Dragon Flame | MxM Fantasy

Prologue

"You must be joking!"

Armed with a familiarly infuriating, bland smile, Kyneburga regards him for a long moment of silence. "Would I joke about something like that?" she asks with that same nonchalance she employed to deliver the devastating news of Wystan's unwelcome reinstatement to the army ranks. 

That wretched woman!

Wystan lounges in one of the tapestry chairs set across from her seat behind the study desk. His usual sprawl turns more and more rigid as the seconds crawl by. The quiet is disturbed by a soft pitter-patter of her leather boots after she stands, an air of regal disposition left in her wake while she slowly treads through the room.

Kyneburga disregards his stiffened reaction, facing away to continue her slow gait. She has never really shown concern regarding her health, her body a sleek weapon she wields with the strength of her unwavering will. Even now when a trained soldier, a so-called hero with a similar level of skill is in the same room, she shows him her back without any fear. High windows line the eastern wall, she stops in front of them and pensively looks out where the sun is only just setting, orange and yellow fluter over the landscape. What she glimpses, what she sees, he doesn't know—never could, for they have never seen eye to eye.

"There is new intel," she informs him calmly like she hasn't completely shattered his whole world. "With your expertise, you should be able to slay the dragon." But then again, Kyneburga doesn't care.

Wystan can tell she's enjoying this. She enjoys making him suffer. For what reason, he can't tell, only that her mind works in different ways and her idea of well-spent time is plotting a war. He doesn't want this. He should be drinking up his inheritance in taverns and flirting with strangers in the smoke-filled, dingy rooms.

"Everyone who set out to kill the dragon of the Southern Lands failed."

Ah, it's a moot point, he realizes when Kyneburga lifts one eyebrow at him. She has that gleam in her blue eyes, the same blue eyes as his own but so much colder, almost dead except when there's this—this lust for violence deeply embedded in them. Tall and wiry, with hair dark as blackest soot, the woman always stands proud. As a Chief of Staff, she commands the Empire's army. As the Emperor's right hand, she can order anyone anything.

And Wystan has just been ordered to complete a mission.

"Your journey will take place in a fortnight," she informs him in that same tone of amused tranquility. "From today on, you are reinstated to active duty. You hold the same rank as before your retirement, Lieutenant-General. Pack for months. Be ready for an extended mission."

Of course. Months. He swallows thickly. The Southern Lands are several weeks away by foot, and even if one travels on mounts, the weather is treacherous in the Leeches Stretch at this time of the year which can, if unlucky, add enough length to travel that it again ends up being long.

Wystan is half a head taller than Kyneburga, but the Empire codex dictates that bowing should be done to prostrate oneself in front of a person of higher standing. His body barely listens to him, resulting in a decidedly awkward and ridiculous farce of a bow.

"Of course, General." His mouth went dry a quarter of an hour ago.

Kyneburga walks back to the desk. Her lips curve some more and pearly teeth flash into sight; a smile that bites, he supposes.

"Ah, don't look so put out, little brother," Kyneburga placates, fake concern mixing with equally fake sympathy. "You're the hero of the last war. Surely you can think of some way to slay the feral beast." She hums, holding out official documents that bind him to this travesty of a crusade. Blood-red wax shines on the paper front—the Emperor's sigil inextricably tying his fate. "It's the highest honor to be given the quest no one has ever been able to conquer. Camdyn will reimburse you generously when you come back."

If Wystan comes back. It's a suicide mission. His eyes stray to the cursive on the paper. Even better, if he comes back without disposing of the dragon, Camdyn's going to find a way to permanently retire him. Apparently, Wystan's on one too many shit lists.

Almost a decade and a half older than him, yet with barely any signs of time passage, Kyneburga is virtually a statue as she watches him expectantly. There is a particular note of wild mirth marring the pleasant calm that she displays outward.

Wystan clamps on his facial muscles, lest he'll be punished for disobedience if his sour mood breaks to the surface. He isn't Kyneburga's little brother anymore. Hasn't been for years and years. He is but a pawn in her game of chess that she shares with her twin Camdyn, the Emperor.

"Off you go," she says, and it's sickly sweet this time. "Kill that awful dragon for us, would you?"