The Last Silver

Sleep was never a simple proposition for Dinraal.

Whenever he closed his eyes, memories that were not his own waited for him.

They had come from his mother’s essence—the final remnants of her life and power, passed into him before she died.

Through those memories, Dinraal had witnessed the final battle that brought the conflict between the dragonkin of Draecon and humanity’s invading forces to its bloody conclusion.

And the visions had left him with more questions than answers.

The prevailing image of his father was that of a peerless warrior.

Emperor Bahamut had possessed a myriad of exceptionally powerful skills and abilities. His reputation alone had been enough to make enemies reconsider their plans.

So why had he been defeated so easily?

Why had he never spoken a single word in defiance as the Chancellor described what he intended to do to the Empress—and to the dragonkin as a species?

Dinraal lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

My father’s temper was legendary.

His brow furrowed.

And the ability that made our royal family nearly untouchable was well documented.

That ability was known as Wordsmithing.

It allowed its wielder to draw upon the true and hidden power contained within words spoken in any language.

Oaths could become something greater than mere promises, opening a conduit between the speaker and the divine plane of existence.

For those who possessed the Right of Rule—acknowledged by the Mithril Gaunt—such oaths could become instruments capable of altering reality itself.

They could defy fate.

They could accomplish miracles.

And that was only one aspect of Wordsmithing.

Its users could also attach epithets to objects, equipment, and even people, provided the speaker’s will was stronger than that of the intended target.

Those epithets could empower.

They could weaken.

Or they could grant entirely new characteristics to whatever bore them.

Dinraal exhaled slowly.

That was only one facet of Father’s prodigious might.

The more he considered it, the less sense his father’s death made.

Wordsmithing alone should have rendered the battle a foregone conclusion, even without any of his other absurdly powerful abilities.

Yet his father had fought with a standard-issue Draec soldier’s sword.

Not the Sword of Twilight—the weapon that had helped forge his fearsome reputation.

Why?

Dinraal’s jaw tightened.

It was as though he had already accepted defeat.

As though he had simply allowed the Chancellor to sever his head from his neck.

The thought made his stomach turn.

And the worst part was that there was no one left who could give him answers.

Before the final battle, Bahamut had sent The Empress away with a dragonkin Dinraal did not recognize.

It had been a desperate attempt to save her from the Chancellor’s grasp.

By that point, the Chancellor’s perverse tastes had become well known.

The attempt had failed.

Bahamut had remained behind with only a small contingent of Imperial Guardsmen.

Even then, the guards had stayed only because they refused his order to flee.

For centuries, they had served as the Emperor’s most fervent protectors. When Bahamut commanded them to save their own lives, they refused.

They had chosen to die beside their Emperor.

Dinraal closed his eyes.

I refuse to believe Father simply gave up.

His hands curled into fists.

I know he did everything he could to save Mother.

And our people.

That was the conclusion Dinraal chose to believe. For now.

A sharp buzzing interrupted his thoughts.

His HUD alarm.

Dinraal opened his eyes. It was time.

The kidnapping of the princess was finally upon him.

He rose from his resting place and stretched, then found a flat surface nearby.

If he was about to enter hostile territory, he intended to make certain his equipment was ready.

Dinraal laid out his weapons.

A Barrett .50 caliber rifle.

Twin Glock 18s.

And dual custom .410 Smith & Wesson Governors.

His hands moved with practiced precision.

Even among the dragonkin—widely regarded as the most physically impressive species in the galaxy—Dinraal possessed exceptional dexterity.

In little more than three minutes, he had dismantled, cleaned, and reassembled each weapon.

He checked every magazine. Fully loaded.

Then he inspected his gauntlets. The tasers were fully charged.

Satisfied, Dinraal activated his cloaking gear.

The faint distortion around his outline vanished completely.

Then he began moving toward his target.

Despite himself, his thoughts drifted toward Isolde.

I haven’t seen her since that day at the park.

They had both been young then.

Yet even at that age, the first signs of her blossoming beauty had already begun to reveal themselves.

Dinraal immediately felt heat creep toward the tips of his ears.

Fortunately, he was alone.

If any member of his cohort had been present, they would have possessed enough ammunition to tease him for the next century.

Dinraal had made a conscious effort to avoid photographs and videos of Isolde over the years.

He feared what those images might awaken.

He had spent years burying his feelings beneath layers of anger and resentment, eventually convincing himself that Isolde belonged to the same sinister bloodline as her father.

There was also the uncomfortable matter of their relationship.

At least in the eyes of the common populace, they were connected by blood.

Dinraal had been adopted by the Chancellor, though the ruler of humanity had told the masses that he was Dinraal’s biological father. The Chancellor had been unwilling to admit that the dragonkin had outmaneuvered him.

Dinraal himself had not known the truth until after he had been liberated by the loyalists.

Among the dragonkin, marriages between family members had long been accepted as a means of preserving bloodlines. The taboo that existed in much of human culture had largely faded after the population plummeted and the Divine Aspect reshaped society.

Still, Dinraal had always tried to think of Isolde as cute rather than attractive.

It was safer that way.

It kept his thoughts from wandering anywhere inappropriate.

Unfortunately, that strategy was about to face a severe test.

The Isolde he remembered was gone.

The woman he was about to see was a fully grown royal succubus.

Her beauty was already said to rival that of her mother, one of the most breathtaking women in the galaxy.

Royal succubi did not stop developing until they reached the age of twenty-one.

And it was considered almost inevitable that Isolde would one day surpass her mother as the most beautiful woman in the galaxy.

Even after all these years apart, Dinraal could still feel that unwanted attraction lurking somewhere beneath the surface.

Seeing photographs of her in newspapers—and knowing their supposed relation—had not been enough to extinguish it.

Dinraal grimaced.

Oh, well.

Better to think about something else.

He focused on the mission.

Then, cloaked from sight, Dinraal continued toward the teleportation pad.

He intended to get ahead of Isolde and her attendants.

After all, he had a princess to kidnap.