The Chosen: Dragon's Blood, #1

By Magdalena Markow

Drasan is a prince and sole heir to the throne of the kingdom of Sheardon.

Taking advantage of his title and position, he leads a carefree life ... but for a time.

One night he is ambushed and it is revealed to him the truth about who he really is.

It turns out that those he trusted lied to him all his life.

The young prince is forced to face a beautiful and ruthless witch who will not hesitate at anything to achieve her goal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Royal Hawaiian Press
• Release date: Jan 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201800512

Book preview

The Chosen

Dragon’s Blood

Book I

Magdalena Marków

All material contained herein is

Copyright © Magdalena Markow 2022 All rights reserved.

Originally published in Poland as Wybraniec, Smocza Krew

Translated and published in English with permission.

Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9853307-8-6

ePub ISBN: 979-8-2018005-1-2

Written by Magdalena Markow

Published by Royal Hawaiian Press

Cover art by Tyrone Roshantha

Translated by Wieslawa Mentzen

Publishing Assistance: Dorota Reszke

For more works by this author, please visit:

www.royalhawaiianpress.com

Version Number 1.00

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

Drasan wakes up, opening his eyes rapidly. It was not the first time that he had dreamed the same nightmare. He gently disengaged himself from the embrace of the girl sleeping at his side. He did not know how she caught up in his chambers. He vaguely remembered the birthday feast his foster mother had invited all unmarried girls to. Their fathers bragged about what great candidates they were for future spouses. Unfortunately for him - he was the only contender to the throne of Sheardon, which was why hundreds of better or worse born virgins were grateful to him at every turn. Some would do anything to be in his alcove. Others, on the other hand, dreamed of him being dragged to the altar and forced, in front of the priest, to confess his undying love. The problem was that Drasan had no intention of getting married. Unfortunately, his mother, Vaya, pressed him more and more. When he turned twenty-one, he began to feel it more and more acutely. The more she insisted, the more he opposed her.

The prince sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the full moon outside the window. He could never sleep soundly on a night like this. He got up and reached for his clothes, trying to make as little noise as possible. Unfortunately, he was unable to do so quietly enough.

Where are you going? The jet-black hair beauty sat down on the bed, looking at him with evident reproach.

Drasan looked at her, still tying his shin guards. He managed to dress halfway through before the girl noticed him absent in the bed. He was just putting on the chain mail over his head when she decided to get up. She did it quite awkwardly, trying to cover what was not covered by the translucent petticoat.

Drasan? She stared at him with wide, pale green eyes.

She was even pretty, if you liked such frail ladies with pale skin.

I'm going out, he said, putting on a leather jacket. He wasn't going to explain himself to her.

After a while, he finally remembered who the woman standing half-naked in his bedroom was. Her name was Milenna Van Graven, and her father, Baron Hervard Van Graven, had only desire to marry at least one of his five daughters as best as possible. At the feast, of course, whole rivers of the best liquors that could be found in the royal cellars flowed. There was so much delicious food that the tables sagged beneath it, so most of the revelers quickly landed on the floor among dogs and debris everywhere. The only exception were the ladies who unsuccessfully tried to attract the attention of the heir to the throne with bold cleavages and elegant hairstyles. It so happened, however, that the young man had completely different plans that night.

He looked at the girl and sent her one of his most beautiful smiles, which he used to bestow on those that happened to be in his bed. He adjusted the sword belt so that it was just above the left shoulder.

Milenna Van Graven, thank you for the pleasant evening. He bowed theatrically, still grinning, and began to back away towards the door.

The girl stood petrified. Apparently, she hoped for more than one night in the prince's bedroom. But he ignored the silent reproach in her eyes, which would probably fill up with tears in a moment, then walked out into the corridor. As soon as he managed to close the door behind him, he heard a familiar, melodious voice from the dark corner:

Are you sneaking out at night again? Tall and thin Master Ashkan emerged from the shadows.

Drasan froze. His hand was still on the doorknob.

He looked like a burglar caught red-handed.

The corridor was narrow, with only one window overlooking the plunged city. Drasan turned so that he was face to face with his mentor.

I don't have to explain to you, Master, he replied, trying to speak with confidence, though his mouth was dry and he wasn't sure if it was the wine he had drunk at the feast or something else.

Of course not. The man stood in front of the window, his back to Drasan so that the moonlight fell directly on his handsome face, making it eerily pale. You are the heir to the throne and everyone in this castle must obey your orders. With one exception, he turned so quickly that Drasan couldn't even reach for his sword, when Ashkan was already wielding his and his finial touching the prince's chest, you are my best student, but I still surpass you in skill and self-discipline. Never forget that.

The youth pushed the blade back, looking at the Master defiantly.

I'm not a child anymore, he growled, feeling the heat in his fingers as always when he was overcome with anger.

Then stop acting like a spoiled brat, Ashkan said calmly, sheathing his sword. Villages are burning in the north, and you sneak out on night rides and make an ostentatious mockery of every danger. Just be careful that it doesn't mock you. With that, he walked away, blending into the darkness of the deserted corridor.

Drasan had difficulty calming his nerves. It wasn't the first time he had felt like a pigeon next to his master, and yet he was twenty-one years old. He could go out wherever he wanted and whenever he wanted to. The servants only waited for one nod, and yet he still felt this one-of-a-kind confusion whenever he had to face him. It was so strange that he had known him since he was a child.

He looked at the old mirror he had ordered to be carried out into the corridor to have more space in the room. As he expected, he saw a young man of medium height with straight, black shoulder-length hair, a long face with clearly defined cheekbones. Along the jawline he wore a fashionable beard that was neatly trimmed in recent times. Nothing special. The only exception was the eyes. Large, with a strange, rare olive-green color, framed with a curtain of thick, black eyelashes, which added charm to him and made no representative of the fair sex be able to resist his gaze. Daily practice of hand-to-hand combat and archery has sculpted his body so that it was only muscle, with no fat left. However, the main reason heir to the throne of Sheardon disregarded every danger was his arrogant character and unbridled lust for adventure.

Sneaking out on night escapades had been his specialty since he was thirteen, and Vaya gave him his first horse for his birthday. The gray stallion, Gwenog. The steed was killed in defense of fifteen-year-old Drasan, when the latter inadvertently challenged the leader of a local gang of thugs, who called himself a pompous Rat to a duel. The robber, of course, was not going to fight honestly. Only the fact that the treacherous arrow fired from hiding hit the horse instead of the young man saved his life at that time. Now the prince owned a beautiful stallion named Ernil, with black hair like a raven's wings, which was a gift to the queen from the elves living in the Michandrell valley.

Drasan was seventeen when Ernil entered the Sheardon stables. He was entrusted with taming a half-wild horse. With time, the prince managed to gain the young stallion's trust, and from then on, the horse was allowed to be ridden only by him. A lot of time has passed since then, but the young man would not have exchanged the black for any other, even if he came from the best studs of Antua or Earden.

Drasan knew all secret passages and knew that the easiest and fastest way to get to the stables was through the narrow corridor usually used by servants. It led to the kitchen and from there stairs led to the stables.

As he had suspected, Ernil, saddled, was waiting for him there, standing quietly in the booth and looking at his master with large, dark eyes. Drasan patted his friend's neck. There was also a long bow and a quiver of arrows in the corner of the stall, one of Master Ashkan's gifts. He grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder, as did the quiver. Then he grabbed the reins and was about to leave the stables when he heard a familiar voice behind him:

Are you going somewhere, Your Majesty?

It was Yarred, a royal guardsman who had recently been made captain.

Drasan smiled to himself. Since they had known each other almost since childhood, he knew exactly that he could expect a reprimand from a ten years older friend. Unlike the young prince, Yarred was not very pretty. His pallor was most noticeable, then his frail figure. He had an eternally disheveled thatch of straw-colored hair, a face dotted with red pimples, and an aquiline nose full of freckles. Big blue eyes like a child's and jaws covered with sparse, bristly stubble seemed to defy the seriousness of his age. However, this did not prevent him from being one of the best friends of the young heir to the throne.

The prince turned to him with a broad smile, which quickly faded at the sight of his friend's expression. He knew that look perfectly well.

Hello, Yarred, he greeted carefully. Congratulations on your promotion. I have heard that you have been appointed captain of the royal guard.

Spare me compliments, there was a moment of cheerful flashes in the eyes of the newly appointed captain, clearly indicating that he is proud of his new function. Finally, someone appreciated my merits. That's it, he added, tucking his chest out and ostentatiously brushing some invisible dust off his new red coat.

But you? He shook his head the way he always did when he tried unsuccessfully to get his friend mind off of something. Drasan you are sneaking out of the castle quietly again. This is not the time for your nighttime escapades. Lately you hear bad news from the north about the black knights. Apparently, they were seen not far from here, right on the border. It is fitting for me to accompany you, you know, just for greater safety.

The prince laughed heartily.

But in a fight, I'm better than you, he replied, struggling to gain seriousness. Besides, I just want to look around a bit and I promise to stay away from the border, he added after a moment.

Yarred was in no mood for jokes, and his face was clearly concerned.

This is not the time for bravado, Drasan, he said seriously

You're starting to grumble like Master Ashkan, the young man said irritably. You know very well that I do not carry a weapon for decoration. There is no one in the entire kingdom who can match me in both fencing and hand-to-hand combat.

His friend, however, did not abandon a tone of patient warning.

I should go with you... just to make sure that...

No, Yarred! The prince interrupted him sharply. Perhaps this is the last night of my freedom and I really don't need a nanny, he straightened suddenly, his chest sticking out, his gaze hardening. I don't want to remind you of who I am, he growled. Get out of my way!

As he had expected, Yarred stiffened, disbelief followed by genuine regret in his eyes. However, he could not ignore the order of the future king and obediently stepped aside.

As you wish, Your Majesty, he replied, making a stiff bow.

Drasan passed him without even glancing at him. As soon as he stepped out into the courtyard, he climbed into the saddle and galloped towards the gate. At the sight of the prince, its guards began to open the double bronze gates. He dug his heels into the horse's sides and galloped through the sleeping city, heading straight for the northern gate. There, too, a feverish hustle and bustle began, as none of the soldiers wanted to expose themselves to the wrath of the heir to the throne. So they began to pull back the great steel bar that blocked the wings of the gate. On reaching it, the prince slowed a little to allow them time to open the tall and heavy door frames. Then he spurred his horse and ran like an arrow towards the Wolfwood on the horizon.

It was not an ordinary forest. In the shade of trees so tall that their tops seemed to reach the sky, there was a magic so powerful that no one dared to venture alone into this wilderness. Even on a sunny day, it was dimly there. Wolves inhabited the forest. Hundreds or even thousands of these creatures, twice the size of normal. Flowing like shadows and frightening even among the bravest hunters. Drasan feared neither the green keep itself, nor the beasts guarding it. Because what was he supposed to be afraid of? He, who could shoot a deer from a distance of two hundred paces, hitting the heart flawlessly?

Hunting trophies hung on the walls of his chamber. Hunting was not his favorite pastime, and since he fired a bow no worse than an elf, he always managed to kill exactly the prey he chose.

Galloping along the shore of a huge lake, the surface of which was still reflecting the moonlight, he saw the city walls looming in the distance. The castle towering above it gleamed with a white facade. Every time he looked at it, he had a strange feeling as if he was really just a visitor there. He sensed deep inside that he would soon be leaving this place forever.

Reaching the first trees, he pulled down the rein. The forest seemed to have a life of its own. The wind rustled in the crowns of ancient pines and oaks, which swayed their branches, playing a strangely somber melody. There was only one road leading through this wilderness, and it became so overgrown with time that it turned into a narrow path that could only be followed by a single rider. Drasan knew her perfectly well, and he went hunting this way more than once. Even so, he felt a strange unease. Ernil sensed it too, because he cried out and buried his hoof in the slightly damp earth. The prince bent down and patted his mount on the neck.

Take it easy old man, he whispered. For the two of us, this ancient forest has no secrets.

Ernil, however, put his ears back and screamed. As if in response to his anxiety, a wolf howl sounded somewhere deep in the forest. The horse backed away, and the prince stared at the darkness between the tangled branches, trying to see the gleam of amber eyes, but he saw nothing of it. He gently nudged the sides of his mount, but it was the first time he had ignored his master's command and backed away again.

They are only wolves, said Drasan, more to himself than to his terrified companion, but also trying not to think about the great beasts that lurked somewhere in the dark, ready to tear any daredevil who would venture deep into the forest.

Finally, he managed to persuade Ernil to enter the narrow road. As soon as they were among the trees, they were enveloped in velvety darkness, so dense that the young man could hardly find the path meandering between the thick trunks. The horse was calmly choosing the path between the tangle of roots. The young man leaned forward in the saddle so as not to bump his head against low hanging branches. Every now and then a single lance of moonlight shone through the dark canopy, but otherwise, it was all dark and silent. Finally, he managed to break through the extremely thick bushes of wild raspberries. He found himself in a clearing dug in the light of the moon.

Ernil stopped abruptly for the second time that night, refusing to obey. Impatient with such behavior, the prince repeatedly nudged his sides with his heels, but the stubborn stallion did not think to move any further. He was giving him clear signs that something was wrong here.

Drasan looked around. The clearing looked quite ordinary, it was quiet and peaceful here.

Too easy...

The man cursed, realizing it was too late. Behind him he felt a slight tremor of air. Magic! He must have passed the barrier unknowingly. In the gloom, armed men began to emerge in front of him. Before he could even think of an escape, he was surrounded.

Impressive, he said in a relaxed tone, smiling slightly. He hoped his confidence would distract a gang of mercenary thugs and reveal their chief.

Aren't you a little too haughty to someone who just ran into an ambush?

This voice. He remembered hearing it somewhere before.

A woman emerged from behind him, the crossbow propped against the saddle-pommel with a bolt pointed directly at his heart. Was it not for men's attire, it could be considered a beauty? Straight auburn hair halfway down her back, a face somewhat sharp and predatory, proving that she came from the north. The coal-black eyes further emphasized this fact. She was riding a great fighting stallion, and she seemed to be in charge of this crowd.

Drasan gasped in irritation. Only now was he fully aware of the mistake he had made in ignoring his horse's instincts. He got into trouble; he just didn't know what kind yet.

Who you are? He asked, trying to make his voice sound imperious. And what are you doing in my lands?

It was a pointless question, the bastards looked professional. They surrounded him in the blink of an eye and had a magician in their ranks. The barrier around the clearing meant that even if he started screaming, no one would hear him.

The woman, who played with a strand of hair thoughtfully, smiled aggressively at him, lifting her upper lip.

Skip the games. Nobody knows where you are and by the time, they know what happened, we'll be a long way from here, she said, smiling slightly. However, if you want to present each other so much, I will gladly tell you, my name. My name is Ulrica and I was hired by a certain Boris, she added after a short thought.

Ulric? Boris? Those names meant nothing to him. But both her voice and features seemed familiar to him. Could it be that mysterious warrior with whom he spoke last winter? The same one who, unfortunately for him, witnessed what happened in the inn, when a bastard raised his hackles that he lost his temper? He didn't remember much of that night, other than an overwhelming anger and a hot flush. He had to use magic regardless of his will, because his opponent was left with only a pile of ash in the center of the circle burned into the wooden floor. The situation was saved, as usual, by Master Ashkan, who led him out of there, at the same time paying the witnesses of the incident for silence. But this woman with a sensual voice had already disappeared.

So, it's you? He said more than asked. And what now? Will you ask for a ransom for me? He asked, frowning.

Tempting... but no. My client has slightly different plans. And don't be too modest, Prince. I know very well who - or rather what - you are.

Enough of this deception and strange twisted responses. Tell me who sent you, maybe I'll get you a quick, painless death, growled Drasan.

He tried to delay and learn as much as possible about his opponent at the same time.

It's interesting that this is what you ask, the woman smiled showing a row of small, unnaturally equal teeth. I have to admit that the She-Wolf of Shardon got tired of trying to give you the best protection possible. She covered up your every prank for a long time, so that no one really knew who you really are.

Enough of these games! Who hired you?! He shouted. He felt he was losing his temper.

Why are you so nervous? Ulrica was clearly enjoying herself at his expense. Do you want to know who my principal is? Here you are. You are probably familiar with the name Gaenor, she paused for a moment and looked at the surprise on the young man's face with interest.

So, he sent his thug to me, and he told me to catch you. He promised a generous payment in gold, she continued, still sneering. Of course, he didn't come here personally, he just sent a witch. She dictates the terms.

The prince felt the blood drain from his face. He couldn't believe the words he had just heard. Gaenor wanted to get him? The last living evidence that there were once dragons in Lineland. It's ridiculous. What could this self-righteous reptile want from him?

You find it so hard to believe? You wanted to know the truth, she scoffed. You must have something Gaenor wants. Apparently, he can pay any price for it. It was enough to take advantage of your naivety, your stupid pride and hauteur. What you can do isn't to be exposed to the public. The taverns are full of curious eyes and ears, and their owners can sell this information to anyone who gives a little gold.

Drasan did not believe her. It couldn't be true! His gift was kept strictly secret. Nobody but Vaya and Ashkan knew this secret. Those who found out by chance were either bribed or - only when they could not be bought - liquidated. Anyway, this power was not subject to his will and he could not control it. It only appeared in a moment of strong anger or fear. He also never remembered what he had actually done. He usually woke up in his own chamber the day after the incident, and above him he could see the half-concerned, half-angry face of Ashkan and the pale but fierce face of the queen. They never told him the details of what happens when he suddenly turns into something like a living torch.

He looked at the mercenary's face. She was smiling in a way he didn't like much. She looked pleased and confident. He felt angry with himself involuntarily. He could have seen it. His talent caused more problems than he would have liked. Negotiating with a gang of thugs to capture him didn't seem like a sensible solution. Especially since they didn't seem eager to talk. It was a single fight with an overwhelming number of opponents.

Ulrica seemed bored with this game. Her eyes flashed ominously as she said, accentuating each word:

You see, it's nice to chat with you, but time is running out. From what I've heard, you are a very gifted swordsman, but you will not use your skills. Those there, she pointed with her chin, are professionals. The best in their profession, so such a pampered prince has no chance with them. She smiled, once again presenting perfectly white teeth. So better if you give up without a fight, or if you don't, we'll smash that pretty face of you a bit before sending it back to Rosher.

The words echoed in Drasan's mind. He had already made up his mind. There was no turning back. He knew he would not avoid fighting a gang of mercenaries. He looked straight into the woman's black eyes, spat on the ground, and as if to emphasize this contemptuous gesture, yanked the sword from the scabbard on her back.

Ulrica smiled, but it was a cold, emotionless smile.

As you wish, she said, slightly bowing to him, then turned her horse and rode off toward her men, who waited silently for orders.

Drasan watched her carefully. She may have been pretty, but not too smart. There were twenty mercenaries, mostly tall men. They seemed to earn a living by being scared off by their appearance alone. In fact, only a few of them could face him, and he had to be careful with them. The rest are just a group of dumb thugs who have no idea of a real fight. So that wasn't meant to intimidate him, it was just to keep him occupied for a while.

He saw Ulrica raise her arm silently, signaling the hired thugs to attack.

Ready for anything, he jumped off his mount. He knew there was no way to escape, all he had to do was fight. The sword was perfectly in his hand, and its weight gave him confidence. The mercenaries clearly hoped that weight of numbers would give them a certain victory. They underestimated him and made a fatal mistake. They tried to surround him like a hungry pack of wolves. They were armed with axes, short swords, curved sabers and knives.

Drasan was slowly getting ready to fight as Ashkan had taught him: he tried to clear his mind of all thoughts, block his emotions and focus only on the enemy. Gradually he managed to calm down and clear his head, he melted into one with the gleaming blade of his sword. He wasn't thinking - he felt and knew.

The first attacker launched a surprise attack... or so he thought. The young man jumped back and the blow of the curved saber struck the air. The prince whirled in a pirouette, slashed low on the legs. He heard a scream and smelled blood as the sharp blade cut smoothly across the mercenary's tendons. He knocked down another opponent in two moves and immediately walked over his corpse to face another one. The boy panicked; he was younger than him. He had no chance in this clash. Before he could even raise his sword to defend himself, a murderous blade sliced through an artery on the side of his neck. A stream of blood splattered the prince's cheek as he spun to face the next opponent. This one was huge, over a head taller than him. He swung the huge ax. The prince jumped away; a hair short of the blade. However, the force of the blow made the mercenary lose his balance for a moment. It was enough to make a lightning-fast cut across the back. A doomed scream of pain burst from the wounded man's chest. He fell down without feeling, and the young man relieved his suffering by making a smooth movement of the sword, thus shortening him by a head.

Drasan still felt the icy breeze of death on his neck. He had to focus on every little detail to react to his opponent's move before he made it. It was a dance on the brink of existence. More than once this fine line was separated only by a perfect sense of balance. However, when one of them fell, the rest seemed to attack with redoubled force. They were like an enraged pack with the lust for murder in their eyes.

And suddenly the mercenaries began to retreat, dragging their wounded comrades aside. The prince saw Ulrica riding towards him. Taking a moment to rest, he wiped the blood from his face and brushed away his sweat-soaked fringe.

I can see that I underestimated you. I conclude that you will not give up and you will not lay down your arms, she said with apparent composure. She was furious. He could see it in her eyes.

Drasan did not answer. He wiped the blade on the mercenary's carcass. However, he did not hide it, and lowered it slightly, waiting for what was to come. He stood calmly. Only the corpses lying around him testified to the recent fight.

Ulrica, exasperated by the lack of answers, struggled to calm down as she slowly said the words:

The choice is yours. All that's left for me to do is give a sign to the troop sent by Gaenor. They will know how to take care of you and believe me: you don't want them to get you. I give you one last chance.

The prince, still silent, calmly looked around the even line of riders standing with him face to face. They formed a compact, black wall consisting of people and horses. They were not afraid of death. They were trained not to show mercy or fear. For them, it was just another order they had to obey, regardless of the obstacles.

However, Ulrica did not know that Drasan was well trained. For him, there was no unbeatable opponent. He knew fighting techniques they hadn't even heard of. He moved lightly and nimbly like a cat. He could deliver a blow instantly, before anyone knew what he was up to.

Balance is the most important thing, if you lose it for a moment then you are lost.

He heard Ashkan's voice in his mind, as clearly as if he was standing right next to him.

I see you've already made up your mind, she drawled. Have fun then. That said, she turned her horse, followed by the remaining mercenaries, abandoning the bodies of their recent comrades-in-arms.

Watching them, the prince noticed the commander standing slightly back. He was distinguished by the fact that he wore a long black coat with a hood, from under which it was impossible to see the face. He did not give the order, but it was evident that the silent warriors were ready to attack at once. Drasan watched calmly as, at one gesture of the hooded figure, two riders broke from the silent wall, unfolding a net among themselves. Gradually they dispersed the horses to the trot.

Drasan waited on his slightly bent legs until they were close enough. He plunged his sword into the ground and reached for the light bow that was slung over his shoulder the whole time. He pulled one of his arrows from his quiver. And with complete calm, as if aiming at a deer, he drew the string, took aim, and then released the arrow. One of the riders fell to the ground, stabbed in the center of his chest; the frightened horse jerked its head. The other lost his balance and released the net. The time he spent mastering the horse was enough for the prince. He released another arrow. This time he hit his opponent right in the eye. The attacker fell to the ground. The young man looked at the commander with an expression of triumph as if he wanted to provoke him. This one, however, seemed to accept the defeat with complete calm.

It happened in a split second. Blood was still bubbling in the young man's veins. His fingers felt a familiar tingling sensation that this time gradually felt their way through his body. He knew what was going to happen next. However, for the first time, he retained incredible clarity of mind. Euphoria seized him, rapidly turning into fury. He was drunk on his own power, which he had never known existed, though now it flowed lazily through his veins, radiated through his skin, creating tiny, creeping blood-red flames on it. It was enough to use it to destroy the enemies around him. What was their weapon when it could turn to dust in an instant, like their frail, meaningless bodies?

Drasan stood for a moment as motionless as a statue of the god of death, clothed in a luminous halo of flames. He felt stronger than ever before. The most powerful of all the elements was at his command now. And then it happened what Master Ashkan had warned him about many times, and which he had no control over anymore. The energy of the fire took hold of his body. In the blink of an eye, flames burst around him, forming shields, alive and as if endowed with its own consciousness, fueled and nourished by his anger.

It started with a sudden outburst that formed a circle of ashy grass around Drasan. The fire, like a wild beast released from its cage, rushed at his opponents. The air around was undulating with the heat, and the mighty roar almost drowned out the inhuman howls of people burning alive.

However, everything has an end, including Drasan's powers. He felt his strength burn out, as if the roaring element around him took all his energy. He fell to his knees. He knew he was dying, and the fire was slowly but inevitably draining the life out of him. Before his eyes darkened. He realized that he had to stop it or he would die, consumed by the indomitable element.

And then, in the moment of inevitable agony, understanding seized him. He released the gift, let the power drain from him. He did it instinctively, barely realizing it. In one moment, he was a god endowed with destructive power, and then to become a fragile mortal, incapable even of rising from his knees. He didn't know what that meant and preferred not to know it. This ignorance became like a warm and safe refuge to which his waning consciousness slowly retreated like a cancer.

The senses were slowly returning to equilibrium. Slowly it dawned on him that what he had done could have catastrophic consequences for him. As he knelt in the center of the burned-to-earth circle, surrounded by the foul smoke and the disgusting stench of burnt flesh, he realized that he had made a mistake. These people were just an incentive to use his gift. It was he who would eventually force him to surrender, and he succeeded. All around was evidence of the destructive power he had unleashed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two riders riding through the smoking ashes. The only survivors were Ulrica, accompanied by the mysterious commander of Gaenor's troops. The mercenary eventually lost her composure.

You said that bastard was harmless! Apparently, he cannot use his gift! She screamed, pointing to the smoking mess.

Apparently he can do a lot more than we expect, her companion replied stoically.

A lot more?! She repeated, furiously echoing. This is some goddamn freak of nature!

The man looked at her amused.

Now he's disabled, he said, pointing to the kneeling Drasan.

Screw it, the mercenary snapped, then added in a cold voice. If you don't pay me right now, I'll slit the shit's throat and the fun will be over.

The man laughed unpleasantly and replied:

Just try to get close to him, you hired bitch, and I'll tear your heart out and shove it down your throat, still beating.

Ulrica froze. Even though he spoke it so calmly, she couldn't help but see the gleam in his eye. It was a threat to be taken seriously.

The man rode up to the young man and looked at him from the horse's back.

Great show. But you seem to have lost in the end, he said coldly.

Drasan raised his head and looked in the direction from which the voice was coming - he could still see through the fog.

You didn't beat me, he said, trying to smile weakly. It wasn't the best time for bravado, but he didn't care anymore.

No. You did it yourself with the help of the Dragon Fire Energy. You can't control it yet, what might have killed you. Luckily for you, you turned out to be quite strong, the man replied with the same cool, yet rational voice that drove the prince mad.

Drasan stared at him, desperately wanting to stay awake. Everything that happened to him tonight was slowly falling into place. Until now, his extraordinary gift has not manifested itself in the form of such a destructive force. Now that he realized how great the danger was, he felt a great deal of shame and anger at himself for being provoked.

The mercenary jumped off her horse and walked over to him. Now she seemed even taller to him. The prince looked at her, hardly focusing his eyes. He felt humiliated and defeated, and he was barely alive. He knew they won, but he understood one thing. This battle, although lost, made him even more dangerous. He has gained a new experience that cannot match even the best training. And most importantly, he boasted new knowledge about the Energy of the Dragon's Fire. He already knew how it affected him. He saw its destructive power and understood how much more deliberate way it could be used. However, before he decided to take any action, he felt a blow to the back of his head that knocked him unconscious.

CHAPTER 2

The throne room of the Sheardon Palace looked more like the interior of a temple. The floor is polished white marble. Slender white columns supported the vault, decorated with paintings and bas-reliefs. The walls were decorated with paintings depicting the previous rulers of the kingdom. In the center of the room, on a velvet-covered platform, there was a carved throne on which the ruler of the kingdom sat.

Yarred knelt before the landing, not even daring to look up at the queen. After Drasan's absence was discovered, he first was summoned to the throne room. It didn't surprise him at all. Last night he was supposed to keep watch at the gates.

Captain Cordydian, the sovereign's voice echoed around the room. You were in charge of protecting the castle yesterday?

That's right, Your Majesty, the man replied.

So, you admit that you not only failed in your duties, but that you also broke my personal order regarding the prince's willful escapades, this time the queen did not ask, but stated the fact. So, he could be absolutely sure that he would get hit because of Drasan's antics again. Not the first time anyway.

The prince demanded that the gates be opened and, as was his habit, he went for a night ride, I had no right to detain the heir to the throne. Yarred tried to defend his position, although he knew perfectly well that his arguments are laughable. After all, all members of the royal court were obliged to respect the royal orders. Drasana did apply as well, though he always disregarded them.

Yes, you had that right. Drasan is not yet king and therefore my word is beyond his whims. There was a menacing note in the queen's voice.

Only then did the captain dare to take a peek at the ruler. Even though she was fifty springs, Vaya still intimidated with a beauty that would be envied by many youngsters. The lilac dress of expensive fabric perfectly highlighted what men used to pay attention to first. Waist-length long, wavy blonde hair gleamed in the glow of oil lamps and candles. She had a gentle face and eyes the amazing regular shape of almonds the color of liquid gold.

And it was these eyes that were now drilling into the captain, who, surprised by his boldness, looked down at the floor again and spoke to his shoes:

I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen to me.

And does he listen to anyone? She snorted angrily. Maybe it's my fault, I indulged him too much. I should keep him short instead of letting such antics happen.

Yarred cringed at the familiar tone of his voice. Vaya rarely got angry, but when she did, Drasan almost always turned out to be the cause of her anger.

If I am allowed to ask, Cordydian still didn't dare to get up from his knees. Do any of the trusted servants know where the prince has gone?

It's no secret. For months he has been going to Athar, a border town with a shady reputation. Replied the queen with a deep sigh. He sneaks out there whenever the opportunity presents itself. At first, I thought he had found a maid there, but as far as I know, he is still present in the alcoves of many of my ladies-in-waiting. So the theory that he fell in love and was ready to settle down quickly collapsed. All I can do is hope he didn't get into trouble.

Yarred listened to the queen with a straight face, as the entire court knew the nature of the prince. He knew that there were legends about his love conquests. As about his extraordinary talent for attracting trouble.

Vaya seemed to forget about his presence as she continued her argument.

I thought I was going to make him king. I indulged him, believing that with time he would mature into the role of a ruler. I waited for his youthful fantasies to pass and among these beautiful ladies he would finally find the one who would become his wife, and in the future his queen, she sighed deeply. I'm old, Yarred... Older than you imagine. I dream of a day when the responsibility for the fate of the kingdom will be placed on the shoulders of someone who will be worthy of it. I have been preparing Drasan for this for years, so you can imagine how disappointing his reckless behavior is.

Yarred was silent, for what was he supposed to say? His friend really was not a model of princely virtues. In fact, Drasan did his best to shirk his duties, just as the queen said. Worse, the captain had one hundred percent certainty that he would get off with everything as usual. He will surely burst into the throne room with his inherent mischievous smile, as is his habit.

Maybe that was why he was not surprised when a lot of confusion suddenly broke out on the other side of the carved gates. Someone was arguing fiercely with the sentries, who had been ordered not to let anyone in. The queen stared at the door. Moments later they burst open with a bang, and a tall and slender elf with silvery hair reaching halfway down his back burst into the room like a storm. Anger flared in his steel-gray eyes as he strode vigorously towards the dais.

Yarred watched him vigilantly, for though he was confident he was not going to hurt the queen, as befits a guard captain, he had a duty to intervene when things went wrong. He only glanced at the stunned guards who hastily closed the door.

Meanwhile, Master Ashkan - because it was, he who broke into the chamber - who, contrary to popular belief, was not an elf, but a unicorn. He took this form only when circumstances required it. He spoke to the queen in a soft, melodious voice, but there was a subtle hint of anger in it:

Drasan is gone. He missed morning training. He had never left it before. The servants hadn't seen him since yesterday, and I learned from the groom that he had ordered him to leave his horse saddled in the stables after supper. You owe me an explanation, lady.

Feeling the tension rising, Yarred stepped to the left of the dais, ready to cover the queen with his breast at any moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the queen rise and again saw in her the same proud and resolute ruler - the She-Wolf of Sheardon.

Master Ashkan, in other circumstances, I would probably have called the guards and ordered you to be escorted out of the hall, Vaya said, angry. I respect you and your position. In return, I demand the same. As you commanded me, I guarded this boy for twenty-one years, giving him the best protection, I could afford.

And the time has come to tell him the truth. He must know who he is, the unicorn pressured. His behavior gets out of control too often, and his emotions drown out his common sense. I don't think I need to explain what that means. If he betrayed himself too many times, she would know immediately. She has spies everywhere.

Truth? Yarred glanced anxiously at the queen. What truth? From what his grandfather, Lord Cordydian, remembered, he was captain of the guard at the time. One night, Ashkan showed up in the castle, carrying an unconscious pregnant woman in her arms, with several wounds on her body that looked like wolf bites. All healers in the castle and in the city were alerted. They had to act quickly to get the baby out before her heart stopped beating. Fortunately, there were only a few minor scrapes on her stomach. Even then, it was whispered that it could not be an ordinary animal, and the bites were not accidental. Because the bites had missed all the major arteries. Someone wanted to finish the mother but save the unborn child. But why? The woman's heart stopped a moment after the healers retrieved the baby boy from her womb. When