Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King novel Chapter 70

Chapter 70: Is She A Dragon, Mommy? — Shh, Honey.

RULE 1: Walk into every room like you’ve already fucked everyone in it and they should be grateful.

Renwick Lunaris said that to Cassian once, before a treaty summit when Guinevere was eight and always listening. He also told Cassian that lessons weren’t yours unless you took them.

Fast forward twelve years, Guinevere Lunaris found herself in a negotiation.

The wards hit her the second she entered the throne room. It felt like a weight pressing against her chest and she couldn’t feel her wolf.

The throne sat on a raised dais at the far end. A singular throne. No second chair. Not even a stool. The architectural rejection was thorough.

RULE 2: Keep your legs moving and your face shut. Flinch and they’ll fuck you standing.

The hostages were on their knees chained on the sides of the throne room. Guinevere had seen the same setup in Lunaris. The only difference was their hands were bound behind their backs with dragon iron chain instead of silver. Several were bleeding.

Armed guards stood at intervals around the perimeter.

Ryker was on his knees at the front, a blade pressed against his throat by a man counting down from ten. His wrists were bound behind him with chain thick enough to anchor a ship. Whoever had restrained him had done so with the enthusiasm of someone who had tried a lighter chain first and learned their lesson.

Ryker’s eyes moved from Guinevere to Blair to the box. Back to Guinevere. His expression settled on something that, in a less restrained man, would have been ’you cannot be serious.’

"She’ll show. Grab a child," the man counting said in High Vhenarri, a dead language.

One that her father had made her learn at six years old.

RULE 3: A man talking shit in a language he thinks you can’t understand is whacking his dick like nobody’s home. He doesn’t think you’re watching. Let him finish. Then answer him in it. Watch him try to force his dominance back while his dick is still caught in his zipper.

Guinevere opened her mouth, speaking the same tongue.

"That won’t be necessary."

Every head in the room turned towards her. The man holding the blade to Ryker’s throat looked at her like she was a church girl who just walked into a drug compound and demanded a cut of the turf.

The figure at the center of the room stepped forward. He was dressed in black leather that carried no banner and no insignia.

He studied her for three full seconds. Then he spoke in Vel’khari, a trade tongue that had been dead for two centuries.

He gave his orders casually, the way a man orders a drink. "Seal the doors. Kill the dark-haired woman. The white-haired one is our target."

Two guards moved toward the doors. One drew his blade and turned toward Blair.

Guinevere responded in the same tongue.

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

Eight words. Same dead language. The look on his face was worth every miserable hour she had spent conjugating Vel’khari verbs at nine years old while other children played.

The man stopped. His pale eyes narrowed. The amusement that entered his expression was the kind reserved for things that were supposed to be predictable and had just become interesting.

He switched to Draethic. The oldest of the dead tongues, pre-wolf, pre-dragon, a language that had originated on neither continent and survived only in temple archives and the private libraries of obsessive kings.

"The ward stones will fall within the hour. When they do, the dampening field expands to the outer Keep. We hold this room until they arrive. She’s early, but she will come with us—"

Guinevere cut him off mid-sentence in Draethic.

"Try a new one. You’re zero for three."

The room went silent. The six guards exchanged glances. The hostages stared. Ryker’s eyebrows climbed so high they nearly left his face.

The man switched to the common tongue. "Alright, you have my attention. How does a wolf princess from Nyros end up fluent in three dead tongues?"

The answer was: a childhood with no friends, unlimited library access, and spite.

RULE 4: If you have nothing, make the bastard move three times. Demand the table. He’ll laugh, that’s one. Then he’ll swing, that’s two. Don’t react to either. He’ll swing again harder, that’s three. Now you have his playbook.

"What needs to happen for every person in this room to walk out of it?" she asked.

He laughed. The sound bounced off the obsidian and came back hollow.

"You want to talk terms? Let’s talk inventory first. No flame. No shift. No weapons you brought yourself. No army. No king. One friend with a box." He counted on his fingers. "That’s six problems and zero solutions, sweetheart. But please. Continue."

"The wards should be suppressing all wolf abilities. Shifting, speed, reflexes. How is she still moving at that velocity? Check the ward anchors. And where is Lieutenant Voss?"

RULE 5: After he shows his playbook, mirror it back to him. Then wait. Watch him repeat the exact same moves without realizing it. Congrats. You now own that motherfucker.

"He’s here," she said in the common tongue. Then she switched to Setharii, the language he had used to give orders he assumed she could not understand. "Your wards are in shambles outside. Your Lieutenant says hello. And your operational language isn’t operational anymore. Your move."

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