I dressed quickly, dragging on my boots and throwing my jacket over my shoulders. The morning sun was sharp and unforgiving as I stepped into the courtyard beside Riven.
Chaos.
Squad leaders were shouting at each other across the stone.
Stormforge. Iron Fang. Warborn. Crownwatch.
And Zander stood tall beside Dorian, who must’ve returned while we were gone. The eldest prince’s posture was relaxed, but his eyes missed nothing.
Jax stood beside me, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight.
“Our infrastructure’s fracturing,” he muttered. “Koddos says the dragons feel it too. Iron Fang and Crownwatch are at complete odds. For now, Stormforge and Warborn have remained neutral... but that’s going to change if this keeps going.”
“What are they fighting about?” I asked.
Jax turned his head toward me, eyes hard.
“You.”
Before I could respond, Elordon’s voice rang out, loud, cruel, and laced with contempt.
“You bonded with a commoner, Zander. You should be purged from Fourth Guild for it.”
Elordon stood tall and broad, armor gleaming blood-red in the sun. His red Striker paced behind him, wings half-flared.
High above, Hein let out a thunderous roar, the kind that rattled windows and trembled through bone.
I lifted my head and realized our dragons were circling.
Kaelith flanked Hein, even Ferrula’s massive Narvea, all riding the air like predators waiting to strike.
Zander smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Regal.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Try it.”
Elordon’s dragon backed up and the leader of Iron Fang glanced at him. The sound of iron on stone made us all turn.
The castle doors opened with deliberate grandeur, flanked by armored guards in crimson and gold.
Theron strode out first, polished and poised, his smug smile fixed in place like a crown he’d already claimed.
Beside him, Lady Belana of Prina glided down the castle steps, her velvet skirts sweeping the stone like the ground itself worshipped her. She didn’t walk, she floated, each movement graceful and calculated, her golden hair woven with pearls, lips painted the shade of bloodied roses.
Nearly every male on the field turned to look at her, jaws tightening, eyes widening.
Theron didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he thrived on it. His chest puffed subtly, his hand resting possessively on the curve of Belana’s waist like she was his favorite trophy.
But his eyes found me.
“I heard there was some foolishness last night,” he called out as he stepped into the circle of arguing leaders, his voice light, almost amused. “Rest assured, any crimes against the crown will not go unpunished.”
His gaze flicked to me, lingering with a predator’s amusement.
Dorian grunted from beside Zander, crossing his arms as his face soured. “What game are you playing now, Theron?”
Theron’s smile faltered, just a flicker, but enough to chill the courtyard. His eyes narrowed.
“Would you like to assume the throne, my brother?” he asked smoothly, though his voice had turned to ice.
