“You’ll have to catch me first, dragon. And I’m quite stealthy. It’s one of my skills.”

“I thought complaining and getting lost were your skills…ow! Don’t pull my hair.”

“Then you best make sure you don’t make me angry, Briec the Arrogant.”

Briec laughed. “And where would the fun be in that, my love?”

Epilogue

Gwenvael sighed in overwhelming boredom, his talons scraping along the rocky, snow-covered ground.

There were a thousand things he’d rather be involved in. But Annwyl had asked this favor of him and he couldn’t turn her down. Well, normally he could and would turn her down, but the woman had become a viper the longer her current “state” went on. Large with her Demon Twins, as Briec so eloquently put it, the past seven months had not been easy on any of them. Morfyd received the worst of it and Fearghus learned that there actually was too much f**king to be had. Apparently the human female had become absolutely insatiable and Fearghus was no longer safe walking down the blasted castle hallways or hunting in the surrounding forests. The woman stalked the poor dragon like an elk at High Season.

Gwenvael offered to assist Fearghus with his current “burden” and nearly lost his head in the process. Gods, his family never knew how to take a joke and until Annwyl birthed whatever grew in her belly she too would no longer be any fun.

So, when Gwenvael really thought about it, this was all probably for the best. A nice trek up to the Northlands and away from the Blood Queen.

True, he’d been into the Northlands many times before in the last few months, but never this far into the Mountains of Despair or this close to the Ocean of Death and the Sea of Pain and Suffering. Ah, yes, these barbarians had such pithy names for their landmarks.

Gwenvael could smell the fresh ocean air and he longed to dive in and swim far, far away from this place.

The Reinholdt Fortress. A dank, depressing place if he’d ever seen one, but the Northland barbarians weren’t known for their elegance. Even the local dragons—all descendents of the lightning gods and at one time his kinds’ mortal enemies—fought hard and lived harder.

It seemed to be the way of this cold, forsaken land and those who lived within it.

To stop the flow of depression threatening to overtake him, Gwenvael reminded himself he could be back at Garbhán Isles dodging another sword thrown at his head for some inconsequential thing he said.

Instead, he was here to meet the legedary Sigmar Reinholdt and his thirteen strong sons, one of whom everyone referred to as The Beast. According to local gossip, The Beast was the scariest thing on two legs and had built quite a name for himself. As Gwenvael traveled through the Northlands these many months, he often heard the name mumbled in whispers and even the women he bed with for the night refused to discuss the man—even when Gwenvael was at his most persuasive.

But that no longer mattered, because now he stood in front of the fortress, a line of Reinholdt troops the only thing between him and the gates inside the compound.

Gwenvael sighed again and barked, “I grow tired of waiting.”

“Dragons ain’t much for patience, is they?”

“No, they isn’t,” Gwenvael mocked back. Normally he tolerated humans—especially Annwyl—better than any of his kin, but he was tired, extremely hungry and bored. Bored being the worst of it. As his mother always said, “A bored Gwenvael is an entire town destroyed accidently.”

Many more minutes passed, until Gwenvael considered mowing them all down with his flames just to see them burn when a short, but powerfully built man pushed past the men guarding the entrance. Gods, the man had no neck to speak of. He went from head straight into his shoulders.

“I be Sigmar,” the human said as a form of greeting and Gwenvael worked hard not to laugh out loud. These Northerners made his father seem downright warm and cuddly.

“King Sigmar.” Gwenvael dipped his head, the most a human could ever expect from a dragon in way of respect—unless the human was female. Gwenvael had been known to roll on his back like a dog for the right female.

“I be no king, dragon. There are no kings in the Northlands. I’m The Reinholdt and clan leader of these lands.”

Whatever. “So you asked for me, Reinholdt.”

“No. I asked for your Annwyl.”

“Well, she’s indisposed at the moment, so she sent me as her emissary.”

“A dragon emissary for a human?”

One more second of this and Gwenvael had every intention of killing them all. “Aye.”

Reinholdt shrugged but said nothing else, preventing the potential carnage. The only problem was Reinholdt stopped speaking all together.

It took all of Gwenvael’s strength not to roll his eyes in annoyance. He wanted this over with so he could get some food, ale and a female or two to warm his bed for the night. Standing out in the cold was annoying him and the snow was freezing his scales. He hated that.

“Again, Reinholdt, you wanted to see me or someone from Dark Plains?”

“Nay. Not me, dragon. The Beast made that request.”

Patience, Gwenvael. You’re known for your patience. “And may I meet The Beast?”

Reinholdt passed glances among the other men before looking back at Gwenvael. “You sure about that, dragon?”

“Yes,” Gwenvael hissed. “I am.”

Reinholdt nodded and looked at the men lined up in front of the gates. As one, they separated into two lines and Gwenvael’s eyes widened as “The Beast” stepped forward from the throng of men and walked up to him.