Fifty warriors across Drakenfell simultaneously grabbed their arms, swore, and started running in the same direction.
Thor Crushturn was having the best, most lucky, lightning-strikes-only-once night of his life. He was staring at his own reflection, mid-thrust in a redhead omega, trying to convince her brunette friend that his bedroom ceiling was "mirrored for strategic purposes," when his mark went off.
He pulled out, then shoved them both off of his bed.
"Duty calls."
The redhead smacked first, her friend second. Neither believed him the mirror was strategic.
On the castle's west lawn, a golden dragon landed with a roar that rattled the windows. An unconscious Alpha Prince lay across his back, one arm hanging limp over his side, muttering the same word over and over like a prayer.
"Serena… Serena…"
The dragon roared again, louder this time, trying to get the attention of the guards. Three of them spilled their drinks. One dropped his sword.
