The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Draeven stood slowly and walked to where his youngest brother was standing by the window.

For a long moment, they both simply stood there, looking out at the palace grounds below, watching the evening light begin to fade as night approached.

Finally, Draeven spoke. ”Because I know that if we all descend on her with this level of intensity,” Draeven said slowly, carefully choosing each word, ”if we all come at her with this same hunger, this same need, this same obsession that you’re feeling right now, we won’t inspire her to accept us. We’ll inspire her to fear us.”

He paused, letting those words settle into the air between them.

”She’s just beginning to understand what she is,” Draeven continued. ”She’s just beginning to comprehend her own power. If we corner her before she’s ready, if we come at her with all three of our combined hunger and possession and territorial demands, we’ll overwhelm her. We’ll scare her away. And losing her is not an option, Kaelen. Losing her is not something I can survive.”

The words hung in the air between them, and Kaelen could hear the truth in them, could feel the weight of Draeven’s own hunger beneath the calm exterior.

Kaelen’s shoulders sagged slightly, the reality of the situation crashing down on him.

”Fuck,” he said, his voice raw. ”I want to go to her so bad. I want to be with her right now. I want to....”

He didn’t finish because the need was too great, too intense and too all-consuming.

Draeven placed a hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder, a gesture of understanding and sympathy.

”I know,” he said, his voice carrying genuine compassion. ”But give Thorne the time to be with her, brother. He needs it. Even if he doesn’t show it often, he needs to have time with her before he loses it like you did.”

Kaelen shook his head and turned back to the window, his hands gripping the stone sill so hard his knuckles turned white.

His entire body was vibrating with frustration and hunger and the desperate need to move, to act, to go to her.

But he remained where he was, standing at the window, watching the darkness fall over the palace, his pale eyes burning with the fury and possession of GLACIUS demanding action that Kaelen’s human mind refused to allow.

Beside him, Draeven remained, a silent presence of understanding and control, his own golden eyes reflecting the same hunger, the same need, the same desperate desire to be with the woman who had somehow become essential to all three of them in the span of few weeks.

***

*MORGANA’S CHAMBER*

The fever was getting worse.

Rowan could feel it in the way Morgana’s skin burned beneath her touch, in the way her friend’s breathing had become slightly labored, in the way her body seemed to be fighting something unseen and terrible. She continued her work with meticulous care, wringing out the cloths in the cool water and placing them on Morgana’s forehead, her cheeks, her neck....anywhere she could reach to try to ease the terrible heat that seemed to be radiating from the very center of her friend’s being.

Morgana drifted in and out of consciousness.

Sometimes she murmured words that made no sense....fragments of thoughts, pieces of dreams that belonged to the fevered landscape of her mind. ”Atheris...” she said once, her voice so quiet Rowan almost missed it. ”Ancient... so ancient... protecting...” Another time: ”Mother... I miss her... burning up inside...”

The fever dreams were pulling her toward places Rowan couldn’t follow.

Rowan could only watch, could only try desperately to cool her friend’s burning body and pray that morning would bring relief.

Morgana’s dark hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her skin was flushed an alarming shade of crimson. Her breathing was fast, shallow, as if her body was struggling to find enough oxygen in the air around her. Small sounds escaped her....whimpers, gasps, the sounds of someone caught between worlds, unable to find solid ground in either.

Rowan wrung out another cloth, and replaced the one on Morgana’s forehead. She moved to her friend’s hands and began to gently wipe them, trying to cool her from the outside while the fever raged from within.

”You’re going to be okay,” Rowan whispered, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it. ”You’re going to be okay, Morgana. Just hold on. Just stay with me.”

Morgana murmured something unintelligible and shifted on the bed, her body seeking comfort that Rowan’s care, devoted as it was, couldn’t quite provide.

The room itself seemed charged with something unseen....a presence that hovered just at the edge of perception, something that made the air feel thick and heavy. Rowan had noticed it earlier but had dismissed it as the weight of illness and worry. Now, watching her friend burn with fever, watching the sweat pour from her skin, watching her struggle against some internal battle, Rowan began to understand that whatever was happening to Morgana was far more complicated than a simple sickness.

She was about to place another cool cloth on Morgana’s wrist when the door opened.

Not knocked. Not announced. Simply opened, as if the person entering had no need for such formalities.

Rowan’s head snapped up.

Thorne stood in the doorway like something descended from shadow itself.

His dark eyes were fixed on Morgana with an intensity that was almost physical in its weight.

His hair slightly disheveled as if he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. But there was nothing simple about his presence. There was nothing simple about the way the air seemed to shift and darken when he entered a room.

Rowan’s entire body went rigid.

She immediately stood, her instincts recognizing what her mind was confirming....this was the Middle King, and he had come for Morgana.

”My king,” Rowan said formally, performing the ritual obeisance that protocol demanded. She lowered herself in a careful curtsy, her head bowing. ”Your Majesty.”