DRAKENFELL — THRONE ROOM
Across Skardos, in Shadowclaw, Serena was shifting and Dexmon goddamn knew it because every bone in his body was telling him so with enthusiasm.
He was mid-briefing with three officers when the shift hit.
His hands slammed flat on the war table. His jaw locked. The officers stopped talking because the Crown Prince's eyes had just gone solid gold and his breathing sounded like a man being stabbed from the inside.
"Fuck..." The rest of the sentence stayed behind his teeth.
Twelve seconds. Twelve seconds of Serena's pain channeled through a matebond that delivered the agony at full fidelity. The officers stood frozen, because there was no protocol for the Crown Prince of Drakenfell folding over a war table in the middle of a force deployment summary, and improvising felt dangerous.
At thirteen, Dex straightened. Wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
"Continue."
