Chapter 408 Oh No. No No No. Absolutely—

Hyran received the invitation after returning from Shadowclaw. He read it twice. Checked it for magical interference. Held it up to the light. Then he went, because the only thing more dangerous than accepting an invitation from Bellatrix Drakenfell was declining one.

Elara received hers at the same time. She read it once. Laughed. Then she went, because the wine would be excellent and the manipulation would be entertaining, and Elara Vaelor did not turn down either.

“I realized something today,” Bellatrix began, settling into her chair with the composed grace of a woman hosting a social engagement and the strategic intensity of a woman executing Step Three. “I have spent thirty years in this castle surrounded by remarkable people and I have failed to cultivate those relationships. Hyran, you are the most brilliant mage on the continent. Elara, you are the sharpest Beta Luna I have encountered in my lifetime. And I have been treating both of you as fixtures rather than allies, and I owe you both an apology and a glass of wine.”

Hyran drank. The wine was exceptional, and if Bellatrix was going to manipulate him, he was going to be manipulated with Nightspire’s private reserve, and the reserve was worth the manipulation.

Elara pretended to drink.

“We share a common interest,” Bellatrix continued. “We appreciate fine things. Quality. Standards. I see that in both of you. Hyran, your magical precision is a form of elegance. Elara, your ability to manage the Beta household while maintaining the social infrastructure of an entire pack is artistry.”

“Your Grace is very kind this evening,” Hyran commented, and the sentence carried the specific diplomatic neutrality of a man who was being complimentary about being complimented and trusted neither the compliments nor their source.

“I am being honest this evening, Hyran. The two are rarely the same thing, and tonight they happen to coincide.”

Elara and Hyran exchanged a glance. The glance lasted one second and communicated an entire strategic assessment: She wants something. We do not yet know what. We stay until we know.

They stayed for two hours. Bellatrix was charming. Bellatrix was warm. Bellatrix asked questions about their work and listened to the answers with the focused attention of a woman who was investing in relationships she intended to leverage and was executing the investment with a competence that would have been admirable if it had been genuine.

It was forty percent genuine. That was thirty-eight percent more than usual.

✦✦✦

STEP FOUR: BECOME THE FAVORITE PARENT

Your children are your army. Win them, and he loses his strongest allies.

Bellatrix walked toward the Draken Forces training field carrying a wicker basket.

Inside the basket was a live chicken.

The chicken had been procured from the kitchens by Petra, who had told the head cook it was for a “private dinner” and had not elaborated, and the head cook had not asked, because requests from the queen’s attendant were fulfilled without questions and questions were answered with termination.

The chicken was calm. The chicken had no idea where it was going. The chicken was about to have a very confusing day.

Bellatrix’s logic was as follows: Dexmon had a dragon. The dragon ate things. She would bring the dragon a meal. This was motherly. This demonstrated investment in her son’s life. Favorite parent point.

She arrived at the field. Velkaris was at the far end, his massive golden frame sprawled in his preferred position, scales catching the light with the casual magnificence of a creature that understood its own grandeur and saw no reason to diminish it.

Bellatrix approached with the basket extended.

Velkaris lifted his head. His enormous eye, focused on the basket with the slow, deliberate attention of a wise dragon who was still capable of being surprised by human behavior.

He looked at the basket. He looked at Bellatrix. He looked at the chicken, which had poked its head above the rim.

Velkaris snorted. A plume of warm air washed over Bellatrix and nearly took her hat.

The snort was not hunger. The snort was the dragon equivalent of a man being offered a crayon drawing by an adult and trying to be polite about it. Velkaris ate dragon feed, a specialized compound of minerals, raw game, and magical supplements formulated by the Draken Forces veterinary unit. A single chicken was to Velkaris what a crouton was to a king: technically food, categorically insufficient, and slightly insulting.

“You are rejecting my offering,” Bellatrix observed.

Velkaris huffed again and laid his head back down.

Bellatrix looked at the chicken. The chicken looked at Bellatrix. Both were equally confused about the next step.

She set the basket down and opened the lid because the chicken was now her problem and the problem needed a resolution.

The chicken hopped out.

Two juvenile dragons at the edge of the training group noticed the chicken immediately. One was black-scaled, gold-eyed, and already moving with the focused intensity of a baby dragon who had spotted something more interesting than drills.

The smaller baby dragon followed him.

Onyx.

Onyx intercepted the chicken mid-squawk, then the two baby dragons spent the next thirty seconds playing keep-away with a bird that was experiencing the worst day of its entire existence.

The chicken survived. The chicken was not harmed. The chicken was, however, deeply traumatized and would never trust a basket again.

Then Onyx saw Bellatrix.

His entire body changed. His wings snapped open. His tail went vertical. His gold eyes locked onto her face with the recognition of a creature who remembered a woman’s arms and a woman’s warmth and a song at three in the morning in a chamber beneath a lake, and the memory was firing every neuron in his small brain simultaneously.

He ran at her.

“Oh no.” Bellatrix held up both hands. “No, no, no. Absolutely—”

Sixty-five pounds of baby dragon hit her at full speed. Her boots left the ground. She went backwards, landing on the grass with a sound that was equal parts impact and indignation, and Onyx was on her chest before she finished falling, his wings folded, his tail wrapped around her arm, his tongue dragging across her jaw with the desperate enthusiasm of a creature who intended to make up for lost time.

“Get off. Get OFF. You are ruining—”

More licking. Onyx’s tail tightened. His chirps were loud, rapid, continuous, the sound of a baby dragon who was thrilled and communicating that thrill at maximum volume to every creature within a hundred yards.

Bellatrix stopped fighting. She lay on the grass of the Draken Forces training field, pinned beneath a baby dragon who was licking her face with the commitment of a creature that had no concept of dignity and no interest in acquiring one.

Her hands, which had been pushing against his chest, lowered.