Prince Dante Dragona, eldest living son of King Demitri, had finally come of age.

As he paced restlessly through the Great Hall of Warlochia, surveying the motley prisoners before him, he sought to empty his mind, provoke his primordial hunger, and give full unadulterated reign to his dragon for the first time in his long, measured life.

All of the prisoners were sedated.

Thomas the squire had seen to that.

But it wouldn’t make a difference in the end—survival was one hell of an instinct.

The murderers and rapists before him would scream and fight and go mad with terror. They would claw at Dante’s eyes, lunge for his throat, kick, bite, and punch in a desperate effort to buy more time…to live just one more day.

And it would all be to no avail.

His dragon would emerge supreme.

In fact, every terrified act of defiance, every painful groan and frenzied curse would only incite his beast. He had given the serpent permission to dominate, destroy, and break free.

Running his hand through his thick, silken hair, he turned to face a middle-aged Warlochian who was kneeling on the floor, his eyes cast downward. Studying the male’s terrified features, Dante reminded himself of the warlock’s unforgivable crimes: the bodies of three young witches, innocent girls still in their teens, slaughtered for the deviant’s amusement, then buried like so much garbage at the bottom of the warlock’s well.

Dante’s fangs elongated.

His claws sharpened.

And his tongue rolled over a thick wisp of smoke, reveling in the carnivorous flavor.

“My lord,” the cretin muttered, trying to shuffle backward. “My lord, please—I couldn’t help myself.”

Dante drew in a deep, ragged breath and snarled. He stepped out of his boots, unfastened the clasps on his tunic, and untucked his shirt from his trousers.

Knees knocking together, the warlock still clenched his hands into fists—it was inevitable—a primal reaction to feeling so threatened.

Dante’s dragon purred, and a gnawing hunger, like lava searing his belly, rose in Dante’s gut. The tips of his fangs literally pulsed as he stalked toward the trembling prisoner. “Run,” he growled.

The male’s head shot up, his eyes grew wide as saucers, and he instinctively scrambled to his feet.

The motion triggered something ancient—something primal, something wild, and something predatory—in Dante’s dragon, and the moment the prisoner ran, Dante lunged.

One feral bite. One quick swipe. And the warlock’s head tumbled from his body.

“Shit!” Dante cursed.

He hadn’t fed before he’d killed him.

He hadn’t fed while he killed him…

No matter.

He would get it right next time.

As a collective chorus of gasps and groans and plaintive curses filled the Great Hall, Prince Dante Dragona gestured toward the chamber’s doors. “Any male in this room who can traverse that threshold will earn his pardon and gain his freedom.”

Utter chaos erupted as the sedated prisoners came swiftly awake and scrambled for the door of the Great Hall. They elbowed and trampled their fellow prisoners, shoving each other toward Dante.

The dragon pounced.

Light, shadow, and sound.

Speed, terror, and sweat.

Flesh rending, blood flowing, bones crackling like dry, rotted wood.

Heat, blood, and essence flowed down Dante’s throat, and a hunger so feral it burned like molten obsidian rose to an inferno in his gut.

Teeth, claws, wings punching out.

His tail bringing fresh meat closer.

Seconds.

Minutes.

Or hours?

And the gray stone floor of the Hall of Warlochia was a gruesome, crimson wasteland.

Still, Prince Dante fed.

And fed…

And fed.

Until there was nothing left to swallow. Nothing left to tear out. Nothing left to imbibe.

Prince Dante Dragona groaned from the pain in his abdomen, the fire that still scorched his belly, the poison that razed his veins. He stared at the rampant carnage before him and arched his back to stretch. His tongue, now forked, snaked out of his mouth and swirled along his protruding canines. His head lolled back, and he began to writhe, like an eager lover welcoming a carnal mount.

The bones in his legs snapped first, even as his skin began to coat with scales, and then one by one, the vertebrae in his neck, his back, and his tailbone began to distend—to multiply, thicken, and burst—transforming into something inhuman.

A savage, unholy pop!

Agony assailing his skull.

And two bony horns emerged from his forehead, causing his eyes to roll back in his head.

Yet and still, Prince Dante endured it all.

As the serpent inside him struggled to get out, he undulated on the floor, luxuriated in the agony of annihilation, and embraced the primordial metamorphosis.

In fact, he even smiled…

The sapphire dragon was strong.

He had come this far in a matter of hours, not days, though the exact number was indeterminable.

Based on this transformation, there could be no doubt: Dante Dragona could protect the Realm. From this day forward, at least for a week, he could transmute into his dragon at will, and as the sapphire beast, he would be unstoppable.

Despite the fact that King Demitri’s dragon was older, more seasoned, and likely more vicious, Dante would be stronger than his formidable father.

“Rise, my beloved dragon…rise.”

* * *

King Demitri placed his purple-and-gold brocade robe aside, lest it get dirty, and shook his head in regret.

Well, not exactly regret, but something more like pity…

However vile, it had to be done.

Male and female alike, he had called his servants into the throne room: two cooks, three maids, and the head laundress; a seamstress, four spinsters, and the weaver; the chaplain, several gardeners, and a half-dozen stable-hands.

It was a bit late for the annual spring cleaning, but better late than never.

Every year, around April, May, or June, King Demitri had the habit of firing half his staff and replacing them with fresh, new faces. The practice controlled the gossips; kept those who remained loyal and on their toes; and assuaged his ever-present paranoia: If anyone was plotting to do him in, well, they and their plots were dismissed.

While this motley crew of servants had been chosen at random, and by the looks on their stricken faces, they were feigning remorse, they shouldn’t be surprised. He did this every spring.

Well, not exactly this…

These particular servants would continue to serve the Realm in a far greater, more important capacity.

The nightmare would not let the king go.

Night after incessant night, he dreamed of Prince Damian and Prince Dario, and the ill-fated dragons’ kiss. He dreamed about the warlocks and shades destroying his middle son. He dreamed of Prince Damian’s heart, hanging from an octagonal turret.

He continued to dream of treachery.

And as if that weren’t enough, Willow, the witch, was no help.

Every time he questioned the seer about the troubling dreams—about his elusive misgivings—she made up some paltry, occultist nonsense. The late Wavani’s raven-haired niece was lying, but King Demitri could not place his finger on it.

And that blasted dragon’s moon, it had gone from casting two eerie shadows to illuminating three on a starless night, then shrouding the Realm in mystical darkness. Furthermore, nearly thirty-years earlier, King Demitri had commissioned the construction of several small armed garrisons in Forest Dragon, posts that would double as tollways between one province and the next, in order to address the illegal slave trade. He had sought to provide protection for the women and children being sought by the soul-hungry shades. And just this evening, a rider from one of the garrisons, about twenty miles north of the Warlochian Trail where it met the road through Forest Dragon, arrived at the castle to report a strange event: plumes of black smoke rising in the air; flashes of red-hot fire glowing in the distance; and what sounded like the snarls and growls of beasts, echoing in the forest.

What the hell!

Between the Lycanian shifters, the wicked warlocks, and the devious shades, anything could have explained the savage commotion. Just the same, King Demitri was on edge.

There were one too many omens for his liking.

And considering that Asher’s birthday gala was only three days away, King Demitri had made a decision: He would call his primordial dragon to the fore, allow the beast to overtake him, and bank the fire for seven days…just in case. And thus, without the time to gather the required prisoners for the necessary sacrificial slaughter, he had called upon his servants instead. Flesh, blood, and bone—innocent or guilty—it was all the same to his dragon.

A scullery maid with vivid green eyes batted her lashes and curtsied in one last, pitiful attempt to save her employment.

Poor, unsuspecting lass…

If she only knew.

She was about to lose far more than some hard-earned wages.

The wench would never know what hit her.