Novel & Cerita Dungeons & Dragons Honour Among Thieves Doric

He was walking slowly, and as he came into the moonlight, everyone saw what he was doing very clearly. Lihont was holding Darcy tightly against his chest and his arm was wrapped around her waist, and in his other hand, he held a long silver dagger pressed directly against her throat. Darcy’s face was pale, and her eyes were wide with a silent plea for help and she looked so small and fragile. But that wasn't all, because behind Lihont, two massive, hunched-over abominations were dragging another person. It was Corin and he was covered in dirt, his eyes still pitch black and his body limp as they pulled him across the stone floor like a sack of grain.

Serenya slipped deeper into the crowd, her hood still low, eyes scanning for escape—and opportunity. She saw Eloria Thorne. The rival princess stood near the far wall, her emerald gown glittering even in the dim light, her expression unreadable as she watched the chaos unfold. Their eyes locked for the briefest moment, and Serenya caught the flicker of a smirk. Eloria knew something. Perhaps too much. Darian fought valiantly, his blade meeting three at once, but numbers pressed him back toward the dais. “Yield,” Thalric commanded, his voice booming above the storm. “Swear fealty, and I may yet let Crestfall keep its name.”

Marcus started but was quickly cut off by a tall, lean redheaded man who I had seen in accounting before. “She attacked one of our own, even if you’ve claimed her we should give her to the elders.” “No, she’s one of us.” Marcus said. “I could no sooner give her up than I could one of you.” “She’s not flock, not family. Why should we protect her?” Another man said, his voice deep and rumbling. “She’s my mate,” Louis hissed. “Our mate,” Marcus said, “Are you so out of touch with your dragons that you can’t feel the pull to her?”

No sound came out, but their mouths were wide open, and purple lightning was shooting from the throne into their chests. They were lighting up like fuses. "Kill him!" Daxon roared. My brother didn't wait for a plan. He just launched himself at the throne, his silver-coated machete raised high. He moved fast, but the Thralls moved faster. A wall of hollowed-out humans....the people Heriberto had stolen from us...stopped him. They didn't fight with skill; they fought with weight. They piled onto Daxon, biting and clawing, burying him under a mound of grey flesh.

"I told my boys I needed to question you once you woke up, and they grabbed the entire barrel of rain water, chucking it on you.” “Who are you?” I steadied my voice as best as possible, but a shiver from the chilled air on my drenched state robbed me of that. “The name is Thorin. Alpha Thorin Winslow. I am the Alpha of the Blackfoot Rogues. You were trespassing.” “This is unclaimed territory.” “Wrong. It’s rogue territory, so unless you’ve disbanded, I don’t think you can call yourself a rogue.” Thorin smirked in amusement.

I cast my gaze to the floor, his eyes are too burning, and too accusing, to look into them. "Yes Alpha." I reply quietly, resuming my stance behind him as quietly as possible. ********** Hours later, just as the first rays of dawn creep through the curtains, a knock came at the door. Derek head snap up as he bark, "Enter." Darren step in, his face grim. "We've identified the scent. It's from a rogue who was exiled years ago." "Who?" Derek demands, rising to his feet. I sense Darren hesitates, as his eyes dart from me to Derek simultaneously. "Derrach Thorne."

One stood out. Dorrin. I had heard of him long before today: the Royal Commander of Eradrakor’s armies, victor of the wars that had bound these kingdoms in alliance. The stories hadn’t done him justice. Turquoise eyes like polished steel, broad shoulders, a wild crown of red curls. The kind of man others follow without being asked — the kind you would think twice about crossing. I noted him the way you note a drawn blade in a crowded room, and looked past him.

Thorne's slab-jaws worked soundless first, yellowed fangs glinting saliva-slick in the gloom, before a gravel-roar erupted guttural from his cavernous chest, spittle flecking beard: "Impossible... my borders—scrys screaming rifts clotting shut like gangrened wounds, shadows receding whipped like castrated curs! How in the abyss—your half-bred whelps wrought this? Blackwood blood-sorcery? This diad abomination forged in profane rut?" Damian sheathed his massive blade with a slick, ichor-dripping shing that sang quench-thirst through the runes, the weapon's edge still steaming void-flesh melt; wolfish grin split his cragged face triumphant, silver temples stark-veined under ruins' oppressive g

His father has started to lose him mind, but he still has moments of lucidity which is why Kenneth hasn’t forcibly taken the kingdom from him … yet. “You know how my father is. He doesn’t always make sense. Remember when he proclaimed you as the dragon thief last year?” I force a smile. I’d been terrified with King Solomon had announced that I was the dragon thief. It was right after I’d returned the bronze dragon egg to the dragons. The bronze I now know is named Yttyc. The bronze who survived. King Solomon had stood and pointed at me. “Her! She is the thief!” I’d stood in shock, unable to move or speak. It was Kenneth who broke the terrifying silence from everyone in the room.

The heavy oak doors groans open and closed behind them, taking the immediate threat of bloodshed with them into the morning mist. When the hall cleared of the Blackthorn delegation, the tension did not dissolve. It merely shifted, condensing into the small triangle of space between the dais and the war table. Dorian stood up from his seat, descending the steps with slow, deliberate grace. He stopped beside me, his tall frame a solid, familiar barrier against the world. "A clean victory, Miss Voss," Dorian said quietly, though his eyes were fixed on Kael. "We neutralized twenty armored warriors without drawing a single blade."