Gemma Draconica

For the dreamers who chase dragons and believe in soulmates, and for anyone who’s ever found love in the most unexpected places, this one’s for you.

ALIXANDER

Metal hooks tear through the wall as my father’s portrait is dragged down, leaving the plaster raw and white as bone. Every inch his face sinks, crushes another breath from my lungs.

Then, silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that echoes.

I step to the window and shove my trembling hands into my pockets. Outside, the French Alps loom like jagged titans cloaked in mist. A year ago, Father and I shifted into our dragons and flew over those mountains…

I rub my chest—there’s a spot over my heart—hollowed by my mother’s last breath, then shattered by my father’s death.

For a heartbeat, the space above the fireplace is bare. Then my picture rises. The old king is gone. My eyes, cold and grey, stare down at me.

“It’s done,” says Varina, the Grand Duchess de Alarie. Her voice is ice over steel. “All the necessary arrangements have been made.”

I stalk to the whiskey cabinet and pour myself two finger lengths.

Varina is my uncle’s widow. He died a few days after my coronation of the same strange, sudden fever that took my mother’s life. She ought to be in mourning, but she’s been managing the queen’s duties since mother’s death. She seems to enjoy her role as the de facto queen.

I lock my jaw. Breathe, and take a seat behind father’s—no, my—desk.

“I’m not your pawn, Varina. Try to move me again, and I’ll flip the board.”

I take a long swig from my glass as I lean back in the chair.

Varina’s lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Malynda will arrive on Thursday. She’ll stay in the East Wing until the queen’s apartments are ready.”

I sit straight up. The edges of the room ripple, stained in a crimson haze. Paint blisters on the walls; chandeliers tremble. The glass in my hand shatters. Whiskey drips from my fingertips as my claws retract.

“Those are my mother’s rooms,” I snarl.

The floor groans beneath my feet as I rise.

Varina dismisses the trembling stewards with a wave of her hand. She walks over to my portrait, her gaze drifting upward. Her nose wrinkles.

“Your mother is dead, Alixander. She doesn’t need them anymore.” Varina shrugs, and continues. “Lord Bomris will arrive on Saturday for the engagement convocation. We’ll meet with him to finalize the details of your marriage contract, and then you and Malynda will meet the press afterward for a photocall. All the major news outlets. Vogue, of course,”she looses a long sigh,“and I suppose People Magazine.”

“I said no. Cancel it. All of it.“

Varina folds her arms across her chest.

“Now is not the time for your stubbornness. Lord Bomris is threatening to retake the Ural Mountains from the Garrandons.”

“Achlys is claiming Garrandon territory?” I snort. “What an original idea.”

Varina’s expression hardens. “This isn’t a joke natus meus.” (nephew)

I take another sip of whiskey.

“No, it’s not. Neither were the first three dragon wars his ancestors started over those rocks. Is he squaring up for a fourth? He can’t ’retake’ territory that was never his.”

Varina ignores my comment.

“No one wants another war. That is why you will take Malynda as your consort. Lord Bomris won’t be your enemy after the convocation. He’ll be your father-in-law and your strongest ally, and all this silly claw-rattling will cease.”

I scoff. “Allies don’t send their daughters as daggers in disguise. Bomris doesn’t want to be my ally. He wants my throne.”

“Malynda is no assassin. Her presence will bring style and grace to your court.”

“She’ll poison it.”

“Don’t be dramatic. The Obsidian Council approved the betrothal yesterday. They’ll expect you to follow through.”

“Approved?” I arch a brow. “Since when do I need their approval to take a wife? Or anything, for that matter?”

Steady. Breathe.

Her jaw ticks. “You’ll have to learn to respect the council, Alixander. They’re the only reason the dragon lords haven’t risen up against the Alarie throne. Every king before you has heeded their advice. You don’t want to provoke them.”

“Respect? Or submit? The Obsidian Council’s job is to guide the crown, not leash it. My father never allowed the council to overrule him—and they will not rule me. I don’t take orders. I give them.”

Varina takes a long, slow inhale.

“Do you realize how fragile your throne is right now? You’re the youngest Dragon King in history. Lord Varuna questioned whether you were...mature enough for the weight that comes with the crown.”

I lean back in my chair and steeple my hands in front of my face.

“That’s borderline treason.” I arch a brow. “Who else has voiced these...concerns?”

Varina lowers herself into one of the plush chairs on the other side of the desk.

“Lord Nephele commented on your–youth–to my brother when they met last week.”

I hum as I walk over to the credenza and pour myself another whiskey.

Interesting.

Ryjun’s brazeness doesn’t surprise me. The Varuna horde has allied with the Achlys since the first dragon war. But Ladon allying himself with Viktor? No, that can’t be right…

Fuck.

As if she could read my thoughts, Varina continues.

“An alliance with Lord Bomris, would end billions of years worth of adversity. The council convenes next week. You’ll be able to allay their fears. And the festivities this weekend should placate the humans for awhile.”

“What does it matter what humans think? They’re no threat to us.”

“No, but they can hurt other creatures—werewolves, vampires, mermaids—your subjects. The ones you’ve sworn to protect.”

“So, an engagement between Malynda Achlys and me,”her name tastes bitter in my mouth,“will prevent—my subjects—from being harmed, get Bomris to settle down, and make the council happy. Did I miss anything?”

“Don’t be petulant, Alixander. Our world has been in mourning since your parents died. The humans continue to war in the middle east… It’s time for hope. What could be more inspiring than the Dragon King finding the love of his life?”

I blink. “Excuse me? Malynda? The love of my life?”

“We’ll have the press release refer to her as your Gemma Draconica. It’ll dominate every headline—“enemies to lovers.”

She waves her hand in the air like she’s presenting a headline.

I shake my head .“More like enemies forever. Besides, everyone knows we don’t have mates. Those were for the dragons of the prehistoric world—if they existed at all. And if the stories were true…” I meet her stare.“Malynda Achlys would not be mine.”

The gemma draconica is a myth. The supposed soulmate of our ancient dragon ancestors. An unbreakable bond of fire and fate, woven for eternity‌ My mother used to sing lullabies about finding my soul’s other half. Her voice haunts me...

“Someday, you’ll find her, cor meum. (My heart) The love of your life...“

No, draconians don’t have fated mates. We do not tie our fates to the whims of the Hellenistic gods.

There is no such thing as a gemma draconica.

Even if it were true, I’d pass. Love has taken enough from me. It killed my father.

Love.

The word turns to ash in my mouth, acrid and bitter. Father’s death left me with an ache in my heart and a vow burned into my soul. I will never allow love to destroy me the way it did him. Love didn’t take him in one blow. It carved him out, piece by piece, until only a shell remained.

A chill sweeps through the room. Frost spiders across the windowpanes, courtesy of Varina’s glacial bloodline.

Varina’s face hardens. “Drak oruun non curvat cor obstinatum. (Dragon flame does not bend for a stubborn heart) You have no choice. You lost that luxury when your father wasted away.”

“No one is going to control me, least of all you.”

Varina steps closer. Her perfume, a cloying blend of stale roses, suffocates the space between us. A slow smile spreads across her face.

“I’m not trying to control you, natus meus. I want you to succeed. You wear the crown, but you’ve yet to earn its weight.”

I almost let the beast out.

Almost.

But a knock at the door breaks the moment. Marcus Garrandon, my best friend, strides in. My first act as king was to name him my grand chamberlain. He bows with one fist over his heart.

“Dominus Rex.”

He nods to Varina.

“Domina Ducissa Varina.”

I wave him. My fingers still tremble, so I drop my hand into my pocket.

“Enough with the formalities, Marcus.” I clear my throat. “In private, I’m still Alix.”

He smirks and gestures to Varina. “Does this courtesy extend to the Ducissa?”

The corner of my lip twitches. “I dare you.”

“No thanks.” He winks. “I like my balls right where they are.”

I laugh—trust Marcus to cut the tension like he always does, but his eyes darken.

“Pardon my intrusion. Chancellor Abbott has requested we send a diplomatic envoy to the United States.”

My eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Tensions have been heating up between the Shadow Shroud Coven and the Shadow Moon Pack for some time now. They’ve had a few skirmishes.”

I glance at North America on the ornate map that covers the wall opposite the credenza. The Shadow Shroud vampires and the Shadow Moon wolfpack are the two largest supernatural factions in North America. If they start tearing one another apart, the rest of the US will take sides, and the next thing you know the entire North American continent will be engulfed, upending thousands of years of peace under my father’s reign.

“What the hell happened? Schuyler and Dimitrov have coexisted in harmony for over a century.”

Marcus runs a hand through his hair.

“Things have been heating up since Zayne’s daughter went missing. He blames Phillip’s pack.”

I freeze with my drink halfway to my mouth.

“Zayne’s daughter is missing? Since when?”

“Almost a year.”

“A year? Why am I only hearing about this now?”

Marcus swallows. “She vanished the weekend your mother…”

Fuck.

Father was so consumed by his grief, Ascher had to step in and manage his day-to-day duties.

My gaze shifts to Varina. “Did the Grand Duke know?”

Varina sniffs. “Perhaps, but your uncle didn’t waste time with squabbling vampires and wolves. He was too busy protecting your throne while your father was languishing. ”

“An Obsidian Council member’s daughter has been missing for a year, and no one thought I should know?

“And what would you have done?”Varina sniffs. “These matters are best left to your governors.”

I give her a pointed look before turning back to Marcus.

“Why hasn’t Zayne brought this up in a council meeting?”

“He hasn’t attended a meeting since his daughter vanished,” replies Marcus.

Fuck. I should have known that.

I tug my hand through my hair. “No emissary. I’ll go myself.”

Varina releases a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Alix, kings don’t gallivant across continents. Let your grand chamberlain do his job.”

“I’m not gallivanting. I’m intervening. I will not sit by and watch the United States descend into anarchy.”

I turn to Marcus.

“Have the pilot ready the jet. We’ll leave today.”

My muscles twitch at the thought of getting on the plane. I’d rather shift—shed the human form, stretch my wings, and fly west. It would be faster. Easier. More satisfying. But dragons in the sky unsettle the human population. Always have.

Marcus bows. “Ut vis, Majesté.”(As you wish, Majesty.)

I clasp his shoulder. “Gratias tibi ago, frater.“ (Thank you, brother.)

He shoots me one of his signature Hollywood smiles.

“Always my friend.”

He turns to leave and almost collides with my aunt, who has rmoved to stand behind him.

“Ignosce mihi, Domina.” (Pardon me, Duchess)

Varina’s eyes narrow as she flicks her chin up and dismisses him without a word.

After Marcus leaves, she approaches while I adjust the silver cufflinks on my sleeves. The ones bearing the Alarie crest—the ones my mother gave me before she...

She begins to straighten the knot in my black silk tie.

“Your father wouldn’t have allowed himself to be summoned over such a trivial matter,”she mutters.

I swat away her icy hands; hands that are not my mother’s...

“A missing woman is not a trivial matter.”

Varina ignores me and reaches for my tie again.

“Argentius respected the council; he understood the necessity of having the dragon lords united on his side.”

“The council is meddlesome and unnecessary.”

“Your father—”

“I’m not my father,”I say through clenched teeth.

“No, you’re not,” she grits out.

A soft knock on the door interrupts before she can say more. A low snarl escapes my lips.

Who dares knock on the door of the king’s office uninvited?

“Enter,” snaps Varina.

The Grand Mage, Gulielmus, sweeps in like a shadow—tall, graceful, wearing a tailored grey suit.

A wave of revulsion snaps through me.

“Majeste,” he bows.

“I haven’t given you leave to use that address with me, mage.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “Apologies—Dominus Rex.”

He hides his resentment well, but not well enough. I catch the slight tick of his jaw. His gaze flicks to my portrait on the wall before he gives me a bow sharpened to the correct degree.

“Ducissa,” he says, turning to Varina.

Dark eyes soften as they land on my aunt.

“You look radiant today.”

His voice is warm in a way it never is for anyone else.

Varina lifts her chin and gives him a small, private smile.

“Gulielmus.”

She lifts her hand and allows him to place a kiss on the back of it.

“Forgive the intrusion—Rex Draconum, but I was informed that you haven’t signed the arrest warrant I issued for the rogue spellcaster in Shanghai.”

He extends a cream-colored folder embossed with the royal crest.

I harden my gaze.

“You want permission to execute an eleven-year-old child–the answer is no.”

Gulielmus tips his head. A sympathetic smile ghosts his lips.

“Ah yes, well, it’s unfortunate that one so young entered puberty.”

I shrug. “So she started her period. That’s not a reason to execute her.”

“Maj—” Gulielmus’s expression tightens. “—Rex Draconum–but the girl has manifested. The temple where she had her ascension test performed recorded her as a level four spellcaster.“

My pulse spikes. I take a sip of whiskey.

“Still doesn’t warrant execution.”

“I beg to differ, Rex Draconum,“ he says, tone clipped. “Failure to register at their local mana warden’s office, makes this child a rogue spellcaster. The last thing the world needs right now, is a rogue human drawing mana to a level four. If she learns how to channel into her heart chakra, she would be able to perform aeromancy.” He raises a brow. “Wind manipulation.“

“I’m aware of what aeromancy is,“ I reply drily. “I’m assure you my skills are better than yours.”

He blanches.

I toss his file in the garbage can.

“Potential is not the same as ability. Aeromancy requires complex elemental magic that requires humans years to learn. No eleven-year-old child is going to develop that skill on their own.”

There’s a flash of irritation in his eyes.

“With respect—” Gulielmus exhales, a controlled release of frustration. “Humans wielding mana beyond a level three pose a significant threat. They could destabilize the power hierarchy of our world.”

“You’re worried an eleven-year-old child could bring down the social hierarchy of the supernatural world?” I chuckle darkly. “What is it you’re really afraid of, Gulielmus? Perhaps one day a stronger spellcaster might show up and challenge you?”

A shadow crosses his face.

“Humans were never meant to channel mana,” says Varina. “It’s an abomination. And they are dangerous. The Nazi employed level four witches. They might have won the war had your father not ordered Gulielmus to intervene. This rogue must be executed. Argentius wouldn’t have questioned this. He—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” I snarl. “I am well aware of my father’s history with spellcasters.”

A cruel, bloody history. Father held no love for casters. For centuries, it was straight to execution. I watched him burn more than a few.

Gulielmus’s lips press together. “I realize this may seem–harsh, but it is sovereign law. Your law. All spellcasters must register at their local mana warden’s office. Failure to do so—”

“I know what the law says. So what of it? You want me to sign a death warrant for a child because their parents didn’t put them on your register?” I chuckle mirthlessly. “It’s not my authority you’re trying to protect; it’s yours. I don’t see why we have spellcasters register, anyway. They’re the only creatures required to do so.”

His jaw tightens. Varina’s eyes flick to him—warning or worry, I can’t tell.

“Father gave you a long leash, Gulielmus, but as I was telling my aunt before you interrupted, I am not my father. My reign will be different.

Gulielmus straightens. “Your father tasked me with protecting the supernatural world by keeping spellcasters in line,” he says in a low voice. “The registry is vital to maintaining order.”

Order? No. Control is more like it. I study him. He stares. Waiting. Calculating.

“This conversation is over. I’m leaving. You can request a private audience with me to discuss how we proceed with your registry and spellcasters when I return.”

The temperature in the room doesn’t change—but Gulielmus’s displeasure sucks the air tight.

“You’re—you’re leaving, Maj—Rex Draconum?” he manages.

“That’ll be all, mage.”

I give him a nod of dismissal.

Gulielmus bows stiffly to me, then to Varina before leaving in a swirl of simmering resentment.

The door clicks behind him. Varina gapes at me.

“What has come over you? You cannot allow rogue spellcasters to run amok.”

“I’m not signing death warrants on children to feed his overdeveloped sense of power and importance. I don’t have time for this. I need to leave.”

Varina pinches the bridge of her nose. “You can’t leave for California. Your engagement is this weekend.”

“And I’ve given you my answer.”

Her lips press into a pale, bloodless line. “Lord Bomris will take your rejection as a direct insult.”

“I don’t care what he thinks.”

“You’ll care when he brings his army to the Urals. The last time an Achlys army marched, the dinosaurs went extinct.”

“He wouldn’t dare. Now, enough of this. If you need me, call the Royal Embassy in Carmel by the Sea.”

I kiss my aunt’s cheek and walk her to the door before she can say another word.

As soon as she’s gone, I glance at my face on the wall. Thirteen portraits have sat there before mine. What would they think?

With a long sigh, I stride out the door. My feet hesitate at the corner of the hall. The door to my mother’s study stands ajar. Golden light slants across the floor.

I should keep going. But I don’t. Her scent lingers. Not strong—just a whisper of lilac and heliotrope. Still clinging to the air...

Father’s scent is gone. Power fades fast, doesn’t it?

But love...

I rest my hand on the doorframe, thumb brushing the edge. I could push it open.

But I don’t.

There’s nothing in there for me now. Just echoing silence.

Marcus’s footsteps echo down the hall. He stops beside me. His hand rests on my shoulder—solid, steady. For a moment, we stand in silence—two sons left behind by the same fire. One from her womb, and one from her heart.

With a nod from me, he turns, and we walk down the hall. Together.