Page 88 of The Dragon Warlord
The fiery blast at Tristan’s command is effective. Dragon’s fire from the first string of warriors covers the first string of theirs and its sticky nature ensures that those it touches meet their demise. I am not officially Tristan’s second, but I have the authority as though I am, and once I’ve spied a clear opening, I fly back to the bundle of warriors under my command, hopping off rocks and careening through trees, to give a signal of my own.
Tristan and I have learned to work in concert with each other. We know what the other will do and we respond with complementary action. On the battlefield, we could dance forever and never miss a step. I tell my warriors to send fire and he has a band of his charging in to cut, slice, and disseminate the fiends that think they’re getting into The Tower.
The Tower is harder to defend from within the tower, which is why we defend tower access at all costs. It’s not easy to get to, and it’s protected by powerful and ancient magic, but it’s not impenetrable. If the emperor sends anything, it’s usually something that can fly, and something that can command refined, dark magic.
Tumbling into a practiced roll, Tristan pops up beside me and we take our preferred stance, back-to-back so that we can see from all angles. Ever since our mind connection broke open five years ago, we’ve used it to our advantage. It’s enabled us to act as limbs for each other.
Tristan doesn’t catch the beastly creature by his feet while he’s distracted with a flying monstrosity diving for him, intent on removing the head from his body. I end the miserable little scourge’s life with a stab of my sword. The flash of a blade by my head—Tristan’s—impales a small but deadly winged demon about to rip my face off.
And on and on it goes. We defend ourselves, and each other, and command the army together with flawless precision.
Does that same ease extend to our relationship? No. Of course not.
By relationship, I mean the fact that we are mates because that is a fact. I bear Tristan’s bite forever—proudly—and that means I am his mate even if we are platonic mates.
All of me belongs to him, and that is no secret.
How we really feel might not be as much of a secret as we’d like it to be, but they are words never uttered. Hell, they are words I rarely think about lest Tristan catches a stray thought. The truth will always be this: I am for him. He can have me or not. He can save me like a slice of dragonfly honeycake that he never touches.
Would more be nice? It would, but I’m happy. I’m incandescently in love. I’m honored to be his. He doesn’t have to kiss me for me to feel the worship that bleeds from every cell of his being during his every interaction with me.
It’s these big and unspoken emotions, the ones that can only exist in the space between thoughts—without ever becoming thoughts—that cause our missteps off the battlefield.
On the battlefield, we let instinct take over. Our dragons are at the helm, and we are mostly animal, our preferred form when we attack.
This means that the thing we don’t want, the thing we work hard to avoid, is at the forefront.
We want to fuck each other’s brains out. I know it. He knows it. Weneverspeak of it.
It’s not something we can hide. Even if we couldn’t smell the bucket loads of arousal pouring off the other, the potent sexual energy sizzles through the air between us. The difference on the field and off is that with our dragon manifestations, our inhibitions are lowered significantly and any guilt we might feel otherwise is gone. Any apprehension we’d normally feel is so far off in the distance that we can barely see it.
When our instincts are in charge, everything is clear, but thankfully we’re too busy killing things and trying to stay alive to think about sex.
“I’m going to take my warriors to the Eastern border, Warlord, by your command!” I shout over the chaos.
If we could remain together all battle long, we would, but it’s not possible.
“Go, Omega Kanes.”
We always turn to get a last look. A last stare. One of us could die today. We face our own mortality in every single battle.
I don’t know if the bond understands that we have a job to do. Whatever the case, it allows us to do what we must. From other actions it’s taken, I would expect the bond to force Tristan to keep me far, far, away from danger. Frankly, I would expect the bond to influence me to the same end. Last year, Father sent us on a collection mission that took us weeks. Tristan almost died. Again. I was furious. Went totally feral. Plants and many pieces of furniture died.
For whatever reason, we can go to war together, and if anything, our bond makes us better at doing our jobs rather than hindering us.
* * *
It’s a long three days fighting this horde, but we succeed with minimal losses.
“That’s the third attack in thirty days,” General Sharpe says to the Warlord. We’re in Tristan’s War Room, surrounded by his top-ranking officials. “If this keeps up, we will be breached, Warlord.”
We have a formidable army, but we have limits to our endurance and with the emperor’s seemingly never-ending horde, he’s going to burn through our warriors at some point.
Tristan knows and he’s been concerned about it. As the veil between worlds thins, the emperor has an easier time getting his minions through. We are the canary in the coal mine. If this is happening here that means the other realms, where Tristan’s family lives, are in increasing danger. Most of that world doesn’t have the tools, the knowledge, or the magic to fight this kind of army.
As much as Tristan is concerned for his dragonkin, his mind is on the other place he calls home, Mortouge. “I’m back at the beginning,” he says under his breath. “I need to close the veil. It’s the only way to put an end to it.”
* * *
