A small, inappropriate flicker of triumph sparks in my chest at this minor victory, but I suppress it immediately. This is not about asserting authority over Zaethir. It's about reaching Varok before it's too late, before whatever plans the TrueCoil has set in motion can be stopped.
Zaethir takes the lead, his powerful form gliding with surprising speed. Nirik follows behind me, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by alert vigilance, one hand resting on the ceremonial dagger at his waist.
The thought of Severa—cool, efficient Severa with her perpetually judgmental eyes—moving freely through our chambers while bearing the mark of those who would destroy everything the peace treaty represents sends a renewed surge of urgency through me.
Emberyn grows increasingly warm against my skin, signaling Varok's proximity. I hesitate only a moment at the threshold of the throne room, a chamber I've entered only once before, during Varok's coronation ceremony.
The throne room stretches before me, vast and empty. My steps falter as I scan the massive chamber—the vaulted ceiling with its thousand glowing crystals, the ornate carvings that writhe across the walls, the imposing throne itself rising from the dais like a coiled serpent preparing to strike. But no Varok.
"He's not here," I murmur, confusion prickling along my spine.
Yet Emberyn burns against my skin, almost uncomfortably hot. I press my palm against the stone through my tunic, feeling its insistent warmth. The contradiction pulls me in deeper, likea moth drawn to a flame. If Varok isn't here, why is Emberyn nearly scorching my skin?
I step forward cautiously, my fingers trailing along the serpent stone. "Something isn't right," I murmur, to myself.
I move slowly around the perimeter of the room, watching how the stone's heat fluctuates. It cools slightly as I approach the main entrance but burns hotter as I circle toward the massive obsidian throne.
"He's here," I whisper. "Somewhere."
I follow the heat, letting it guide me behind the throne itself, to a section of wall that appears no different from any other. Smooth stone with faint ripples of bioluminescence. Yet as I draw closer, Emberyn burns hot against my skin.
I stand before it, and the impossible happens. The solid stone ripples, melting away before my eyes. A hidden doorway materializes where seamless wall had been seconds before, revealing a chamber beyond—and Varok.
I slip inside, the door flowing shut behind me, solidifying to abruptly cut off Zaethir's stern reprimand about how it is forbidden for me to enter the war chamber.
The room hums with an eerie blue-green glow that casts Varok's scales in molten relief. He coils motionlessly, his powerful form silhouetted against a shimmering image projected on the far wall. His powerful tail coiled beneath him, shoulders tense with concentration.
At the soft scuff of my boots, he whirls. Surprise flashes bright in his yellow gaze before melting into something tender. In three fluid undulations he reaches me, arms sweeping me into the kind of embrace that makes Emberyn flare hot against my skin. I melt into him, burying my face in the warm hollow of his throat where scales give way to softer flesh, breathing in that scent that is uniquely, intoxicatingly Varok.
I shift in his arms, curiosity piqued as I peer at the illuminated image. Recognition strikes like a hard blow. Clavenmoor. Its sprawling courtyards and ivy-clad stone walls, shimmers on the wall. My smile withers into a hard line.
Wriggling free, I step away, voice tight. “Why do you have footage of my home?”
Through our bond I taste his hesitation, bitter on my tongue.
"It is..." Varok shifts his weight, tail coiling tighter beneath him. "It is not what it appears to be."
I take another step away from him, the basket of cakes suddenly heavy in my hand. "Then what is it? Because it looks exactly like surveillance of Clavenmoor."
His gaze flicks to the image, then back to me, his guilt I can feel pulsing sharper, like pressure behind my ribs. “The OathCoil is a living stone construct,” he manages. “It…records and transmits information.”
“The OathCoil? The serpent statue Sareth handed my father when he traded me at the gate?” My laugh cracks, brittle. “So you used me as a delivery system to spy on my own people.”
"No…well, yes," Varok says, voice tight as his tail lashes once against the floor, "but?—”
“But what!” I cut him off, fury buzzing like a storm beneath my skin.
Only through love will the elemental powers fully awaken,Eira’s recitation of the prophecy crashes into my consciousness like a tidal wave. A furnace of fury ignites in my chest, scorching and relentless, heat raging through every vein until my fingertips tingle with it.
It all clicks into place. "It makes perfect sense now." My voice cuts between us like a heated blade. "How could I have been so blind? You used me. You seduced me to awaken your elemental power," I hiss, each word crystallizing the betrayal in my chest."I was never your true bloodmate, just a tool to ignite your magic."
“That is not true." His tail lashes once, then twice, scales bristling. "At first, yes. The OathCoil was merely a precaution to ensure peace. Then we found—" His words falter as something darker passes behind his eyes. "Your arrival changed everything between our peoples. The balance of—" He rakes clawed fingers through his wealth of auburn hair. Through our bond, I feel the turmoil beneath his composure. "Then the prophecy complicated matters further. I never intended—" His gaze meets mine, then falls away, as if the weight of my accusation is too heavy to bear. "Ashira, you must understand that I—that we—that none of this was planned."
“Planned well enough for you to plant that serpent statue inside Clavenmoor,” I snarl. When Varok reaches for me, I retreat, my palm thrust outward like a shield. “Stay away from me!” I turn and storm out of the war chamber, Emberyn burning against my chest, Varok’s stunned silence following me like a ghost.
I rush away from Varok’s hidden war room, each step feeling like the snap of a chain, clean and final. Zaethir and Nirik scramble to catch up, but I don’t slow for their anxious, echoing slithers. Past the throne, past the Hall of Ancestors with its judging crystal faces, I march toward my own chambers, not Varok’s.
As I go, the palace grows colder, more foreign, as if the walls themselves sense the break and quietly draw away. I clutch the basket of glimmergrain cakes to my chest, as if I could anchor myself with something that reminds me of home.
