The Last Dragon Rider

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Trained as an elite warrior from childhood, the elven crown prince Flintathriël fights to bring a stop to a war that began before he was born. With the aid of his betrothed Sairalindë, a skilled mage and dragon rider in her own right, they must find the Book of Souls – an ancient and mysterious tome rumored to have belonged to the god Hath’Raal.

When the missing book turns up in the hands of Mnuvae, the bastard child of the dead king, Flintathriël finds himself fighting to not only save his people from this new threat but also trying to keep Sairalindë safe when Mnuvae takes over the dragons in her attempt to win back the kingdom she believes is rightfully hers.

The love Flintathriël and Sairalindë share shines pure and true, but when the smoke of the battle clears, will their hearts survive the aftermath of war or will their love become a casualty that cannot be revived?

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Taking a few deep breaths and reclaiming her calm, she stepped from the altar and into her office. She slipped off the druid robes and reached for a swathe of green fabric. Her gaze alighted on her father’s research scattered across her desk as she began wrapping the cloth tightly about her, binding her breasts firmly, criss-crossing the gauzy fabric around her torso and across her stomach, tying it off at her hip. She shimmied into a pair of leather leggings and reached for her foot wraps. To other races—like the dwarves and humans—the elves lack of footwear was strange. The elven people had strong ties to the lands, their magic and mystique were inexplicably linked. Even those who did not practice magic felt the connection to nature, and the elven people had maintained the practice throughout their long history.

After binding her feet and leaving only her toes exposed, she tossed an olive green tunic over her head before quickly weaving her tresses into a thick braid.

Sivath was waiting, and Flintathriël was late. Again.

She was reaching for her leather jerkin when he finally appeared in her doorway.

Arms akimbo, he slouched against the frame, all lean muscle and sharp angles beneath his leathers. Silver-white hair fell across his forehead, hiding the dark arches of his brows as he gazed at her with silvery blue eyes. The mop of hair barely touching his shoulders. His coloring typical of the royal family.

Her gaze traced his tattoos. Sweeping vines encompassed runic symbols, curling downward from his bottom lip, winding and weaving their way down his chin and neck. She knew every line that twisted and spread across his shoulders, and across his back. Etchings that disappeared beneath his tunic and reappeared along his arms. She still remembered the day he received the markings, branding him Nuvian. The day she first gave herself to him, the day she truly became his.

They had been betrothed since the year of her birth, and the dragon wars had already been raging for many, many years. Sairalindë had grown up alongside the royal children, against the backdrop of war, growing close to Flintathriël’s twin sister, Faëlwyn. Neither he nor herself had wanted the match. In fact both had spent many summers chafing against the binds of duty thrust upon them.

Throughout their adolescents, she found him arrogant and cocky. The typical characteristics of one raised to incredible privilege. Someone who owned the world purely by the virtue of being born.

By the time she reached her eighteenth year, her feelings began to change, though his did not. His constant parade of conquests through the halls where she studied magic was like a dagger through her heart. She threw her innocence away, running to the stable hand that had been sweet on her and let him tumble her in the hayloft in an effort to rid Flintathriël from her thoughts. When she emerged tussled and smelling of sweat and sex, he had been there. She had called his name, and the look of complete devastation that briefly flashed in his eyes before his arrogant smirk took its place, shattered her.