The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

His head was elongated and refined, more like a serpent’s than a brutish lizard’s. His eyes, now fully transformed, burned with intelligence and something that looked disturbingly like madness. His mouth, when he opened it, revealed teeth that were wickedly sharp and arranged in a pattern built for tearing meat.

But what made him most terrifying was not any single feature.

It was the raw presence of him.

The sheer power that radiated from his body. The sense of danger and age and primal fury that seemed to emanate from every scale and every movement.

He was a god of winter and storm, given physical form.

He was a creature of legend made manifest.

He was a dragon.

And for the moment, he was completely out of control.

***

Kaelen’s dragon form keened...a high, sharp cry that was something between anguish and ecstasy, and looked around the training ground with eyes that were only partially focused.

There was a moment of terrible silence.

Then the dragon acted on pure instinct.

His tail whipped around with the force of a battering ram, and the training dummies that had been positioned near him were reduced to splinters. Wood exploded outward, pieces of timber flying like deadly missiles. One fragment embedded itself in the stone wall. Another hit a warrior in the shoulder, and the man went down with a shout of pain.

The dragon didn’t notice.

He didn’t care.

He was lost in the sensation of his own power, in the overwhelming surge of magic and instinct and raw being that came with the transformation. Everything around him seemed suddenly hostile, suddenly wrong, and his dragon instincts screamed at him to destroy, to dominate, to claim this space as his own.

His wings spread to their full extent, and he beat them once.

Just once.

But the force of that single beat created a wind that knocked three warriors off their feet. Dust and debris exploded upward from the ground, creating a cloud that obscured the dragon’s body.

When the dust cleared, he was moving.

His claws scraped against the packed earth as he charged across the training ground, his tail whipping side to side, destroying everything in his path. The sand-filled canvas bags that warriors used for striking practice were torn apart as if they were paper, their contents scattering like entrails across the ground.

Captain Rhen had pressed himself against the stone wall, his eyes wide with shock and fear. He’d known, intellectually, that the kings were dragons. He’d trained them. He’d seen hints of their power. But knowing something and seeing it were entirely different things.

Kaelen’s dragon form rounded on him, and Rhen braced himself for death.

But at that moment, a new roar split the morning air.

***

Draeven was in his private office, reviewing reports from his council.

The work was tedious, trade disputes between noble houses, concerns about grain stores for the winter, bureaucratic matters that required his royal seal and his royal attention. He hated this kind of work. Give him a sword and an enemy to fight, and he was content. Give him ledgers and petitions, and he wanted to burn the world to cinders.

He stood at the window, looking out at the palace grounds, trying to force himself to focus on the mind-numbing details of administration, when it happened.

A surge of magical energy.

It hit him like a physical blow, a wave of disturbance in the magical currents that flowed through the kingdom. It was wrong in every possible way. It was chaotic and wild and utterly uncontrolled.

And it was familiar.

Draeven’s head snapped toward the source of the disturbance, and his entire body went rigid. His golden eyes began to burn brighter, his hands clenching into fists so tight his nails cut crescents into his palms.

Kaelen, he realized immediately. He’s transforming. He’s losing control.

The surge of magical energy was so powerful that the windows of his office rattled. Papers on his desk scattered. A candelabra fell over, its candles extinguishing as it clattered to the floor.

Draeven stood for approximately one second, giving himself just enough time to register what was happening, and then he moved.

”Guard!” he shouted, even as he was reaching for his formal coat and tearing it off.

A guard appeared in the doorway, his hand immediately moving to his sword.

”Your Majesty?”

”The south training grounds,” Draeven said, his voice carrying an edge of command that cut through all other considerations. ”Now!”

He didn’t wait for acknowledgment.

He was already moving toward the door, and as he moved, his body began to respond to the magical surge. His skin began to shimmer. His eyes burned brighter. The transformation was beginning, slow and controlled, unlike Kaelen’s wild shift, but inexorable.

Draeven ran through the corridors of the palace.

Servants saw him coming and scattered out of his way. Guards fell into step behind him, sensing urgency without understanding its source. His footsteps echoed on stone floors like thunder, and the air around him seemed to heat with each passing second.

By the time he reached the main corridors leading to the training grounds, his partial transformation was visible. Veins of golden light traced across his skin. His eyes burned like twin furnaces. He moved with inhuman speed, covering ground that should have taken minutes in mere seconds.

***

Thorne was in the archives when he felt it.

He’d been there for hours, had been there for days, if he was being honest with himself. Spending more time among the ancient texts and old knowledge than he did sleeping or eating. The books called to him, promising answers, promising understanding of what was happening to him and his brothers.

He felt the surge of magical disturbance like a knife through his heart.

His entire body went rigid. The book he’d been reading fell from his hands and clattered to the stone floor of the archive. His eyes, which had been focused on the yellowed pages....snapped upward, his gaze turning inward, sensing through the magical currents of the kingdom.

No, he thought. Not now. Not like this.