The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Then Isolde appeared in the doorway.

She moved like a general surveying her troops, her pale blue gown catching the candlelight, her expression one of supreme confidence.

”Ladies,” she said, her voice carrying effortlessly through the preparation chambers, ”tonight, one of us will change the course of history.”

The younger girls looked at her with something close to worship.

Vivienne continued adjusting her gown, unmoved by the pronouncement.

Seraphine met Isolde’s eyes in the mirror, seeing the certainty there, and felt a chill run down her spine.

”Tonight,” Isolde continued, walking slowly through the chambers, examining each girl as she passed, ”the kings will finally see us. Really see us. And one of us will be chosen.”

”How can you be so certain?” Celeste asked, her young voice uncertain.

Isolde’s smile was sharp. ”Because at least she won’t be there to distract them.”

The words hung in the air like a pronouncement.

”Who?” Vivienne asked, though she already knew.

”The servant girl,” Isolde said coldly. ”Morgana. The little peasant who’s been throwing herself at the kings all month.”

Several of the girls exchanged uncomfortable glances.

”As you all know that i had her reassigned to the stables,” Isolde continued, examining her reflection one more time. ”Away from the palace proper. Away from the chambers where she might accidentally encounter royalty.”

She turned to face the gathered daughters, and her smile was victorious.

”So tonight, the kings will have to look at us. Because there will be no distraction. No servant girl trying to seduce her way into power.”

No one spoke.

But the unspoken understanding settled over the group like a blanket: Isolde had eliminated her competition.

And if she was willing to do that to a servant, what might she do to a rival noblewoman?

***

Draeven’s Pov

Draeven stood in his private chambers, letting his personal valet fasten the final clasp on his formal wear.

Black leather trousers, tailored to perfection. A crimson silk shirt, embroidered with golden thread in patterns that resembled flames. Over that, a black leather doublet with more crimson thread forming the dragon sigil across the chest. His dark hair was pulled back with a leather cord, leaving his golden eyes stark and burning.

He looked like a king.

He felt like a man being slowly consumed from the inside.

”Your Majesty, you’re clenching your fists,” his valet said gently. ”It will wrinkle the gloves.”

Draeven forced his hands to relax.

But the tension didn’t leave his body.

It had been a week since he’d seen her.

A week since Morgana had been pulled from her duties in the palace proper and reassigned to the stables. He’d heard the rumors,that it was Isolde’s doing, some kind of political move to eliminate competition. He didn’t know the details, but he knew what it meant.

She was farther away now.

Out of reach.

Not for long, he thought. I’ll find a way to see her. I’ll find an excuse. I’ll...

”Your Majesty?” his valet prompted. ”It’s time to go to the ballroom.”

Draeven took a breath, forcing his composure into place.

One more night. Endure one more night of this Selection charade, and then I’ll figure out how to get to her.

***

Kaelen’s Pov

Kaelen stood before his mirror, fastening the final button on his white silk shirt.

His formal wear was elegant, whites and silvers, cool and sharp, like ice given form. His pale eyes stared back at him from the mirror, and he saw nothing but cold calculation.

The Selection had been a failure.

None of the noble daughters had stirred even a flicker of interest in him. They were beautiful, yes, but their beauty was hollow. Manufactured. Designed to appeal, not to genuinely attract.

He was bored.

And boredom made him cruel.

He’d already dismissed two servants this week for minor infractions, servants who had done nothing wrong, but whose presence had irritated him. He’d made cutting remarks to council members about their wives’ clothing. He’d been short with his brothers, dismissive and cold.

The curse was making him harder.

Making him less human.

And he didn’t know how to stop it.

Kaelen turned from the mirror and left his chambers, his white-gloved hands clenching into fists as he walked.

The Selection ends tonight, he thought. One way or another, this ends.

***

Thorne’sPov

Thorne was still reading when his servant came to tell him it was time to dress for the ball.

He was in the royal archives, surrounded by ancient texts, lost in a treatise about blood magic and old prophecies. A single candle illuminated the page before him, casting dancing shadows across his face.

”Your Majesty,” the servant said carefully, ”the ball begins in less than an hour.”

Thorne didn’t look up from his book.

”I’m aware.”

”Shall I prepare your formal wear, Your Majesty?”

”Yes,” Thorne said absently, turning a page. ”Do so.”

He was reading about the Mother of Dragons....or rather, what little the old texts said about her. Born of fire. Hidden in shadow. Neither crown nor title shall mark her.

The prophecy was specific, but maddeningly vague.

There was no image. No name. No clear indication of who she might be or where she might be found.

But Thorne had encountered her in the dragon tower.

He had felt the ancient ones’ response to her presence.

And he knew, with a certainty that went beyond logic or evidence, that she was the one.

The question was: what did he do with that knowledge?

And when he knows that his brothers are also drawn to her as well?

Thorne finally set down his book and allowed his servant to dress him for the ball.

His formal wear was all black, an elegant statement of power and mystery. Black trousers, black shirt, black doublet embroidered with silver thread in patterns that resembled night sky.

He looked like shadow given form.

Like a creature of darkness.

Perhaps I am, Thorne thought as he left his chambers. And perhaps that’s exactly what she needs.