4. Drake

FOUR

DRAKE

T he moment the king walked into the tiny village hut, he was enchanted. Not simply because he knew within his bones that he was speaking to the Creation Sorceress they were seeking, but because an entirely other, foreign sensation crept through his skin.

Thalia was bent over the table, serving her guest and her ailing father what smelled like a rather herbaceous stew with a long, wooden ladle. It was clear to Drake that she had done it a thousand times. He could smell it on her, along with the rich fragrance of earth and a bountiful, healthy spirit.

Her smile was demur, but earnest. It made the sweet honey hazel of her eyes sparkle, and the king felt a coiling in his stomach every time they hovered toward him.

The curtain of her chestnut brown hair was styled practically, as was the modest tunic she wore, hanging loose and scuffed up from hard work around the cuffs and neckline. It embraced the firm curves of her petite frame well.

Thalia's skin was that of a pale rose, likely from a long day of arduous labor. But it stole nothing from her hospitality or sweet presence.

Drake had been smitten before as a boy, but this wasn't merely infatuation with a gorgeous woman. This was fate.

The king's dragon roared. He stared down at the utensils, trying to silence the inner voice that insisted she was his.

Drake caught Thalia's eye just as she sat before him on the bench next to her father. There were certainly gold trimmings around her hazel eyes, and for a moment he was taken by them.

He may have even thought, for one harrowing moment, that she was also a telepathic witch.

"Did you want a fork instead of a spoon?"

Her question bobbed up from the fog of his daze, and the king blinked once, twice, then cleared his throat.

"No, a spoon will suffice, thank you. I apologize for my countenance. It was a long journey."

She smiled at him as she picked up her spoon. "No need to apologize. I merely hope the stew is capable of reaching the high standards of a royal kitchen."

Her father chuckled softly, scarfing his meal down sloppily.

Drake's dragon paced inside him with impatience. He shoved it aside and returned to the topic at hand. He stirred the stew, scooping a chunk into the utensil before speaking.

"I want to address your statement about the Creation Sorceress," he said, switching his gaze between the two peasant folks. "As the Dragon King of the Mountains, I possess my own power. One that is capable of observing the power of others. I have no doubts that I am in the presence of something… magnificent."

He stuffed the stew in his mouth and chewed slowly. Thalia's father continued his love affair with the meal, staring down into the bowl as if hypnotized.

Thalia, however, seemed intrigued by the king. It was a hesitant kind of intrigue, but he could work with that.

"What do you mean, exactly?" she asked politely, blowing the steam off her spoonful.

Drake placed his spoon into the bowl, the rosemary-infused meal dancing up to his nostrils. He leaned forward, and she seemed to move with him, lowering her own head.

He spoke reverently, the sight of her rising and falling bosom teasing his usually focused attention.

"I can see that you are the Creation Sorceress that I seek, but you may not be aware of it. Your power can manifest in many ways like the merging of elemental forces, the forging of powerful artifacts…"

Drake paused, regarding her father. He had finished the bowl, and in his stupefied gaze, finally clued in on the conversation.

He was shaking his head and lifted a napkin to his mouth.

"Nothing like that around here," Evanth said. "Unless you think making a mean stew counts." He laughed wearily, then it tapered off into a dry coughing fit. Thalia rubbed his back as if she were sleepwalking.

The coughing diminished into a hiss, and Thalia reached for a jug of water set on the table. She poured a glass for him, and he drank it greedily. She then offered him more stew, and he shook his head.

"I may lay down for a moment. I apologize, My king."

Drake paid no mind. Thalia then helped her father to his feet, holding him like a feeble bag of sand by the shoulders. She disappeared for a moment, then returned, wiping her hands off on her frock distractedly.

"He is not well," she muttered before returning to the table. "But I was thinking about what you said, about the forging of artifacts and merging elements…"

Her lips thinned when she flickered her gaze at him. Drake didn't sense fear in her, but a watered-down dubiousness.

"Tell me," the king said, studying her.

Thalia stared down into the stew, then stood up once more from the table. She pointed with her thumb casually behind her, not wanting to meet the king's eye. Her tone was wistful, pride tangled in her tongue.

"I have quite a plentiful garden out back. That is the only place where I practice my spells. You see, the grounds here aren't very fertile. I have aided a few households without them being informed. My father knows, but only a little. He is ill, as you can see."

The king rose from the table, his clashing knees nearly upending it and sloshing the delicious stew to the floor. He went to the window and she followed behind him, bashful in her disposition.

What Drake saw there was anything but a simple, well-tended garden. He had his own on the palace property, and even that, while being watched over with meticulous and measured wardship, paled in comparison to what he was looking at outside the village woman's window.

The soil was teeming with vividly colored and robust vegetables, fruits, and exotic plants. The abundant harvest was cut off by a raised garden bed that ran along the horizontal lines of the house's property, with radiant green vines climbing the walls like gentle protectors.

The king spotted a range of lush crops, all draped in a dewy sprinkle of water. Bright lettuce heads, bold carrots, stout beets, and thick, long zucchini greeted him.

"What do you think?" she asked cautiously.

Beams of light crept in from the backyard and kissed along the bend of Thalia's jawline. It haloed her in a way that felt auspicious.

He smiled, and that made her visibly soften.

"Thalia, there is no way that an average human could produce such a spectacular sight. Not even the gardeners who live inside my palace. It is proof to me that you are, indeed, the Creation Sorceress I have been seeking."

There was a quiver of a smile tickling at her lips. The king then brazenly clapped his hands together, bringing her out of her brief reverie.

"That is settled then. Pack your bags, dear one. You will be joining me now at the palace."

Thalia took a step away from him, balking.

"I will do no such thing, good King. Who do you think you are?"

His expression darkened. Drake towered over her, taking a step closer. She kept moving until her heel brushed against the wall.

His tone rumbled as he spoke in a somber tone.

"Are you refusing the orders of a king?"

Then, much to his dismay, she rebutted, biting into each word confidently.

"You are the King of the Mountains. I live in the human territory. So your order falls short in these parts."

Drake sighed. He swallowed, re-centering himself to appeal to her intellect. He thought she was enthralled by his revelations and would eagerly oblige his orders to escape the drab existence of a humdrum caregiver.

"Listen to me, Thalia. A Creation Sorceress is a valuable commodity among the Wildwoods. Not only for gracious leaders such as me, but for far more malevolent ones…"

He turned toward the room where she had taken her frail father. When he looked back, her eyes had glassed over.

"Another of my kind seeks you out to do his bidding. He is also a dragon shifter. But he is far less…civil."

Thalia scoffed, which only made the king's blood run hot once more.

"Then I will refuse him too. I will not leave my father. I will not do as some dragon king demands."

There was a foot of space between them, so Drake closed it off. She stayed leaning against the wall, pressing her chest out like a wild creature, ready to defend her kin.

Drake raised his eyebrows at her flippantly, careful not to become lost in the spin of her gleaming, slightly frightened stare. Not to mention her scent, that lemon-salt blend.

"Thalia, Creation Sorceresses are not only valuable when they are living. Deceased, your very spirit can be distilled into a potent source of raw, creative power. That is not something my foe is beyond indulging in."

The king watched as the pulse in Thalia's neck began to hop up and down like a panicked hare.

In the dimming slants of light, he waited. He imagined the ambrosia of the sweet nape of her neck as he did.