Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
"This is my brother Pyrran." Korin’s voice carried across the water. "And Pyrran. . .this is our queen."
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Sol’s heart hammered in her chest.
Then Pyrran moved.
Water cascaded from his massive form as his head rose from the lake. Gold coins slid down his scales in glittering waterfalls. His neck uncoiled—longer than Korin's, Sol realized, or perhaps it just seemed that way because of how slowly he moved.
How deliberately.
And then out of nowhere. . .he roared.
The sound was different from Korin's. Where Korin's roar had been fire and fury, Pyrran's was ice and shadow. It rolled across the cavern like thunder trapped in a canyon, shaking the crystals in the walls, sending ripples racing across the golden lake.
Sol screamed and stumbled backward, but Korin caught her. "Easy. Pyrran is. . .testing you."
"Testing me?!" Sol gasped and held up her hands at the dragon, preparing herself to shoot him with ice.
But Korin only laughed—a low, warm sound that was utterly mad given the circumstances. "My brother is not easily swayed like me. It takes him time."
Still, Sol kept her ice ready to shoot out of her hands if he tried to come closer.
Pyrran's silver eyes cruelly narrowed. He didn’t appear warmed to her at all. When he spoke, his voice was nothing like Korin's sensual rumble.
This voice was darker.
Deeper.
It scraped against her bones like claws on stone.
"Brother. . .why do you bring someone that could be a witch into my hoard?"
Sol flinched.
Korin's hand tightened on her back. "Witch? You smell her, brother. You know what she is. You know she is our queen."
"I smell what could be deception." Pyrran's massive head swung toward them. Water dripped from his obsidian horns. "I smell what could be trickery. Witches have fooled dragons before. They take our scents. They wear our skins. They—"
"She is not a witch."
"How can you be certain?"
"Because I have tested her." Korin's voice hardened. "My fire did not burn her. Her ice brought me pleasure, not pain. She cannot lie—watch her try to deny what she is. She is a dragon, Pyrran. She is our mate."
Pyrran went still.
Those silver eyes fixed on Sol with an intensity that made her want to sink into the ground. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and she could feel the pull of his breath from twenty feet away—strong enough to tug at her hair, to make her skin prickle.
"How can that be?" Pyrran's voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. "The humans killed so many of our kind. We watched them fall. We burned their murderers in vengeance. For a hundred years, there has been no other dragon but us. We have been alone. So why now? Why her?"
"Sol’s egg was found, brother. Somehow it survived the Great Massacre." Korin stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Sol. "Two humans discovered her egg in a forest. They had no idea what it was. They tried to cook it for food, and the heat of their oven triggered her, Becoming."
"A hundred years later?" Pyrran's laugh was a cruel, grinding sound. "You expect me to believe that a dragon egg survived for a century?"
"I do not expect you to believe anything." Korin's voice sharpened. "I expect you to use your senses. Smell her. Truly smell her. Not with suspicion, but with honesty."
Pyrran's eyes flickered.
Sol watched the massive dragon with growing terror. He was even larger than Korin, she realized now—or perhaps he just seemed that way because of the cold fury radiating from his form. Where Korin had been heat and hunger, Pyrran was ice and doubt.
"Witches can take on scents," Pyrran growled. "They can weave illusions so complete that even dragons are fooled. I have seen it. I have watched many fall to such tricks."
"She is not a witch."
"Prove it."
Korin turned to Sol. His golden eyes were softer now, almost apologetic. "Little one, tell my brother what you are."
Sol's mouth opened. “What?”
"Tell him you are not a dragon."
She blinked. "But I'm not—"
The words caught in her throat.
She tried again. "I'm not a—"
Nothing.
Her tongue refused to form the denial. Her lips moved, but the lie would not come.
Pyrran's silver eyes widened.
"Tell him you are not our mate," Korin continued. "Tell him you are not our queen."
"I'm not your—" Sol's voice cracked. "I'm not—"
She couldn't say it.
No matter how hard she tried, no matter how desperately she wanted to deny this madness, the words simply would not form.
"Dragons cannot lie," Korin’s gaze locked with his brother's. "Not even to themselves. Not even when they wish to. She cannot deny what she is because she is exactly what I said. Our mate. Our queen. The one we have waited centuries to find."
Pyrran stared at Sol.
The silence stretched like a held breath.
And then, slowly, terribly, the massive dragon began to move.
Water cascaded from his body as he rose from the lake. His wings—vast, leathery, and edged with silver—unfurled from his back with a sound like thunder. His claws—each one longer than Sol's arm—sank into the rock at the water's edge.