His Love, Her Doom

Mate

Lyra’s fingers scraped frantically against the cold, polished stone of the wall. Her heart hammered a wild, frantic rhythm against her ribs, threatening to burst from her chest.

Go back, she thought, panic clouding her judgment. Just go back to the room. It’s safer to be trapped in a cage than wandering blind in this nightmare.

She turned and traced her way back along the wall, carefully counting her steps. When her palms finally hit the heavy, familiar wood of the bedroom door, she grabbed the cold metal ring and pulled with all her might.

It didn't budge. She shoved forward, throwing her slight weight against the panel, but the lock remained firmly in place.

"Please," she whispered. The word caught on the ruined tissue of her throat, coming out as nothing more than a dry gasp.

Nothing. The hallway remained dead silent. She pressed her forehead against the cool wood, swallowing the rising terror. Where were the maids? What had happened to them? It’s a magical realm, she reminded herself, trying to slow her breathing. Doors probably open and close on their own whims here.

Turning her back to the locked door, she faced the long, unknown stretch of the corridor. Staying still meant waiting to be caught by the guards, or worse, whatever had taken the maids. She had to find a hiding spot immediately.

Step by step, she crept forward. Her bare toes gripped the freezing marble, testing the ground before she shifted her weight. She kept her right hand dragged lightly along the wall, feeling for the seam of another doorway.

She couldn't see it, but beneath her feet, her shadow was no longer a flat reflection of her form. It had split into two distinct shapes. A second, thicker darkness stretched out from her heels, mimicking her movements exactly, trailing her like a silent guardian.

Every few paces, Lyra stopped. She tilted her head, her ears straining for the click of boots, the murmur of voices, or the rustle of fabric. The palace felt entirely empty, yet heavy with a suffocating weight.

Finally, her fingers dipped into a deep recess in the stone. A doorknob. She gripped the cold metal and turned it slowly, wincing at the faint click. She pushed. The door swung open smoothly, releasing a distinct scent that made her stop.

It smelled of old parchment, expensive leather, and a faint trace of woodsmoke.

She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She stood by the entrance for a full minute, sniffing the air, her ears twitching at every micro-sound. The room was quiet. No breathing, no shifting of sheets.

"Is anyone here?" she breathed, the sound barely a gasp.

No response.

Relief washed over her, but it brought something else with it, a sudden, crushing exhaustion. With every step she took further into the room, her limbs grew heavier. Her eyelids felt like lead. A strange, thick drowsiness poured into her mind, clouding her thoughts.

Her knees buckled. She reached out, her hands catching the edge of a high, plush mattress. She didn't have the strength to think about whose bed it was. She crawled up, her body sinking into the impossibly soft furs and heavy blankets. Within seconds, her breathing evened out into a deep, unbroken sleep.

As soon as her breathing slowed, the darkness at the foot of the bed stirred. The double shadow peeled itself away from Lyra’s form, rising into a tall, faceless silhouette. It hovered over her for a fraction of a second, then slid across the floor, slipping silently out the open window into the sunless night.

---

Deep within the royal quarters, King Xalvador lay perfectly still in a massive, black marble bathtub. The water around him was steaming, infused with rare oils to soothe the constant, low-burning ache in his veins. His eyes were closed, his sharp features relaxed into a mask of rare peace.

The stilled water suddenly rippled.

Xalvador’s eyes snapped open. The gold in his black irises flared, cutting through the dim light of the chamber. He sat up with a violent jerk, water cascading down his broad, scarred chest.

He tilted his head back, his nostrils flaring as he took a sharp, deep breath. The scent hit him like a physical blow. It was faint, drifting through the vents from a distant wing of the palace, but it was undeniable. It smelled of winter air, sweet rain, and something fundamentally tied to his very soul.

Inside his mind, a voice roared. It wasn't his own conscious though, but the ancient, primal entity bound to his lineage. Yves, his dragon counterpart, spoke the words Xalvador never thought he would hear in his lifetime.

"Mate."

Xalvador gripped the edge of the marble tub so hard the stone cracked beneath his fingers. "No," he growled aloud, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. "That's impossible. The curse..."

"She is here," Yves snarled back, the dragon's presence thrashing against Xalvador's skull in a mix of sudden, manic euphoria and absolute terror. "In our territory. In our court. Wake up, King. She is here."

Xalvador stood up, stepping out of the bath as the water evaporated off his skin from the sudden spike in his body temperature. He grabbed a dark silk robe, throwing it over his shoulders as his mind raced.

Every decree passed down through his lineage stated the absolute truth: Jagans never have mates. They were the world's mistake, a broken species meant to live and die in the hollow emptiness of their own black eyes. The cosmos disliked them too much to ever grant them a fated match. Yet, the pulling in his chest was undeniable.

"Whoever she is, my proximity will drain her unto death," Xalvador muttered, his chest heaving as he stared at the door. "If she's a human."

"Then find a buffer," Yves urged, a predatory edge cutting through the panic. "The dungeons are full of scum. Fill the cup, Xalvador. Fill it before you touch her."

Xalvador didn't hesitate. He strode toward the hidden door in his chambers, his mind already spinning a web of lies to cover his tracks. He was the Trickster King; he would play whatever monstrous game necessary to keep her alive, even if it meant tearing his own court apart but before he did, he wanted to see what his mate looked like.