1. Chapter 1

***In Rajpur the word summers is synonymous with the word years Eg Nine years = Nine summers

Kamir stood on the balcony outside his dressing room and stared out at the city. His life sentinel, Mansala would not be pleased to see him standing out here alone, sipping his coffee, but thanks to the ridiculous edicts of past emirs, no building more than two stories high was permitted to be within a half mile of the palace in Rajpur. The people farther out in the main part of the city were allowed, of course, to build their structures as high as they wanted. Shopkeepers, tavern owners and the like all lived above their shops, and hostels and pleasure houses often had three or four levels, but none of those were close enough to fire an arrow from.

But he had bigger problems today than an imaginary assassin. He’d run out of time. Today, he would lose the throne and his people—his starving, downtrodden people—would lose what little freedom and sustenance they had managed to claw back since the end of the war and his father’s rule. Because while he assumed the title of Emir on his father’s death, he had six full moons to prove he was worthy of the gods to be crowned, and today he would fail.

Not that Kamir particularly cared what any of their gods thought, or craved their approval, but summers of tradition that he could not avoid if he wanted to be crowned meant that today he had to prove to the ruling assembly that he could do the most important thing required of him.

Shift.

To prove he was blessed by the gods to be the emir, he had to shift into his wolf. Except, he had never been able to. His age of provenance, as it was called – sixteen summers – had happened during the war, and no one had even noticed that shy, quiet, studious Kamir hadn’t shifted into his wolf. His father intended to rule for summers and finding another possible heir was the last thing on his mind.

The only one who knew was his greatest friend and protector, Mansala, and he would take that secret to the grave if he had to. And to be honest, Kamir had never wanted to be the emir. If he had a choice, he would be a scribe and historian. He’d nearly finished documenting the last seven hundred summers of Rajpur and was eager to continue. His sister Veda was much more suited to rule a kingdom, but her gender prohibited her, and that was another edict he couldn’t alter. It would take him demonstrating his provenance, being confirmed the emir, and the further impossibility of the deaths of all sixteen members of the ruling assembly to replace with his own to change such a law. Since today was the day he had to prove he was worthy of the gods and he couldn’t, the whole thing was moot.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had a suitable replacement, but the first in line was his uncle—his father’s younger brother—then either of his uncle’s twin sons. They were all as cruel and greedy as his own father, sometimes worse, if that was possible. His father had been selfish and greedy himself, but lazy, and without Kamir’s Uncle Gabar whispering in his father’s ear, the emir would never have challenged Cadmeera.

“My lord?”

Kamir turned and glanced at Mansala with an affection born when they children growing up in each other’s shadow. Life sentinels were chosen as children. Boys born the same day as he were lined up at the palace for approval on their fourth birthday. Families desperate for the coin and the escape from poverty such a position afforded often deliberately brought forward births or even tried to plan conception around the ritual once the emir took a wife.

After the third boy presented had grasped a kitten from a box he had brought and in front of the assembly wrung its neck to prove he was capable of killing, Kamir had risked his father’s displeasure and fled to throw up in one of the pots in his bathing room.

Mansala had followed him, unseen. To this day Kamir had never known how he seemed to disappear into the background until he was needed, but in that wretched space where Kamir had felt disgusted, sickened to his stomach, and had hated being alive, Mansala had prevented any servant from seeing him and adding to his humiliation, and a lifelong friendship had been born.

It was the only decision that Kamir was allowed to make for himself, and one he never regretted.

“All is arranged,” he said.

Kamir felt the burn of frustrated tears. Veda had suggested his uncle meet a timely death, but he had two sons, Iskar and Damatrious, who were both as bad as their father, so nothing in Rajpur would improve, and Kamir would still be prevented from assuming the crown.

The only thing he knew for certain was that today would end in his own death. There was no way his uncle or his cousins would allow him to live. If that was all he had to fear, Kamir wouldn’t have honestly cared about dying, but he knew it would mean the death of Mansala, his sister, and his closest servants, and he couldn’t risk that.

To say nothing of plunging the kingdom into greater poverty and possibly more war, but at the moment he was at a loss as to how to prevent that. So, they had planned their escape for today. With the help of Attiker and Raz’mar from Cadmeera, a diversion during the ceremony would allow them to escape.

He’d even met Attiker’s dragon Eldara in the hope she could bring forward his wolf, but she had confirmed to his regret that he had no wolf inside him. It had been his last hope.

“I was standing here pretending all we’ve worked for in the last few months wasn’t a futile exercise.”

Mansala met his gaze. “Good is never futile, my lord.”

“At least I won’t be your emir after today and you are finally free to call me by my given name.” Mansala arched a disbelieving eyebrow and somehow in the middle of such wretchedness, it made Kamir laugh. Even as children, Mansala had refused to call Kamir by his given name.

They quickly went over the secret plans as Mansala helped Kamir dress after he had bathed, and they shared a light breakfast. Veda had explained there would be a fake rebellion, staged by her secret mate Draul Eryken—the leader of the human alliance—and during the attempted assassination, Kamir would be secretly squirreled away. In the confusion, Kamir, Mansala and three trusted guards would escape through the underground passages, mount horses waiting with Draul’s crew and flee to Cadmeera.

They would have Raz’s protection while they decided what to do.

And Kamir hated every part of the plan. He was grateful his friends were about to save his life, obviously, but felt agonized over failing to save his people.

“Ah,” Attiker had whispered after seeing Eldara last month. “Do not forget that alive, you can fight another day. Dead and the hopes of your people die with you.”

Kamir had eyed Attiker suspiciously after the very grandiose words had left his mouth. Attiker huffed. “Yeah, you caught me. I’m quoting my lord and master. I would just tell you to screw ‘em, but his way sounded fancier.”

Kamir laughed for the first time in quite a while. Because everyone knew Raz hadn’t any hope in hell of mastering Attiker, and he freely admitted it to his friends.

The ceremony was at three bells after midday, but the celebrations that Kamir equally dreaded started two bells before that and the hours to that point would both drag yet simultaneously speed along.

There would be feasting and pleasure slaves available, both of which Kamir hated. His uncle knew he preferred the male sex, as he had gone through the endless futile presentations for a future mate, so at least his preferences were clear.

The presentation of a mate didn’t work in the same way as it had for Attiker and Raz. There was no requirement for him to change his mate into an animal—which was just as well, Kamir thought with bitter humor, since he couldn’t even change himself. The one thing his people did expect was fidelity. But first his grandfather, then his father, had swiftly gotten around that by insisting their mate was veiled in public. Everyone knew his father went through women like candied fruit, but as they were veiled and usually drugged up on fever white, the public was none the wiser.

But he had to pretend. He had to keep the pretense until it got to the expected shift into his animal and the crowning that wouldn’t happen in order to give Raz and Draul’s men time to sneak into the palace grounds along with all the dignitaries assembled for the party.

Or perhaps orgy was a better word than celebration. Whatever word you used, the next two hours were supposed to be about pleasure – which meant eating, drinking, and sex. With his throat closed and his heart beating like a drum, he wasn’t sure which of the three would be worse.

Tsaria kept his head down as he had been taught, and obeyed the instructions not to prostrate himself in the emir’s presence which was expected. Born the youngest son of a poor farmer, his days were filled with exhaustive drudgery until at ten his father had decided that three mouths to feed were one too many and he’d been sold to a pleasure trader. It had hurt so much at first, but the pleasure slaves were at least fed and kept in comfort, so he embraced the life, away from the cruel dictates of his father. His two older brothers had never much seemed to care about him either, so it seemed little to bargain for food and a bed to sleep in to allow customers to use his body as they willed. But at nineteen he was starting to grow too old. His body seemed to develop muscles despite his attempt to stay soft.

And his customers began to shy away. Then he woke one morning to be told by his owner, Ishmael, his last chance was to be taken as a permanent pleasure slave by the emir, of all people, because he preferred males and it was rumored the emir would only look at males he didn’t consider children. He knew if he wasn’t accepted into the royal household, the next stop would be the streets or the Market of All Souls, and fuck only knew who would buy him there.

He would probably be forced to take the fever white. How he’d avoided it this long he didn’t know, but if he was destined for the market, they would get him nice and addicted first. So he didn’t care where he went. That he would do anything for his next fix. He’d seen it so many times.

Ishmael had been blunt. Be accepted into the emir’s harem or face the consequences.

Tsaria was one of seven pleasure slaves, male and female, to be taken to the palace. Two of them, Izella and Karice, were equally as desperate and frightened, but for different reasons. Izella was nearing thirty summers. She knew her days were numbered with Ishmael and if she failed here, it would be the streets. Karice was a bare twelve summers. Her father had similarly dragged her to Ishmael in return for coin but not to feed his sons like Tsaria’s own father had, but to pay for the ale he drank every night. Tsaria was helpless to aid either of them. There were two new boys barely aged thirteen summers and untouched, in case the rumors were false and the emir preferred young ones. If they were true, then the boys would be given to the emir’s guests if they paid enough, or Ishmael would take them back.

They were shown into a cleansing room to prepare. Tsaria refused the poppy, but Izella took hers and urged Karice to do the same, saying it would relax her. He opened his mouth to object but hesitated. Karice was terrified, and whatever was going to happen today would do so whether she was a hundred percent aware of it or not.

He balled his fists in an unusual flare of desperate temper. Had he a blade right then, he would have ended his miserable daily fight, and hoped the goddess would take pity on him and accept him to the heavens. If she didn’t, well, if he was sent to the market he would soon be in hell, so how much worse could it be?

Bathed, perfumed and slicked with oil, he finished his own preparations methodically. He had refused food this morning and almost envied the females their extra orifice that meant they didn’t need to be clean in the same manner, but then he knew the absence of the pleasure slave Ayella’s moon-bleed was not simply due to the herbs some of them took. Her belly would soon display the true reason, and at least he didn’t have to deal with that.

For a moment, he ached with the visions of another life. Of holding a baby in his arms. His child. But then, even if he was ever lucky enough to get a life partner, since he preferred males the chances of that were zero.

They were led into a large room. If it wasn’t for what was about to happen, Tsaria would have appreciated the huge windows that flooded the room with light, and the heavy velvet drapes that shielded the windows, giving the space a more intimate feel even this early in the day. He noted the tables set around the room filled with every conceivable delicacy, and the wine to accompany them. The beds for reclining and the soft cushions for fucking.

He had been in such a room a hundred times.

Ishmael clapped his hands, and they hurried to spread out so when the honored guests came in, they could see them easily to make their selection. He walked to the back but was stopped by Ishmael. “No, you place yourself there.” He pointed to the center, and though Tsaria was surprised, he obeyed.

“None of you sit until they arrive,” he reminded them unnecessarily.

Then, with a fanfare of trumpets, the doors opened, and his breath caught as the most beautiful man Tsaria had ever seen walked ahead of all the others into the room. This must be the emir, followed by his guests, but he barely noticed the others, as he was too enraptured by the deep brown eyes that surveyed the room, a shade darker than his golden-brown skin, the full lips Tsaria ached to taste, and the slim body he knew would feel fantastic wrapped around his own.

Tsaria stepped back in astonishment. He hadn’t had a reaction like this in…well, ever. The men that paid for him were often cruel. There were times when a beating had meant Ishmael couldn’t use him for a good seven days afterwards until his marks healed. The only thing Ishmael wouldn’t permit were permanent scars, so Tsaria guessed he should be lucky.

He watched as everyone hesitated while the emir made the first choice, and Tsaria caught the sudden flash of what seemed like grief in those expressive brown eyes before it was quickly masked.

And then the emir’s gaze fell on him and the world simply disappeared. Or at least altered beyond all recognition. The deep brown eyes that focused on him seemed to lighten as he watched, his astonishment making it difficult to even take a breath. Not that air seemed necessary at that moment, as everything except the man he stared at became inconsequential.

He guessed the emir must have walked over, because in the next moment he stood in front of Tsaria with his hand extended, and Tsaria was helpless not to reach out. To touch what was his. Peace suffused him. In that moment nothing else existed except pure love for this magnificent creature. Nothing in his life had ever felt so wonderful, so freeing.

The second they touched, a flame seemed to ignite inside him. He had a moment to gasp before the burn seemed to spread up his arm and through every part of his body, but then the cry in front of him from the emir grabbed his attention. The emir let go of Tsaria, his body arched. Bending his head back, he opened his mouth to scream. Flames shot from between his lips as if some demon had possessed him.

Tsaria fell to his knees, but screams broke out around him and a stampede started as people ran to the door. Smoke blinded him, terror rendered him immobile, until finally silence settled around the room and, stunned, he realized he was still alive.

Tsaria took a breath and when it didn’t hurt, he opened his eyes, amazed. They widened in awe and sheer disbelief as he stared in front of him. Where once a man had stood, there was now a dragon .

A real dragon.

A fire-breathing twenty-foot-tall dragon that had to duck to avoid the ceiling. For a moment he wondered if the water he’d sipped that morning had been drugged, but as his eyes roved over the gleaming purple and blue scales, he shivered at the size of the beast’s talons, then gaped at the ridges that fell along its back and extended to the length of a very large, very powerful tail, until his eyes finally rested on the dragon’s head and snout.

And he stared into its eyes.

The now amber ones he absolutely knew had been looking at him a moment ago, but in the body of the emir.