observed. He carried the baby over to the bed and handed her to her mother.

“My queen, meet our daughter.”

“She’s lovely,” Ellesandra whispered, taking the child into her arms. Her eyes met the baby’s, green with flecks of amber and gold, like hers. The newborn smiled and yawned. “I know how you feel, little one, but we can’t sleep, not just yet.”

“Your majesties, have you chosen a name?” Minerva asked, seeing to it that tradition was carried out.

“She is Serena,” Rafe answered before scoring a small straight line across the flesh over his daughter’s heart with his claw-like fingernail. He expected her to cry. All of their sons had cried. Their daughter, however, made no sound as she shot her father a dirty look.

Minerva whispered ancient ritual words as she pressed a vial to Serena’s chest, capturing a small amount of the princess’s blood for use in the rituals that would peer into the child’s future. She reached out a second time, the soft glow of magic surrounding her fingers as she made ready to heal the wound. The healer’s fingers were still about an inch above the princess’s skin when Serena growled. A tiny ball of flames burst from her lips, and the fire splashed against the healer’s hand and the woman cried out.

“I don’t think the princess trusts you,” Rafe muttered, trying not to laugh.

“She should not be able to do that, not yet.” Minerva examined her hand. Although the flesh was red and she could feel heat radiating through the digits, the burn didn’t seem too bad.

“I know,” the king said before he healed Serena’s cut himself. His daughter caught and held his fingers when it was done. He smiled at her before she yawned and closed her eyes, apparently content to sleep in her mother’s arms while gripping her father’s finger.

“Your majesties.” Minerva and the other healers bowed and began backing out of the room.

“Please send in our sons,” Ellesandra requested, waiting for the appropriate nodded confirmation before turning her attention back to the baby. “What just happened?”

“I believe our daughter expressed her displeasure.” Rafe slipped his finger free of Serena’s hold.

“How? She shouldn’t be able to breathe fire yet, and certainly not when human.”

“I know, my love.” He bent over and kissed her forehead. “Try not to worry about it right now. I suspect we are going to have our hands full with our little fireball.” The double doors opened, and their sons stepped forward.

“My sons, come and meet your little sister,” Ellesandra said as her boys milled around near the open doors. They acted as though none of them had ever seen a baby before. Dalton was the first to cross the room to meet his sister. Bay and Sloane followed a couple of steps behind. Their mother looked up and found Kirin hanging back, standing just outside the room, as though he couldn’t make up his mind. She met her youngest son’s eyes and smiled. “Come, Kirin. She does not bite.”

“Not yet,” Rafe muttered though a thread of laughter ran through his words.

Jeffery Dennsmore, the newly appointed Lord of Southreach, a small but wealthy province in the kingdom of Illedria, was in a hurry to get home. His presence at court to celebrate the newborn prince Killian’s birth had forced him to leave his wife and their own child, who was only a few months old.

He rode late into the night, passing by the last inn, determined to make it home. The roads were well-traveled and tended, and the bright moon high in the sky gave him more than enough light to see his way on the path. He wasn’t far from home when he rounded a bend and brought his horse to a halt. About twenty paces ahead of him, someone in a hooded cloak stood in the center of the road, their face hidden in shadow. The nobleman eased his horse forward a few steps and to the right, hoping whoever it was would let him pass. Instead, the figure moved, continuing to block his way. Dennsmore’s horse, an easy going, well-trained steed, danced back a few strides. It took the lord a few moments before he managed to maintain control of the animal. Even then, the mare showed her displeasure by pawing at the ground with one front hoof. The figure slid the hood down, revealing a bald man with an oval-shaped face and milky white eyes.

“Who are you?” Dennsmore demanded, relief washing over him when his own voice came out sounding confident. Something about the unknown person caused dread to take up residence in the back of his mind and began working its way forward. The predatory gaze, appraising and hungry, set off a visceral reaction in the young lord. Beneath him, his horse shifted and snorted, its breath puffing from nostrils in clouds of white mist.

Still, the man remained silent, and his pale eyes seemed to stare through Dennsmore.

“Who are you?” the nobleman asked a second time.

The stranger opened his mouth, revealing teeth filed to sharp points. “Who are you?” The voice was odd, with a strange lilting singsong cadence that held both masculine and feminine qualities. It was as if the speaker was caught somewhere between the two.

I have heard rumors of such creatures, dark, twisted things that prey on the unwary, but those are just stories, fanciful tales told to keep children in line,
Dennsmore told himself. The hairs on the back his neck stood on end and his flesh broke out in tiny bumps. He shifted his seat in the saddle as the horse twitched in response to its rider’s change in mood.
I can’t go around this thing. It’s the only road leading home.
An image of his wife and their newborn daughter flashed in his mind. “I am Lord Jeffery Dennsmore of Southreach. I demand to know who you are and by what right you are detaining me.” His voice was full of bluster, false bravado.

The thing tilted its head to the left, as though deep in thought. When he spoke, something different about his voice sent a chill through the young lord. “I am Lord Jeffery Dennsmore of Southreach.” The voice changed, taking on characteristics he knew all too well. “I demand to know who you are and by what right you are detaining me.” By the time the creature finished repeating the frightened lord’s words, the voice was a perfect mimic of his own.

Jeffery knew he should run, that he needed to escape, but when he tried to move, nothing happened. His horse danced beneath him as he watched the stranger step forward, his long-fingered hand reaching out. Grabbing the reins, he drew the horse’s head down, whispering to the animal in a singsong language. The freak reached his other hand out and placed it on his thigh.

“I need you,” the outsider said in Jeffery’s voice. The inflection and cadence were a little off because the original voice kept trying to come through. “This is going to be painful. I wish I could say it won’t, but that would be untrue.”

The trespasser flexed his fingers as sharp claws plunged into Jeffery’s thigh. The promised pain washed over him in a wave spreading out from the barbs through his whole body. Jeffery screamed as the thing began to morph, bones shifting and muscles stretching. His voice died as the strange being first became a creature of darkness, and then turned into the man Jeffery saw in the mirror on a daily basis. He felt his own strength ebbing away as the change completed.

“Do not fret. Your family will be… taken care of.” The monster wearing his face and using his voice had assured him before darkness swallowed Jeffery Dennsmore forever.

The Dark Fey pushed the husk of the human off the horse. Dennsmore’s former body shattered into countless pieces, blowing away in a light breeze. The being put his hand on the horse’s neck, whispering soothing words as he mounted and continued toward the dead man’s manor.