Page 16 of The Moonborn's Curse

Arken tilted his head slightly, intrigued.

Draken continued. "When my son was born, it was foretold that a child with dark skin, moon-like eyes and black hair would be his soul mate. The Oracle has directed me here to find her."

He left out the part that this was his third fruitless journey eastward. His men were growing weary, longing to return home.

For a moment, Arken was unreadable.

Then something changed.

His eyes were hooded, his expression carefully guarded.

His answer, when it came, was evasive.

"The world is full of many children, Highclaw. Most with dark skin, many with dark hair and unusual eyes. The east is a vast land. It is not so easy to find one girl among thousands."

Draken studied him carefully.

Arken knew something.

Draken pressed on. "Gold. Silver. Money. Name your price."

Arken's eyes flickered— but was not yet convinced.

Then Draken made his final offer.

"Five of my warriors will stay temporarily to protect your tribe. To train your enforcers. And to deal with the cannibalistic tribe that has been a problem for your people."

Arken's expression shifted.

The cannibalistic tribe had long been a threat, stealing his people in the night, attacking their outposts, and growing bolder by the year. Wars in these lands were not infrequent, and humans—the Hairless Ones—had a short memory when it came to peace. They forgot the hard lessons of the Feral Wars.

Draken also knew something else—the magic of this tribe was fading with every generation.

Before, they had needed no warriors to protect them. Now? They did.

Arken exhaled slowly, setting his cup down.

"I will confer with the Elders of the Coven," he said finally.

A young woman stepped forward, brown eyes curious and shy. She was an attendant, her role clear.

"She will show you to your quarters," Arken said.

Draken nodded, and they followed the young woman down a narrow, darkened hall, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and magic. Vines crept along the stone walls, twisting into intricate patterns, the green blending seamlessly with the dim torchlight.

One of the unmated warriors at Draken's side—a young, cocksure soldier—grinned and leaned in playfully.

"And what is your name, love?" he murmured.

The woman flushed a deep scarlet, ducking her head as she hurried away.

Draken sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

He turned to Vir, his Fang—his right-hand warrior, his closest friend.

Vir had been silent this whole time, but his wolf was always listening.

Draken met his gaze. "What do you think?"

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