The Rebellious Mate

5(i) Famous Last Words

Drach Nassau stomped his foot on the accelerator of his 1962 250 GTO Ferrari. The prancing horse with a V12 engine roared and protested as he pushed it to its limit: a measly one hundred seventy-four miles per hour. For the first time, driving this vintage sports car didn't distract him. His blood bubbled like molten lava within his veins.

 The columns of his castle's outer gate were a blur as he raced past them. He slowed down, yet the tires screeched as he swung the steering wheel to circle the driveway. The stench of burning rubber greeted him as he braked to a halt.

He kicked the door open and unfolded his cramped legs before hefting himself out of the bucket seat. The car, always too compact for him, was his pride and joy. Though a gift for his father, he'd sold it when they fell into penury. After he restored Ignissaxum to its former glory, to celebrate, he repurchased this car.

"I might as well upgrade," he mumbled, glowering at the sleek gray hood.

Drach should've transformed and flown. Except Attor, when upset, might've scorched everything in his path to blow off steam.

As he lifted his arms and stretched, the staff vanished in the hedges. Best they stayed out of his way. The flapping banners on the soaring walls of his family's ancestral lair danced in the rising wind. He studied the crimson dragon against a field of midnight black and huffed. 

Plumes of smoke escaped his flared nostrils. Livid, the humiliation of the afternoon chafed. Despite everything he'd built, he was still under the thumb of a weak, inferior creature.

The impending storm mimicked his current mood. He snapped his fingers, emitting sparks before he tossed the keys. Krev, his valet, caught them before ducking behind the ornate balusters of the porte-cochère.

The hidden hydraulic hinges whooshed as the portcullises lifted. He leapt over the marble stairs leading to the raised portico. The gigantic oak doors, enforced with brass filigree sheets, had opened as he reached them.

As he stepped into his cold drachenhaus, the stillness welcomed  him like an old friend.

The flickering fire formed dancing specters on the limestone walls. Moonlight, piercing the clouds, streamed in through the large stained glass windows and domed roof. The play of light and shadow added an ominous ambience to the entrance. As did the wide pillars carved with intricate ancient runes that were holding up the vaulted ceiling. He had chosen not to alter this hall, designed to intimidate visitors.

But he had added the centerpiece—a fifteen feet long jade statue of a Chinese dragon, studded with pearls and diamonds. It paid homage to an extinctline from the east. Instead of being destroyed or displayed to entertain humans, it sat on a plinth of almost translucent statuario marble of carrara. It belonged in the largest dragon hold in the world. Yet the sculpture's beauty did little to soften the starkness of the cavernous reception.

A couple of dim torches set into sconces guarded the grand formal hall. He marched up to the heavy Damascus iron doors that'd endured the pillaging of his familial seat. Even his muscles strained as he opened them. At the other end was a colossal stone hearth of painite. Carved above, it was the motto of his ancestors—hic sunt dracones.

A hearty fire illuminated the bare room. It was always lit... he'd have the castellans' head if it wasn't.

Drach stroked the simple high-backed oak throne, the seat of power he'd reclaimed against all odds. He ought to be proud, but his solemn father's portrait soured his mood further.

"Tell me, father, what else should I have done?" His weary question echoed but the dead offered no advice. "You're home. So am I. Why isn't that enough for now?"