033
Draco
Draco's arms were spread as the servants fussed all over him, fixing his clothing right after he finished his bath. They were preparing him for the evening's match in the pit.
Draco couldn't deny that he had been looking forward to the match. The gladiators had been in intense training lately. A raven had landed some time ago from the Seven Sages, informing them about the upcoming Blood Summit.
The Summit was usually held once every three months between the demon clan and the rogue lycan clan. The Sages were usually the hosts. A lot of activities occurred during the Summit, and the gladiators' match was one of them.
Since they received the message, the pit's Champion Titanus had taken it upon himself to train the younger gladiators. Today, the first match for the younger gladiators would be held, and Draco needed to be there to watch their improvement.
"My lord," one of the servants gestured for him to raise his leg so they could fit his breeches on him.
With a grunt, Draco raised his leg, letting the servant drag the silky fabric up his thighs and strap it around his waist. His inner shirt followed before they donned him in his robe.
The remaining servant standing by shoved forward and led the lord to his dresser. Immediately he took his seat and gazed at the mirror, he looked at his scarred face.
He remembered vividly how he got the scar. It was during the great purge when he shoved into the tavern he owned with Andriandita to get her away before his father's men reached the tavern. Unfortunately for him, Draco arrived late and saw his female lying in a pool of her own blood, her face and body marred. He roared into the air while cradling her. At that moment, he saw some of the sentinels shoving out of the tavern, and Draco attacked them in a rage. He fought and massacred, all in his bid to avenge Andriandita. But in the process of swinging and clanging his sword with one of the sentinels, the sentinel's sword swept across his face, giving him a permanent scar. Draco's fingers feathered over the scar as he reminisced about that moment of darkness in his life, the moment he lost the light that brightened his world.
"Do you want an updo, my lord?" the male servant behind him asked, the voice pulling Draco away from his den of thoughts.
"Yes, an updo," he responded, his voice raspy. He still gazed at his scarred face in the mirror, allowing the servant to run the comb through his shoulder-length hair. Draco had always kept his hair like that because Andriandita loved it that way.
Back when she was alive and he'd lay on her lap, she'd run her dainty fingers over his hair as she read him stories. It was basically simple moments that he cherished the most. Even though she was long gone, he'd still keep his hair the way she loved it.
"All done, my lord," the servant eased away from him to join the rest where they stood. Draco inspected their work, nodding his head.
"You may all leave."
The servants scurried away at his command, clanging the door shut. He took a sigh as he approached the table in his chambers.
It was cluttered with scrolls he was yet to attend to. He took the one sent by the Sages and read it again. Draco knew what he'd face during the Summit. It was going to be two weeks of endless torture from Lord Draken. The male had taken it upon himself to challenge Draco after the great purge.
Draken was his rival, a very big one. With him in the way, Draco's chances of winning back the Ice throne in the Ice castle would prove difficult. That was his mission.
Since after the great purge, no one had been to the Ice Castle. The huge castle made of ice and glaciers stood a thousand feet off the ground. It was an ancient castle built by Draco's ancestors, the man who established the Throne dynasty and united the two warring clans together.
That was the reason the Thrones were the ones ruling Bloomington, the ones that occupied the castle until it was taken from them because of the Butcher's bloodshed. It was after that the Demon Clan rose to challenge the lycans. Draco wondered how he'd be able to face Draken and his taunting words before the Sages. Chances were, he would lose his cool and attack the lord.
"Gods be damned," he flicked the scroll away with a curse. A gentle knock rasped against his door. "Come in," he called out to whoever that was.
"Dracolian," it was Alfos. Draco turned to face his beta, clasping his hands over his groin, pushing his lower lip out as he gazed at Alfos. "You're ready for the match?"
"Apparently. I need to ensure our men are well-prepared before the summit."
Alfos gave a nod. "Very crucial," he admitted.
"How is the girl... Lucinda?" Draco asked, walking beside Alfos as he approached the windows.
"The Tender said the image of their dead parents would be hard to wipe out from her mind. The girl clings too much to it, that's why," Alfos clarified, making Draco curse.
They realized Lucinda had been having memory attacks since she was kept in Grastes Garden. The keeper had mentioned the female's hallucinations about their dead parents and had refused to eat or leave the confines of her room.
Draco had instructed the keepers to ensure she was well-fed and attended to. The most he could do was keep her there and safe.
He couldn't send Lucinda away, knowing they no longer had anyone back at Brindlemark.
Yesterday, he'd taken his time to see Lucinda himself and suggested they took her to the Tender, the mind therapist, so he'd help in cleansing the bad memories.
"I hope it works. She's too young to suffer such trauma," Draco hummed.
"I agree."
Both males looked down the window to the castle ground as people wandered about. Their minds brimmed with thoughts.
Draco's heart rate kicked up when he saw Isolde shoving into the castle with a smile plucking at her lips as she carried a basket in her hand.
Why was she smiling? He wondered.
He bit down on his lip when he saw all the males staring at her as she passed. If given a chance, he'd make a decree that every male should shut their eyes as his female passed.
His female?
Damn the gods, why was he so possessive about her?
She was his literally but not metaphorically. Only Edrand was his. Edrand was his second chance mate given to him by the god of bond himself and not this vixen his mind and heart had been pining for.
Even though Draco did all he could to disband thoughts about her from his mind, they still pushed through, weakening his resolve.
He began to reminisce about their moment back in the Viper Mouth.
"Did you notice she wasn't affected by the Duskthorn?" Draco chirped. He would do anything to push the naughty thoughts from his mind at the moment.
Yet, his eyes remained fixed on her as she stood on the ground.
"That was a shock to me, Dracolian. Duskthorn is known to hurt humans, to bruise them beyond repair, but she came out unharmed except for the shortness of breath she suffered," Alfos shrugged, looking down at Isolde.
"What could that mean then?"
"I don't know, Draco. Only lycans and demons are not affected by Duskthorn. So if she's not affected by it, that could only mean one thing..." Alfos said, trailing off.
Surprised, both men turned to look at each other.
"A lycan?" Draco asked.
"A wraithling. Maybe she's like you, a human cursed to be a Wraithling."
Hearing that, Draco's eyes went wide. "How's that possible?" Draco's voice dropped to a whisper as he shot his eyes back down at Isolde.
"There's only one way to find out. Set a trap for her," Alfos let out, his voice cold as Draco's heart hammered.
To be continued.