Dragonbonded: Embers of Kin, an Epic Fantasy Omnibus with Slow-Burn Romance

Shadow's Embrace

The mist clung to the edges of the Emberwood like a worried ghost. It tasted of damp earth and decaying leaves, a familiar flavor on Lyra’s tongue. She moved through the trees not with the careful steps of someone navigating an unknown space, but with the practiced ease of someone who was the space. Roots twisted under her bare feet, cool and yielding. Sunlight, fractured by the canopy, dappled the forest floor in shifting patterns.

She wasn't hunting game, though a plump hare or two would be welcome. Lyra was listening. Not with her ears, but with something deeper. Something that thrummed beneath her skin, a faint echo of another consciousness. Nocturne.

Her dragon.

He was distant today, a muted presence at the edge of her awareness. Usually, even when he soared high above the peaks, she felt the press of his thoughts, his impressions. Now, it was like trying to grasp smoke. A sliver of anxiety tightened in her chest.

“Restless,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

Nocturne didn’t speak in words, not exactly. It was more like feelings, images, colors flooding her mind. Today, she received a flash of grey stone, a sense of cold, and a prickling unease. It wasn’t a warning, not yet. Just…disquiet.

The cottage, if it could be called that, was little more than a collection of salvaged wood and woven branches, half-hidden amongst the ancient trees. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, a thin promise of warmth against the chill of the forest. Lyra pushed open the roughly hewn door and stepped inside.

The single room was cluttered, but meticulously organized. Dried herbs hung from the rafters, their fragrance mingling with the scent of woodsmoke and something vaguely metallic. Books, scrolls, and charts covered every available surface. She wasn't a scholar, not in the way Seraphina was, but she collected knowledge like a squirrel hoarding nuts. Especially knowledge about dragons. About Dragonbinding.

Old Man Tiber, the village herbalist, had taught her much. Before…before the whispers started. Before the villagers began to avoid her, their eyes filled with fear and suspicion.

She moved to the hearth, where a pot of stew simmered over the embers. It was a simple meal, root vegetables, foraged mushrooms, a handful of dried beans, but it would sustain her.

A small, carved wooden dragon sat on the mantelpiece, its wings outstretched. It wasn’t Nocturne, not really. Just a representation. She traced the smooth wood with a calloused finger. He was unlike any other dragon in Aerthos. A shadow dragon, almost extinct. Their scales weren’t brilliant gold or emerald green, but a shifting, obsidian black. They weren’t creatures of fire and light, but of shadow and stillness.

And she, Lyra, was the first to bind with one in generations.

The binding wasn’t a physical connection, not like the shimmering cords some Dragonbonded described. It was…something far more intimate. A sharing of thoughts, of emotions, of very being. Nocturne was a part of her, and she, a part of him.

A part that the people of Oakhaven found deeply unsettling.

The stew was almost ready when she heard the crunch of footsteps outside. Not the light tread of a forest creature, but the purposeful stride of someone approaching with intent.

Lyra’s hand instinctively went to the small knife she kept strapped to her thigh. Old habit. She hadn’t needed to use it in months, but the feeling of its weight was comforting.

The door creaked open, revealing Gareth, the village blacksmith. He was a large man, with hands like hammers and a face weathered by years of working the forge. He didn’t meet her gaze.

“Lyra,” he said, his voice gruff. “The elder wants to see you.”

“Does he now?” Lyra asked, keeping her voice even. She knew this wasn’t a social call.

“There’s been talk,” Gareth mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot ...