The Last Draig by JD Linton

Author:JD Linton [Linton, JD]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2023-11-07T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Rogue

It was the next morning by the time I rose. I had faint memories of Ara crawling back into bed at some point and leaving again before I had roused. She left a note on the pillow next to mine that read:

Gone with Alden. Come find us if you need me. I love you.

Ara

In turn, I left a note for her detailing my plans for the day.

After dressing and eating a light breakfast, I headed straight for the library, silently hoping I wouldn’t see any of our family. I wanted solitude—certainly not their concern, or Goddess forbid, pity when I inevitably told them what I was setting out to do today.

I needed to shift again. I needed practice. The last one was as painful as the first, and the thought of doing it again left me nauseous if I let it linger for too long. I was going to change that; I couldn’t allow myself to be afraid. We didn’t have time. With war looming on the horizon, I needed to master it, but more than that, I wanted to.

I wanted to shift without fear or pain. I wanted to embrace every part of who I was and thrive in it because it was mine. This shift, this familial magic, the Draki name was mine, and I wanted to claim it with pride because I deserved it—with my blood, sweat, and tears, I had earned it.

To do that, I needed to shift again…and again and again.

I swallowed hard, turning the back corner of the library to find the door to the shifting room, shrouded in shadows. It was once a grand entrance, lined with lit torches, carved wyvern bones, and other ceremonial extravagance—before the decimation of the Draki line.

The shifting bloodline had come to an abrupt halt with me, or so we thought. After the death of Adrastus and the final remaining descendant was left without a shift, the room was deemed useless, just another sad reminder of what could have been for our family—for me. So, it was left to rot, abandoned in a forgotten corner.

Until now.

I had never entered the room before two days ago—saw no need—but standing before it now, I felt nerves swirling in my gut, as if I was somehow still unwelcome and undeserving. I knew that was merely my own insecurities pricking at me after a lifetime of hanging my head in shame, so I shoved the feeling down. I had shifted, my father was an awful, worm-eaten memory, and I was chosen by the wyverns for my heart and soul, my being.

If nothing else, I was worthy of stepping inside, of standing where my grandfather had once stood, and his father before him. I had already been in there once; I didn’t understand why it felt wrong now, or why I was standing here attempting to convince myself that I deserved to enter.

I lifted my hand and slid a finger over the ancient carvings, leaving a trail through the dust that had accumulated over the decades.

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