A Tale of Two Dragons

Addolgar didn’t understand. Ghleanna was a great soldier, but when she lost her temper . . . well, he just knew his sister, and Ailean knew his daughter. So he didn’t understand why his father would stop him from protecting Braith—until he saw Braith protecting herself.

It wasn’t Braith’s skills that stopped him in his tracks but her strength, her power.

Ghleanna, a true battle-hardened soldier, didn’t bother to play by the dragon rules of fighting etiquette. Instead, she just swung her fist—and Braith caught it. Easily. Shocking even Ghleanna, who couldn’t pull her hand away. After a moment of silence and intense glaring, Braith yanked Ghleanna forward at the same time she swung her free fist. Her knuckles slammed into Ghleanna’s face, blood splattered, and after Braith released Ghleanna’s hand, Addolgar’s sister crashed to the ground. She was out cold, her nose broken from the looks of it.

Unfortunately, the other Cadwaladrs that were lurking nearby, most likely using the courtyard to sleep off last night’s drink, were now awake and moving forward. As one, as they’d been trained to move since hatching, they surrounded Braith. One of their own had been harmed. No matter the situation, Cadwaladrs always protected their own, whether it was from humans or other dragons or bloody centaurs. They prided themselves on their loyalty to blood and kin.

And Braith was neither.

Braith slowly looked over those surrounding her, then cracked her neck. It must have been the sound of those bones grinding that panicked one of his younger cousins. She moved first, coming at Braith quick and hard, but she barely got within three feet of her before Braith’s forearm hit her with such force, she sent the young She-dragon flying back and through the wall of one of the courtyard buildings. That’s when the others moved, Addolgar’s kin descending on Braith like the battle dogs the royals called them.

But, wearing only his shirt and with no weapons, Braith stood her ground as he’d never seen anyone stand their ground before. She wasn’t graceful. She wasn’t a proper soldier. No. Braith of the Darkness was simply brutal . . . vicious . . . like a powerful pit dog. There wasn’t one part of her body she wasn’t willing to risk in order to harm her opponent. Yet her innate strength seemed to protect her, and she used that strength without pity, without regret.

“Gods,” Addolgar breathed.

“I know.” Ailean glanced behind him before softly admitting, “Just like her mum, that one. I knew her mum long ago. Before she met Emyr.”

“Is there anyone you hadn’t f**ked before you mated with Mum?”

“One or two,” his father teased. “Of course, those were girls that,” he felt the need to add, “really didn’t like males in the first place.”

Addolgar rolled his eyes, unwilling to discuss his father’s past conquests further, which was when he noticed that Braith still stood—while the rest of his family did not.

He glanced at his father. “It was like watching one big dog massacre a gang of smaller, weaker dogs.”

“Like I said, she’s truly her mum’s offspring. That female had massive arms and a thick neck. But a lovely long tail,” he added with a sigh.

“I don’t know how Mum tolerates you.”

“She knows that my heart and soul belong only to her. But me past is me own.”

Braith looked back at Addolgar, sneering at him, one side of her top lip rising a bit to illustrate her true disgust. Then she stepped over his kin and headed off.

But as Braith walked, she didn’t bother to acknowledge the extremely old She-dragon walking toward her in human form, a long, hooded robe covering her from head to booted feet. She moved slowly, leaning heavily on a long walking stick.

Braith had just passed her when the She-dragon’s free hand came up and her fingers curled into a fist.

Braith stopped, her own hands reaching for her throat, and began to gasp. Her fingers pawed at what was not there, her body struggling against what no one could see.

The old She-dragon kept walking forward, her hand still in a fist, and as she moved, Braith was dragged along with her. She still struggled, still tried to free herself from the invisible grip, but it was useless.

Addolgar tried to go to help her, but his father’s grip tightened, and now with no humor in his usually mirth-filled face, Ailean the Wicked gave a quick shake of his head. “Not this time, boy. This you don’t do. This you don’t ever do.”

Ailean looked over his shoulder and called out, “Shalin. We need you. Now.”

By the time Addolgar’s mother reached Ailean, the old She-dragon stood in front of the castle stairs and Braith’s human face was beginning to turn blue.

“The shame,” a voice said from deep inside that hooded robe. “The shame of seein’ me own kin getting bounced around like toys by this bit of a lizard.”

Brigida the Foul, a more than nine-hundred-year-old Cadwaladr Elder, glared up the stairs at Ailean. Her hood finally fell back, revealing a human face that had been through much over the years and long, white hair. Not the white hair of age—Brigida had been blessed by the gods with that mane of hair since hatching. She was one of the rare White Dragonwitches and feared—for good reason—throughout the Southlands and beyond.

Everyone, even the Cadwaladrs, kept waiting for her to die . . . but she simply wouldn’t. She wouldn’t!

“Hello, Great-Aunt Brigida,” Shalin cheerfully greeted. “What a surprise to see you here. It’s been much too long.”