The Werewolf King's Dragon Mate

The rocky slope of the mountain tears at your lungs with each ragged breath. Your body screams in protest, a symphony of aches and fatigue, but the rising shouts behind you spur you onward.

You stumble, catching yourself just before your head meets unforgiving stone, but the scrape of rock against skin leaves your arms raw and bleeding. A twisted shrub ensnares your boot, sending you tumbling forward.

Ripping the branch away, you scramble back to your feet. Your eyes lock onto a group of men, bows and swords glinting menacingly. Their shouts intensify as you force your aching legs to move faster, the rocky terrain giving way to the softer, yet frustrating, give of grass.

At the edge of the forest, you pause, the dark, dense trees a stark contrast to the open field. The men are gaining. Taking a deep, bracing breath, you plunge into the cool, shadowed silence of the woods.

It’s like diving into icy water. The air grows heavy, cold, and voices seem to whisper in the rustling leaves. The metallic tang of blood hangs in the wind. Fear, sharp and cold, blooms in your chest, setting your heart hammering against your ribs. This is claimed territory. Someone powerful resides here, you can feel it. A strange drowsiness washes over you, clouding your thoughts, the forest floor swaying beneath your feet.