Текст книги "The horde King of shadow"

Автор книги: Zoey Draven

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Chapter 44SARKIN

One week later…

Deep in a forest called the Ancient Groves, I stood by Klara’s side as we watched the Dakkari-steel chains fastened around the thalara’s wide trunk.

It was a beautiful tree—black with graceful, regal boughs and white, velvety leaves, highlighted with blue veins.

It was an old thalara tree. And it was different than all the ones I’d ever studied. This might’ve been the oldest I’d ever seen, and I could feel the raw power swirling from it, drawing in energy from its surrounding, feeding on it to grow the dying heartstones at its roots.

Across the clearing, the Dothikkar stood with Dannik. The old king and, potentially, the new one. There were a few of his council members. Gevanth and Harnek stood close by. Alaryk had remained as well, though he’d sent his commander back to Grym to relay to Elysom that what were now known as the Heartstone Accords had been struck with the Dakkari.

In these accords were our agreements.

Each nation would get half of the heartstone yield. Seventy percent of each yield would be replanted into careful groves of thalara orchards, just like the forests that used to grow in the Arsadia. A handful of experts would come from Karak to assist the Dakkari in their growing and care, ensuring that the trees would be healthy to sustain heartstone yields for centuries.

The remaining heartstones could be used as we saw fit. But the Dothikkar had finally agreed to curb the priestesses’ power in the North Lands, to stop trying to create heartstones, especially after we had told him such a thing was not possible. Did I believe it would happen?

I would like to. But I had seen greed for decades, even in Sarroth before I’d taken the throne from the previous king. I was more than a little jaded, especially when it came to the promises of strangers.

It was important to Klara, however, and for that reason alone, the Karag would be monitoring the Dakkari progress on that front, ensuring that the agreements were met.

And in exchange on the Karag’s part, for the heartstones were growing in Dakkari soil, we would allow a small population—warriors, mostly, though Klara had also requested scholars—to live among the Karag. They could enter rider instruction if they so wished, choose to take part in the illa’rosh if they passed training, and claim an Elthika of their own. We would let the Elthika decide on their riders, as it had always been.

The territories of Sarroth and Grym—on Alaryk’s agreement—would be the first territories to accept new citizens from Dakkar. With time, however, it might extend into Elysom, Elarin, and Kyloth.

If the Dakkari wanted to bond with an Elthika…they would have to earn the right.

Today marked the first day of our accords, and it would begin with uprooting the heartstones.

Klara took a deep breath. She whispered to me, “What if they’re not there?”

I almost chuckled. Was this what she worried about?

“What if I made a terrible mistake and we negotiated for nearly a week for nothing?”

My hand drifted to her hip. Truthfully, I couldn’t wait to get her back home to Sarroth. I couldn’t wait to have her in our bed, to show her the territory that was now hers, where we would spend over half the year when we weren’t at the mountain village in the Arsadia.

I couldn’t wait to have her all to myself, at least for a little while. I dreamed of mornings where we could spend lazy moments, taking our time to get out of our bed. Where we would just be with each other.

But duty came first. At least for now.

“They’ll be there,” I said, leaning down to murmur into her ear as we watched the chains being tightened by the guards.

In a small clearing close by, just large enough for her to land, Zaridan waited. The chains were attached to her harness, and she would be the one whose power and strength uprooted the tree.

“How do you know?” she asked.

I gazed into my wife’s beautiful gray eyes, tipping up her chin. The color of them reminded of the fog that flowed over Sarroth on misty mornings, calming and peaceful. Slowly, I said, “Because you said they were. And I believe you. It’s as simple as that.”

She blew out a small breath and tried to hide her pleased smile and the flush that colored the tops of her cheekbones. She was so lovely sometimes, it hurt.

I pressed a small kiss to the scar that curved over the side of her face and then turned my attention back to the tree. She went quiet, but I could tell that her mind was racing.

“The past intertwines here,” she whispered. A shiver traced gently down my back. “It’s all around us. We just have to listen for it. I hear it.”

“You’re thinking of your ancestor, Vienne?”

She nodded. “It saddens me to watch this, even though I know it’s for the best. Because this tree once saved her life and the life of her husband, her horde king. It gifted her the heartstone that gave her the power to save her people. There is history here. And it wouldn’t surprise me if the last people to lay eyes on this tree had been Vienne and Davik of Rath Drokka,” she said. “There’s something…awe inspiring about that. Magnificent and humbling. Like our past is closer than we ever imagined. Not separated by centuries, but rather like a bridge. A bridge to that past…and it’s right here.”

I was in love with the way her mind worked because she thought so differently from me. She saw beauty in places where I’d never even thought to look. She found art in the folds of this life, where I had only ever seen duty and necessity.

“Sometimes you have to destroy in order to create, aralye,” I told her, squeezing her hip, pulling her closer to me. “Don’t be saddened by this. Your ancestors gave us this gift. You knew where this place was, you knew the stories passed down your bloodlines of this specific tree. That was not an accident. That was fate. All of this information is just pieces of torn parchment. Pieced back together and rearranged so you can see the entire story. Because of your bloodlines, both of our people have another chance. This might be the last thalara tree in existence, and you knew exactly where to find it. That’s magic and history. Perhaps they are the same thing.”

Klara looked up at me with parted lips as she absorbed the words. “I love that thought,” she said.

Just then, Feranos, next to one of the Dakkari guards, called out, “Attached. We’re ready, Karath.”

My eyes met Dannik’s from across the way. He inclined his head.

“Zaridan,” I called out.

I couldn’t see her because the Ancient Groves was a thick, overgrown forest, but I could sense her presence. I felt the ground shake when she stomped.

“Thryn’ar!” I commanded. The flying command.

A roar shook the trees as my Elthika jolted into flight. She knew to go slowly…but it only took her mere moments to uproot an ancient tree.

“Faryn,” I ordered. Stop.

The trees shook when she landed back to the ground, the black Dakkari-steel chain rattling.

Klara had gasped, her eyes on the thalara tree, lying on its side, black earth spilling from the underside of its roots like dripping ink.

The sudden blue glow of the heartstones was almost blinding as it filled the clearing.

“There,” I said finally, wanting to see her reaction more. “You were right, Klara. They were here. All this time.”

She turned her watery gaze onto mine. I knew her emotions were out of relief, of happiness…but also of grief. Her mother had been killed trying to create the very thing that had been under Dakkari earth for centuries. That would cut her, deeply, for a long time. It might never stop, and I wished desperately that I could shield her from that ache.

But…there was also hope in her gaze. Hope for a new future. One in which our people would work together, creating tighter bonds, pushing us toward greater things together. She’d told me that Dannik might be struggling with the call for his own destiny, the weight of it…but I knew that he was part of that future. That we wouldn’t be able to succeed without him.

“Sarkin.”

“Hmm?”

Klara turned into my arms as life burst in the clearing. There was excited chatter from the guards and my kya’rassa, the scholars here to write about this day—her friend Sora among them, the Dothikkar even, Dannik, Gevanth and Harnek. It was a celebration. A day to remember.

“I know we still have work to do here,” she said to me. “But after it’s done…I want to go home.”

I couldn’t help the small smile that edged its way onto my features. “And where’s home?”

She grinned. “Sarroth, though truthfully…it’s wherever you are.”

Briefly, I rubbed at my heart when it fluttered in my chest.

“Lysi?” I asked, my tone teasing, before winding my arms around her back.

“Lysi. I’m eager to get back home. To start a life with you, by your side. To train Lygath. To begin chronicling the first Dakkari hordes. To learn everything I can about being a Sorrina to the Sarrothian. That’s what I want. So…”

Behind her, I saw Dannik crouch down at the roots of the thalara tree, his face glowing blue from the magic as he reached out his hand. My eyes returned to Klara.

“So?” I asked quietly, leaning down briefly to brush my lips with hers, unable to resist stealing a kiss.

“Will you take me home?” she asked.

“Yes, aralye,” I replied.

Dannik’s fist curled around the heartstone, the first of many, plucking it from the roots of the dying thalara tree.

A new age had begun.

“Let’s go home,” I said.

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EpilogueKLARA

Lygath was snapping his sharp teeth at a wild shearling that was getting too close.

The shearling was no larger than an Elthika egg and was covered in soft brown fur, its tufted paws peeking out from beneath it. It hopped closer and closer to Lygath, the small mammal seemingly not intimidated by the Vyrin, though its long ears straightened and twitched as it approached.

Lygath and I were in a forest clearing. Private, quiet, and peaceful. It had become our afternoon routine after I was done with my interviews in Lakir. I’d review my notes, and Lygath would snooze happily.

I tried to bite back my grin, watching the exchange with the shearling under my lashes. Every time Lygath raised his head to glare at me—as if telling me to deal with the small nuisance—I darted my gaze down to the notebook spread open in my lap, my quill scratching hurriedly across the parchment.

Lygath huffed. Then he growled, a guttural sound in the depths of his throat. And yet, though my bonded Elthika was considered a somewhat unpredictable danger—or at least, he used to be—I’d never seen him hurt even an insect. So I didn’t fear for the shearling’s life.

It was a dizzying yet harsh juxtaposition. That he’d let riders fall to their deaths—my husband’s friend being one of them—yet he was infinitely careful with the creatures I’d seen him interact with.

What I was still learning was that we would never fully understand the Elthika. Scholars in Elysom could write endless books on them, hefty tomes that rivaled the length of the ones on Dakkar’s entire history even. They could give their symposiums and lectures on one facet of their existence—their mating habits and customs, the circumstances of whether they chose a wild birth or whether they entrusted their eggs to a hatchery, their courtships, the dances of their flights—and still it was a widely accepted truth that they would always be a mystery.

They were not meant to be understood by us. Not fully. It was arrogant to believe that they could be. And I learned that every day with Lygath, especially during his ongoing training.

My Elthika narrowed his eyes at the small animal, who was now sniffing at his tail. I saw a puff of red smoke emerge from his snout—my stomach tightening at the sight—but it was only a sigh. Finally, he decided to ignore the shearling, turning his head away to admire the forest grove we’d tucked ourselves into.

I relaxed as the fog dissipated. I would never get used to the sight. Such power he had. Such destruction he could unleash. The responsibility of it was humbling.

As if to make a mockery of my thoughts, the shearling curled up next to Lygath’s deadly claws, no concern for its own safety, staring up at my Elthika as if content to study him, as I often did.

I chuckled, and Lygath cut me a sharp, impertinent look.

“You’ve made a friend,” I noted, grinning before looking down at my notebook, shaking my head in amusement.

The pages were filled with scribbled notes, unreadable to anyone except me. Sarkin had said so. He’d told me my penmanship was horrifying, though he’d said it with the telltale curl of his full lips, a sly but gentle look in his eyes as if charmed by the discovery.

Of course my writing was terrible when I was recording notes and stories from my interviews. I’d come up with a series of symbols and half-written words so I could take notes without interrupting my discussions with the villagers. Sarkin lamented over the messiness, though he could appreciate the efficiency.

We’d spent more than one evening in our bed of furs laughing over his ridiculous interpretations of what I’d written…which had ended with him using his tongue to trace my made-up symbols all over my body as I squirmed beneath him. He’d chuckled against my skin, asking me to guess what he’d drawn.

I cleared my throat, straightening against the tree I was perched against, trying to ignore the aching heat that had begun to burn in my belly at the memory.

Merciless male, I thought, biting back a smile. I was thoroughly addicted to my husband, and he would only smirk if I told him that out loud, as if it wasn’t obvious every single day.

For the next two moon cycles, I’d be focusing on the southern village of Lakir for my research. Where Sammenth and Ryena had grown up. The first time I’d stepped foot in Lakir, I’d known it was the right starting point. Dakkari blood ran strong there, stronger than in the other southern villages I’d visited, the portion of the country that was rumored to be where the lost hordes had landed on Karak soil centuries ago.

I feared that I was, roughly, three hundred years too late to make definitive progress on my research. Even the records in Dothik, which I’d checked when we’d last been there, didn’t have the names of the hordes that had disappeared during the third Dothikkar’s reign. And yet there was unmistakable evidence that the hordes had come here. That they’d lived here, flourished here.

I was making it my duty and purpose to repair those frayed memories. As best as I was able to in conducting my interviews, asking mostly elderly villagers to recount stories of their childhood, their ancestors, tales passed down from generation to generations, recipes, clothing, heirlooms, anything.

In doing so, I hoped that I could help build a bridge between the Dakkari and the Karag. A bridge that was, truthfully, already forming after the Heartstone Accords, but one I wanted to reinforce and strengthen.

Lygath made a sound in the back of his throat, one I recognized.

“Zaridan?” I asked, shutting my notebook, though it bulged so much with loose notes and records that I had to tie it shut with a long leather cord.

He made another sound, guttural and short. An affirmative. My eyes went to the sky as Lygath stood, sending the brave shearling at his back limbs finally skittering away into the cool darkness of the forest surrounding us. We’d been here a couple hours already, the sun beginning to sink.

There in the sky, I saw the familiar shape of Lygath’s sister. When she spotted us, she let out a call, high pitched and trilling. Sarkin had sent her, to bring us home to the citadel.

I bit back a smile. He worried. Lakir wasn’t such a great distance from Sarroth, but even still, he still liked me back home by sundown. Especially tonight.

“We’re called home, it seems,” I said, approaching my Elthika, carefully tucking my notebook into my leather satchel.

Without my command, Lygath stretched out his wing, and I ascended.

The preparations for Akymor were well underway.

As Lygath flew us over Sarroth, I saw that lanterns had appeared since I’d departed this morning, lining all roads within the territory. With the lowering sun, they were being lit one by one. A beautiful warm glow illuminated the pathways, showcasing a great network of roads that led from the center of Sarroth, stretching out in all directions—across the farmlands, over the river, winding through the valleys, even ascending up into the mountains where I knew one small village was tucked away.

Akymor was a Karak-wide celebration that heralded the end of the mating season for the Elthika. Feasts and parties would be going well into the night. Sarkin had told me about it a few months prior, when he’d brought me gifts from Elysom. A dress had been one of those gifts, one I’d been saving to wear to the festivities tonight.

We were expected to make an appearance at all the villages throughout the course of the evening, as Karath and Sorrina of Sarroth. But the holiday would begin tonight at our citadel, where we were having dinner with Sarkin’s kya’rassa, including Kyavor, who had flown from the Arsadia for the occasion.

When Lygath circled down onto the terrace of the citadel, Sarkin was waiting for me on the back steps. After I descended off the mount, I went to Lygath, pressing my fingertips just below his eyes.

“Sen endrassa,” I murmured to him. “Enjoy your night, my friend.”

Lygath tipped his snout into my touch. When I turned, I felt the power of his launch behind me. I tilted my face back, watching the two siblings come together in the sky overhead.

Then my eyes were only for my husband, lounging against the stone wall.

“Welcome home, wife,” he murmured, those multicolored eyes warming on me.

“Sorry I’m a little late,” I said, my eager grin widening on my face. I rushed into his arms. They came around me, and I thought, This is home. It didn’t matter where we were—in Sarroth, in the Arsadia, in Dothik.

Sarkin was home, and I breathed him in shamelessly, savoring his heat and the comforting press of his unyielding body. Though I’d just seen him this morning—pressing a kiss to his cheek as I’d rushed out of the citadel to meet Lygath, eager for a day of interviews—I felt like it’d been much too long.

His lips met mine as my hands stroked through his hair. My fingers clenched the dark strands as his bit into my hips, holding me close. Desperation was rising. I’d been thinking of him all day. A small madness we both shared. I often woke with him between my thighs, to sweet but wicked kisses along my breasts…yet I felt like we always wanted each other. That need would never be satisfied.

“Oh,” I heard, and we broke apart when we realized someone had managed to sneak up on us. It was Droshin, the head of the household staff in the citadel.

Sarkin was a minimalist when it came to his own creature comforts. Before me, his residence in the citadel in Sarroth had been used for sleep and nothing more. Most of his time was spent in the Sarrothian villages, meeting with the councils there, or with Zaridan and his riders, traveling between the territories and patrolling his homeland.

But he’d expanded the staff when we’d returned from the Arsadia…and I knew it was for me alone. He’d hired more cleaners—for it was a large house, one with rooms that I’d yet to even explore—two cooks, and personal helpers for me, should I require their assistance.

“My apologies, Karath, Sorrina,” Droshin said, though he was no stranger to finding us in compromising positions in the last few months.

“What is it?” Sarkin asked, recovering more quickly than I did, though his hands never left my hips. I knew he preferred to have as few people in his home as possible, even though the citadel was grand and we very rarely ran into a single soul, as discreet as they were. He was fonder of our home in Rysar, in the Arsadia. Our quaint little dwelling up on the hill at the base of the mountain, where we had more privacy than we knew what to do with.

“Brear would like to know if you prefer the wine from Grym this evening or the brew from Elarin.”

Decisions like that my husband hated most of all, I knew, and so I smiled at Droshin. Kyavor was partial to brew, not wine, and he was our honored guest tonight.

“The brew will be fine. Thank you, Droshin,” I replied.

He inclined his head, seemingly eager to leave us be, and I chuckled after he left.

“Three more months,” Sarkin sighed, pressing a more chaste kiss to my lips lest we get carried away again. “And then I won’t have to worry about interruptions when we are back in the Arsadia.”

Another riding season would begin soon.

“There will always be interruptions, Karath,” I murmured, untangling myself from his arms before intertwining my hand with his, pulling him through the back door of the citadel. “But if it means having you, then I don’t mind them.”

“Then let’s go lock ourselves in our wing until our guests arrive,” he suggested. “Tonight will be long. I want to savor you while I can.”

It always felt like I was free-falling off Lygath’s back when he said things like that. The rush and flurry in my belly felt like a sweet, exciting thrill.

“All right,” I whispered, anticipation surging, and he led us up to our private section of the citadel, where even Droshin wouldn’t bother us unless it was absolutely necessary.

Our rooms in Sarroth had once been…sparse. The first time I’d seen them had been the night I’d dreamed of Lygath and taken a tumble off the cliffside. Sarkin had brought me here to bandage my wounds and tie me to him in sleep. Other than a table near the fireplace, a large cushioned chair that had been well-used, and the bed, it had been bare bones, befitting the Sarrothian king who always seemed to be on the move.

It hadn’t worked for me, however, and Sarkin had given me free rein to change whatever I saw as necessary.

Over the last few months, I’d made various purchases throughout Sarroth. Smooth and soft rugs for the stone floors—which had already gone a long way toward adding color and life into the room—window dressings, paintings and glass mosaics that glittered in sunlight, decorative silver vases filled with blooms and greenery that reminded me of the Arsadia. A new foot stool here. An expertly woven blanket there.

Sarkin had often observed new furnishings within our wing with soft yet bemused amusement, his eyebrows quirking on me whenever he spied new decor on the gray walls or a trinket that I’d purchased from the marketplace, displayed proudly on the mantel.

My husband never made comments or gave his opinions about specific items I purchased…but I knew he enjoyed seeing them. He’d told me once that he liked me “nesting.” Feathering our home with things I enjoyed. He liked seeing my mark on our dwelling, evidence I was burrowing into our life. I’d often caught him observing the little pieces I’d acquired, a peculiar yet pleased expression on his face.

My favorite addition to our wing, however, was the wall of books in our sitting room by the hearth. The citadel did have a dedicated library, much to my endless delight. It needed some love and care, a project that I planned to focus on after the bulk of my interviews were done in Lakir. Most of the books were in Karag, however, and while I did work with a tutor in the nearest village to help me with my husband’s native tongue, I’d decided to lug all the books in the universal language up to our rooms for safekeeping.

Having shelves built into the walls had been one of my first projects upon arriving to Sarroth, as any good scholar worth her ink might do. Most of the books in the universal tongue had been trade ledgers from village to village, oddly enough, but I’d still read nearly every single one. Others, however, had been translated Elthika tales, mostly fables meant for children. But some were useful tomes on Elthika and Karag history, much like the book Sarkin had gifted me from Elysom. Those were the ones I repeatedly reached for whenever I needed a break from my research or if my husband was away from Sarroth.

“Thinking of your books again,” Sarkin said, cutting through my thoughts. I averted my eyes from the shelves as he drew me into his arms, now that we had a brief but private moment together. “I always know when you do. Should I be jealous of them?”

“Of course not. How can you be jealous when you know how much I love you?” I teased, laughing.

“Mmm,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my lips. “How much?”

I thought about it, trying not to get distracted by his touch. The truth that came to me was humbling. “Enough that if I was forced to choose, I would choose you over ever touching another book again.”

For someone like me, that reality was tortuous.

But that was how much I loved him.

Sarkin made a sound in the back of his throat, those eyes flickering between mine. He frowned, briefly, a slight pulling of his lips, and then he said quietly, “Then it’s a good thing that you never have to. Because I wouldn’t ever want that for you, my love.”

I grinned, my gaze going to his lips. I reached up, pressing my index finger to their full softness. Such soft lips for such an intense, intimidating male, I couldn’t help but ponder.

I went to my tiptoes, desperate for a taste of him. The kiss was hungry and raw. His fingers dug into me, and I pressed as close as I possibly could, like I was trying to climb inside him.

It was the same ache that had possessed us at Lishara’s temple, all those moons ago. Only now it wasn’t heartstone induced.

Lishara’s blessing had been a promise, I realized, a glimpse of our future come early.

I gasped when Sarkin pressed me up against the wall, caging me in. Against my belly, I felt his cock thicken with a surge.

I had just popped open a clasp of his riding armor—which I was getting quite good at—when he groaned, “Wait, aralye. The kana.”

I moaned. “You didn’t get it?”

“No,” he rasped, lowering his forehead to mine, even though his fingers began to dip into the waistband of my riding pants. He stroked my skin. Maddeningly. “Sina is still drying out the leaves. She said the next batch won’t be ready for two more days.”

Kana was a plant, I’d discovered, that grew in both Dakkar and Karak. A shared plant with a shared purpose. The deep green leaves of it were stripped and dried to be used in tea to prevent pregnancies. I’d used the last of it yesterday morning.

We both shared a desperate look.

“I can’t wait,” I pleaded. It was unlikely I would get pregnant at this part of my cycle. Not impossible, but not likely.

Sarkin’s gaze burned, his fingers flexing on my hips. There was a primal part of him that loved risking it. That part of him that ached to see me heavy with his child. He’d spoken of his fantasies, his deeply buried wants, and it was a fantasy we often played out in our lovemaking.

My words set him on fire, just as I’d known they would, and before I knew it, he had my pants pushed down, his fingers finding me wet and aching. He huffed out a sharp breath and flipped me around, pressing me down until my arms were braced on the wall and my back was flat, ass exposed to him.

There was one breathless moment of delay as he ripped through the laces of his pants…but then I cried out when he slammed into me with a swift thrust.

Then he didn’t stop. My teeth chattered together with every powerful pump of his hips. I rocked back into him, biting my forearm to keep from screaming.

His hand landed on my ass hard. “Let me hear you. Don’t ever hide that from me, Klara.”

I moaned but removed my teeth from my flesh. On his next sublime thrust, I let him hear just what he did to me, and I didn’t care who heard, even though we were expecting guests any moment.

Our lovemaking was quick and desperate and exquisite. He knew the angle that made little pinpricks of light burst in my vision, and all too soon, I was tightening around him, crying out my pleasure as the orgasm ripped through me. My legs shook with it, but he kept me steady, always my anchor, keeping me rooted.

“So fucking perfect, my love,” I heard him groan. “Oh, I can feel you. Gods, you’re going to make me⁠—”

His words cut off with a hitch of his breath. Then his thrusts became erratic, chasing his pleasure down, and I nearly whimpered in my triumph when I felt the hot lashes of his come spill inside me.

In the aftermath, once we’d cleaned up, my legs continued to shake. I heard Sarkin’s low, deep chuckle. I felt it reverberate up my spine, and he tugged me to the plush chair by the unlit hearth, close to my books, pulling me into his lap, my legs dangling off the side.

My body was still tingling and I was still catching my breath. He pressed a sweet kiss to my cheekbone, stroking his fingers through my hair. I smiled, snuggling closer.

“How long do we have?” I asked, trying not to grow too sleepy in the aftermath of our lovemaking.

Sarkin grunted. “They can wait for us. Let me keep you here a while. We’ve both been so busy.”

“I know,” I said, placing my hand on his chest. I looked up at him, my eyes tracing the sharp lines and hard curves of his chest-twistingly handsome face. “While I’m looking forward to tonight’s festivities, I’m looking forward even more to having you all to myself for a little while.”

“I’ll be all yours,” Sarkin promised. “No more trips to Elysom or to Grym. I’m staying right here until we leave for the Arsadia.”

I smiled, content with his answer.

“And maybe when we return from the Arsadia after this next rider season,” he continued, brushing his thumb over my lips, “there won’t be a need to take kana tea anymore.”

A pool of warmth and affection spread like ink in my belly, filling all my empty places until it felt like I was bursting.

“That’s what you want?” I asked. “Truly?”

Sarkin inclined his head. “That’s exactly what I want, aralye.”

My grin was so wide that it hurt my cheeks. “Then no more kana when we return to Sarroth.”

The reaction my words wrung from him was unmistakable. His body went tight with it, and then he was growling, tugging me even further into him. I laughed as my arms wound around his neck, as his kiss consumed me.

We’d decided to wait for our first child—to get settled in Sarroth, with me as their new queen. Lygath still needed training, and dragon riding would be a near impossibility if I was pregnant. With our bond so new, we thought it best to wait. Not only that but with the Heartstone Accords now in place, Sarroth and Grym would be accepting their first new residents within the coming months. There was still much to be done.