But before they could move, a figure stepped into the clearing behind the wolves.

Hilda, her red robes billowing despite the lack of wind, her face serene as if she were merely out for an evening stroll.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” she asked, her voice carrying clearly across the space. “I have invested a considerable amount of time and resources in acquiring you. I’m not about to let you simply walk away.”

She made a casual gesture, and the wolves began to advance, their movements coordinated and predatory.

Rena gathered what power she could, but she was already exhausted. One more major working might kill her. Beside her, Baren’s body was changing—scales erupting along his arms and neck, his frame expanding, his face elongating. The transformation was agonizing to watch, and she knew it was even worse to experience.

“Go,” he managed through a mouth that was becoming more snout than human. “I’ll… hold them…”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“You… have to…” His words were barely intelligible now.

“Can’t… protect you… if I’m worried… about you…”

The first wolf lunged.

Baren met it in mid-air, and the collision sounded like thunder. They went down in a tangle of limbs and fur, Baren’s claws tearing at the wolf’s flesh while its jaws snapped at his throat. Two more wolves circled, looking for an opening.

“Rena… GO!”

The command was accompanied by a burst of flame—actual flame—that erupted from Baren’s mouth and engulfed one of the circling wolves. The creature’s howl of agony was terrible to hear.

And then Baren was no longer fighting in human form.

His transformation was completed in a rush of power and pain.

Bones cracked and reformed, muscles expanded and scales spread like armor across his entire body. He grew and grew and grew until a creature twice the size of the wolves stood in the clearing.

A dragon.

Not a full dragon—he was still too young, his bloodline too diluted—but close enough that the word applied. His scales were scorched orange, like embers at the heart of a fire, and they gleamed in the moonlight with an inner radiance. His wings were wide enough, spread long in a display of dominance. His eyes, still amber but now enormous and reptilian, fixed on Hilda with undisguised hatred.

The wolves hesitated.

Even corrupted by the dark hold, some instincts were too deep to overcome. Dragons were apex predators, creatures of legend that made kingdoms tremble.

Baren opened his jaws and roared, and the sound was primal fury given voice. Trees shook. Birds fled. The very air seemed to vibrate with the force of it.

“Impressive,” Hilda said, and she actually sounded pleased.

“The Lord will be thrilled to know his half-dragon is even more valuable than anticipated. Take him alive if possible. Dead if necessary.”

The wolves attacked as one, and Baren met them with fire and fury.

“RENA!” His voice was distorted by his draconic form but still understandable. “RUN! I’LL FIND YOU! I SWEAR I’LL FIND YOU! BUT RUN!”

With tears streaming down her face and every instinct screaming at her to stay and fight, Rena turned and fled into the forest. She knew she couldn’t fight them and staying here would only make Baren vulnerable; with a heavy heart, she turned on her heel.

Behind her, the sounds of battle raged—roars, howls, the crackle of flame and the wet sounds of tearing flesh. She ran until her legs gave out, until she collapsed against a tree trunk, sobbing and gasping for air.

She was alone.

Baren was fighting for his life, maybe dying, and she’d left him.

But she was alive.

And that meant she could get help.

She could find Darian, Raelana and Taeryn. She could come back.

She had to believe that. Had to believe that Baren would survive until she returned.

Pushing herself to her feet, Rena chose a direction at random and started walking. The forest was dark and full of dangers, but nothing could be worse than what lay behind her.

She hoped.

***

Back at the castle, the next day,

The grand ballroom of Marhaevn Castle was a monument to excess and power. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, each one holding a hundred candles that cast dancing light across the polished marble floor. The walls were draped with tapestries depicting the Roland family’s illustrious history—most of it exaggerated, Jaenor suspected—and musicians played from a raised gallery, filling the air with elegant chamber music.

The cream of the realm’s nobility had gathered here, peacocks in human form, each trying to outdo the others in wealth and status. Silks and satins in every color imaginable swirled as couples danced. Jewelry glittered at throats and wrists.

Servants moved through the crowd bearing trays of wine and delicacies.

Jaenor stood near one of the massive pillars that supported the ceiling, a glass of wine in his hand that he’d barely touched. He wore formal attire now—a black coat and breeches with silver embroidery, a white shirt with a high collar and polished boots that thankfully fit properly.

Morgana had insisted he dress appropriately for the main event, and he had to admit, the clothing was well-made even if it felt restrictive.

Beside him, Morgana held court without seeming to make any effort.

Nobles approached her with carefully constructed greetings, trying to curry favor or gather information. She deflected them all with the ease of someone who’d played this game for decades.

Her gown tonight was midnight blue, cut to suggest rather than reveal, and she wore her authority like a queen might wear a crown—naturally and without question.

“You’re scowling,” she murmured to him during a brief lull.

“Try to look less like you’re planning murder.”

“I am planning murder. Of boredom.”

“Well, suffer in silence like everyone else. And stop staring at Lady Celeste’s neckline. Her husband is three feet away and carries a long sword to his waist.”

Jaenor’s gaze snapped forward, though he hadn’t been aware it had wandered.

Morgana was right, of course. She always was. It was infuriating.

The evening had been progressing smoothly—tediously, but smoothly—until Jaenor noticed a disturbance near the main entrance.

Caelum had arrived, fashionably late as always, surrounded by a group of his peers. All young men from wealthy houses, all carrying themselves with the same arrogant certainty that the world existed for their benefit.

Caelum’s eyes swept the ballroom and locked onto Jaenor immediately. His smile was a predator’s expression, all teeth and no warmth.

“Here we go,” Jaenor muttered.

“Ignore him,” Morgana said quietly. “That’s what he wants—a reaction, a scene. Don’t give it to him.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

But Caelum wasn’t content to let the matter rest. He spoke briefly with his companions, gesturing toward Jaenor, and they all laughed.

Then he broke away from the group and headed directly toward them.

No, not directly toward them.

He stopped to speak with someone else first—an older man, perhaps fifty, with iron-grey hair and a face that suggested he’d spent his life being disappointed by everything. He wore a coat of deep purple trimmed with gold, marking him as someone of considerable wealth and status.

Caelum spoke animatedly to the man, gesturing toward Jaenor and Morgana. The older man’s expression grew interested, then calculating. He nodded, said something in return, and Caelum’s smile widened.

They approached together, flanked by two of Caelum’s friends.

“Lady Morgana,” Caelum said with an exaggerated bow.

“How radiant you look this evening. And your… companion seems to have survived the afternoon without further incident. How fortunate.”

“Lord Caelum,” Morgana replied, her tone cool. “I see you’ve recovered from your earlier embarrassment. How resilient.”

Caelum’s smile tightened but held. “Indeed. In fact, I’ve brought someone who expressed great interest in meeting you both. May I present Lord Barda Vorn, head of House Vorn.”

The older man stepped forward, his assessment of them frank and unflattering. “Lady Morgana. I’ve heard much about you over the years. Your reputation is quite… varied.”

“As are most reputations worth having,” Morgana replied evenly.

“True, true.” Lord Barda’s gaze shifted to Jaenor.

“And this would be your… what do we call you, boy? Companion? Paramour? Toy?”

The insult was delivered so casually, with such deliberate ease, that for a moment it didn’t even register. When it did, Jaenor felt heat rise in his chest, but he kept his expression neutral and said nothing.

“I call him my business,” Morgana said, her voice developing an edge like frost forming on steel. “Which is none of your business, Sir Barda.”

She could tell that he was here to stir up trouble, and she looked at the brat Caelum, and he seemed like he wanted to mess with Jaenor again.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” Barda smiled, and it was the smile of someone holding all the cards.

“You see, when someone of your… history involves themselves with the nobility, it becomes everyone’s business. We have standards to maintain, after all.”

“History?” Morgana’s tone was dangerously quiet.

“Come now, Lady Morgana. Or should I say, Miss Morgana? After all, when one’s father and brother are both exposed as traitors to the crown, one does tend to lose the right to titles, doesn’t one?”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep