“Is it done?” Arrik asked quietly. He never raised his voice at anyone. He’d learned long ago that keeping his voice soft and low inspired more fear than any yelling ever did. Plus, he didn’t want to be like his father.
“It is, my lord,” Shane, his second in command answered. He was a tall burly man with more scars than Arrik and that was saying something. “The first ships have already made it into position.”
“And the scouts?” he replied, eyeing the blasted storm. It would help give them cover but it was also a problem. It was perilous in of itself traveling through the Dragon Isles, let alone with a squall that threatened to dash them against the rocks or sink their ships with the sharp coral below.
“They’ve been taken care of,” Shane confirmed, tossing his long black braid over his shoulder. “No one will be sounding the alarm.”
Grim satisfaction filled Arrik. King Oswin had made a grave mistake crossing the King of Verlanti. The two kingdoms had held a tentative peace until the ruler of the isles decided not to pay his dues. He got too comfortable in his own strength, thinking that he could defy the elves. That was where he was wrong. No one defied the elf king and survived. It was a death sentence.
“And the palace?”
Shane grunted. “Your men are in the tunnels, waiting for the signal.”
“Good.” If all went to plan, it would be a relatively bloodless invasion. Arrik grimaced and brushed a piece of his stark silver hair from his face. That’s if the people were willing. The inhabitants of the Dragon Isles were known to be barbarians. In fact, they even trained their women in combat. The very notion disgusted him and yet…it thrilled a very small part of him. A woman with fire was appealing indeed. “The royal family?”
“To be exterminated except for the heirs.”
“Heir,” he corrected. The islanders were secretive about the heir. The princess was to be married on this day. It was fortuitous for him. Arrik would have hated to leave her a widow. It was better for her if she wasn’t attached to any man. His father would want her, either as his concubine or for other political intrigues.
Their ship groaned as the bottom scraped over some coral. He spotted several fins slice through the dark water. It was as if the beasts could sense the battle to come. Maybe it was a sign that there would be blood.
It didn’t matter to Arrik either way. He was just a tool in his father’s scheme to rule the isles. Everyone wanted them for their dragons, the diamonds, and control over the trade route. They held too much power. The King of Verlanti was a power-hungry monster.
And Arrik…well he was his father’s son.
War was in his blood.
4
Wren
A nervous walk down the aisle and a few whispered words, and that was it. After all the fuss, it was shocking how quickly the ceremony went by. Technically, the words were all a formality. They would only truly be sealed in marriage once their markings were complete and when they’d shared their first kiss as mates.
Wren inhaled deeply, Rowen’s lemony scent filling her lungs. She glanced at the storm raging outside the windows behind the dais before looking up at her almost-husband. Rowen grinned at her as the holy woman gestured for them to face the crowd. Almost done.
She squeezed his fingers and smiled as he helped her face their friends and family, gently nudging aside the train of her dress. Her father stood from the first row; his deep eyes were glassy as he approached the dais. Wren’s own eyes filled as the king took her left hand, and both men helped her to sit on one of the marking chairs.
She sucked in a breath as Rowen released her and moved to his own chair across from her. The king’s hand settled on her shoulder as the holy woman set a table between Wren and her husband-to-be. Dara, the marking artist, rose to her feet and shuffled to the dais, a leather bag tucked under her arm. Bjorn Rowen’s father, trailed behind her and took his place behind Rowen as Dara set her bag on the table and unfurled the tools and ink.
Wren eyed the wicked-looking needles and tried to regulate her breathing. She’d received two markings in her life, and, while they weren’t horribly painful, she’d never been fond of needles.
“Don’t pass out on us, lass,” Bjorn said, a twinkle in his tawny eyes. He shook his head, and the movement emphasized how his black hair was streaked with white. Even at his age, he was a striking man. Not only that, but he was also still young at heart.
“Not planning on it,” she murmured. Hopefully.
“You are looking a bit green,” Rowen teased, his teeth bright against his swarthy face.
The crowd snickered.
“Shut up,” she muttered.
“That’s right, missy,” Dara crooned. “Let him have it. No sense in letting him think he’s getting a docile bride.”
The king chuckled, giving Wren’s shoulder a pat. “If he wanted a docile woman, Rowen would have run screaming for the seas already.”
“Oh hush,” she chastised, squirming just a bit in her seat. “Let’s get this over with.”
She laid her left arm across the table, wrist up. Dara’s warm reedy fingers curled around Wren’s hand, holding her still as the old woman lifted the needle. Wren locked eyes with Rowen. This was it—the final sealing act of the ceremony.
No longer would she belong to one house, but two.
Not two souls, but one intertwined forevermore.
Her heart thundered with excitement.
Almost done.
From the corner of her eye, she watched as Dara leaned in, and then she couldn’t help closing her eyes.
Thunder boomed, shaking the building.
Wren’s eyes popped open. What the bloody hell?
Dara hesitated, and Wren looked around. Dust from the rafters fell from above, and, for a moment, everyone was still.
Bjorn seemed to shake it off first, his bushy brows furrowed. “What kind of storm—” But he broke off as another boom rattled the keep.
Wren’s stomach dropped.
That wasn’t thunder, but an explosion.
Her eyes widened as she stared at Rowen.
An attack.
Another bang went off, the vibrations rattling her teeth in her skull. The tension broke, and everyone went wild.
“Everyone, out!” her father bellowed over the screams of frightened children. “Stay away from the windows and move into the cellar, now!”
Numbness kept Wren rooted to her seat even as Rowen shot up from his own, his normally jovial face set in harsh lines of worry and anger. A high whistle filled the air as he reached for her, making to grab for her hand but not quite reaching it as the next explosion went off.
The blast tossed her from her chair. Wren tumbled to the ground. Hard. Her palms stung as she tried to sit up, her ears ringing.
“Wren!” Rowen called out over the sudden cacophony of panicked screaming. Rubble began to fall from the ceiling. The wooden rafters groaned and swayed ominously. “Run!”
Horror filled her as one of her friends was crushed in his flight from the chapel. She grabbed the hem of her dress as she staggered to her feet, the floor rolling beneath her. Her eyes watered from the stench of smoke and debris in the air. Where was her family? Wren searched the chaos, not seeing any signs of them.
Move, Wren, or you’ll die.
She lurched toward the nearest doorway as the telltale whistle filled her ears.
Get to safety. Get armed. Then fight.
One, two, three steps…
An invisible force slammed into her, and she catapulted into the stone wall. Wren collapsed, darkness descending.
Pain, blood, and ash.
All three things clued her in that something wasn’t right.
Wren groaned as she turned her head to the side and spat blood. What had happened? She forced her eyes open and cried as pain spiked inside her head. Immediately, she closed her eyes again and attempted to breathe through the pain.
Just what was going on?
Think, Wren.
Jagged pieces of stone dug into her back, making it difficult for her to focus. The last thing she remembered was the ceremony. Her brows furrowed, and she lifted a shaking hand to her pounding temple. Hadn’t she just been married? The marking…
Opening her eyes, Wren lifted her left arm. A bare wrist.
Her memories flooded back. An attack. The explosions.