Page 11 of King of Fire and Scales

The king leaned down, eyes unblinking, and ground his teeth as he muttered. “If you're so worried about your unwell father, then you will come with me willingly.”

Thalia gulped, her throat having run dry as the desert plains.

“Is that a threat?” she whispered back.

Drake shook his head. He looked calmer despite maintaining his grasp around her wrist.

“Creation Sorceresses can change things at a molecular level.” He paused, waiting for her to absorb the wording, then went on. “That means that they can change bodies as well. They can heal them.”

The men who rummaged through her and her father’s belongings continued. Her father's sorrowful beseeching was muffled. Thalia was locked in, fixated on the king. A flare of realization cast itself over her astute mind.

“Are you telling me that if I’m able to yield my abilities of… gardening… Then I could heal my father?”

Drake nodded.

It all sounded too good to be true. But what use would it be for the dragon shifter to lie to her?

“You will be able to heal all of your father’s physical pains and restore his mental faculties to that of a ripe young man. That is what you will gain if you accept my demands.”

Thalia was spiteful, but there wasn’t anything else in the world that was more tempting than the idea of turning her father into his old self. It had been some time since her mother passed into the great beyond, his misery having aged him twofold. She wanted to believe the king wasn’t feeding her false truths for the sake of his own selfish schemes.

“You’re not lying?” she asked, her pulse hot and quick against his hold.

“If I wanted to, I could have had you and your father killed. I wouldn’t have wasted my time with petty conversation.”

That was all Thalia needed to hear. Her intuition was also keen, so even if she didn’t trust the king, she trusted herself.

When he let her go, she approached her sobbing father and informed him of the unfortunate news.

SIX

DRAKE

The trek back to the mountainous region was an arduous one. The king, along with his dragon shifter comrades, were very capable of flying back to the kingdom. But Thalia and her ailing father, of course, were not capable of flight, nor did Drake believe that the Creation Sorceress would accept such an invitation to ride on his back.

Nor would she allow her father to do such a thing. She was fiercely protective, and the king could see why. The old man was far more ill than he had anticipated. His willowy frame bounced along with the horse-drawn carriage as if being punched from the ground below. Drake sat opposite them in the wagon, envisioning the elder being held up by marionette strings.

It would take days for them to return to the kingdom at the pace they were moving. Though it incensed him, it was the only way. He had the Creation Sorceress in his grasp, and he hadn’t taken his attention from her since they’d left the meager village nearly twelve hours before.

“We have to stop soon,” Thalia said. “My father can’t sleep in this carriage. He needs proper rest.”

The king offered her no rebuttal. He had been trying to find a way to earn her favor during the entire trip, inquiring about her spells and practices, and as to the moment when her abilities flowered. All that he was met with was a tight-lipped scowl, and prickly, one-word replies.

His dragon was not happy with it. As much as she appeared to loathe him, he wanted her, with every terrible second that labored by. She had changed into a dress that clung to the contours of her anatomy like a silk glove, ending bluntly at her knees. It wasn’t nearly as tattered as the one he’d found her in.

The thoughts Drake was having weren’t appropriate in the slightest, but he was practiced in the art of enshrouding his expression with grave stoicism. He accepted her pleas for rest and ordered the driver to stop at the next village to inquire about an inn.

The carriage halted a few minutes later inside a quaint town. It was populated by both humans and supernaturals alike, the kind of environment that royals within his council tended to mock. It meant nothing to Drake himself, whose only golden rule was the practice of harmony.

The driver found a small inn and asked for the innkeeper’s discretion about the king’s visit. They guaranteed his silence with a stealthy palming of gold coins concealed in a black leather pouch.

The king pulled up the hood of his cloak and stepped out of the carriage. The air was damp, the scent of rain lingering. Streep lamps flickered a dull cream yellow along the muddied streets, light throwing itself across the sheen surface of puddles.

Drake drew the door of the wagon open, then held out his hand. Thalia had pulled on her cape and was tying it to her neck as she spoke in the dark.

“I will help my father,” she said curtly.

“Let me help you first,” Drake retorted.

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