The power inside her, fractured and feral, scraped against the edges of her mind, clawing to be free. Her control was slipping, her identity dissolving.
I am Ella. Just Ella. A nobody in this kingdom. Not Ellandria, Princess of Orchid. Not the flame-bound heir to a bloodline buried in burden and legacy.
She strangled the thoughts before they could take root. She had to forget the prophecy, the sealing of the realms, the banishment of the Fae.
This was not the time. She could not afford to think too loudly, not in a kingdom like this.
Because if anyone in Dravaryn was an Echobinder, they would seize the shape of her thoughts, and she would be ruined. She wasn’t a Shield. She had no defenses, no way to guard her mind. Ella had only been gifted with offensive power, and since her kingdom had banned the Claiming ritual for more than fivehundred years, there was no chance of her ever gaining new abilities.
If the wrong person drew too close they would hear everything: the truth, the prophecy, and worse still, her name. War between kingdoms would ignite before she ever set foot inside the Dravaryn castle. Her parents had dedicated their lives to preventing another war, and though Ella had already abandoned them, she refused to fail them as well. Not that she had much control over what could yet go wrong. The Veil between realms was thinning, and magic itself was becoming unpredictable.
Taking a steadying breath, Ella swore that once she stepped beyond this barrier she would not think of her parents or Orchid again. It was too dangerous, and besides, she didn’t even know if they still lived or what her kingdom had become in her absence. The Dravaryns did not speak of Orchid and scraps of truth were rare, but she carried inside her what mattered. An unforgettable purpose bound to the aching hope that she might see them again when this quest was completed was all that kept her moving. Ella’s thoughts were never quiet, never still, and Dravaryn itself felt as though it were listening.
She shifted her weight, and pain exploded through her thigh, shooting down to her knee until she bit back a curse. Her body was a map of wounds, each line etched in half-healed cuts, bruised joints, and skin stitched back together by luck alone, and still, she could not afford to stop moving. The breach into Dravaryn’s capital had drained nearly everything she had left, and survival had demanded a web of lies, her quick charm, and a little violence. Necessary, of course.
Exhaling through her nose, she pressed a hand to the archway behind her, grounding herself once more in its cold, unyielding presence.
The castle loomed ahead, massive and shrouded in myth. Ella had to get inside, fast. There was no time left to mend her wounds or allow her body to heal. Though she stepped into complete darkness, she was certain something waited within the castle, a relic tied to the prophecy, and she could not afford to leave it buried. She didn’t know what would happen once she found it, only that the red sun the prophecy spoke of was drawing near. Weeks, at best. Whatever the relic was, she needed to reach it first, and give herself time to understand how it could save the mortal realm before that day arrived.
She closed her eyes and stilled her breath, and in the silence, the city itself possessed a heartbeat, steady and ancient, echoing beneath her skin.
Don’t stop now.
A whisper of prayer to the gods she wasn’t sure still existed, and she moved, quiet as snowfall, swift as the bite of a blade.
Ella reached the outer perimeter. The wards were supposed to begin farther in, yet here stood a tower, its dark frame rising high into the fog, vanishing into mist as though even the sky had grown weary. At its base, a figure kept watch, posture loose and almost careless, as if no one had ever come this far. And if the myths were true, no one had. She drew in the cold, the air biting her lungs.
If there was only one guard posted at the outer gate, then either the fates were showing her mercy, or it was a trap. Ella froze, her breath fogging in the mist, clothes clinging wet with blood, fabric torn from clawing her way across the icy waste of a kingdom. Every step she took seemed to scream of a foreigner, a trespasser, and it would only take one glimpse of her in this state and any Dravaryn would raise the alarm.
The guard shifted, lantern glow catching on the hard line of his jaw. He appeared muscular, medium build, and the uniform would fit her better than the ruins she wore. But she didn’t knowwhat magic thrummed in his veins, what oath burned behind his eyes.
She had seconds to decide: kill him now and slip inside or hesitate and risk him striking first.
Her hand slid to the hilt at her thigh. When it came to battle, she would never let a man make the first choice.
Ella moved, and steel flashed. A breath, a gasp, and his lantern fell from his hand. The flame guttered out midair, and he was already falling by the time it struck the ground.
She caught his cloak before it hit the stone, heavy and lined with the Dravaryn crest, proof that she had crossed into the heart of the enemy at last.
She didn’t enjoy killing, but survival had no patience for hesitation, and he had the prophecy to blame for his death.
2
BENEATH THE FLESH
Ella reached the wards at last, and the barrier did not break her. It let her in. She took a step and there wasn’t a sound exactly, not a scream of magic tearing the night apart, but something quieter, a hum that curled beneath her skin like smoke.
The ancient wards were meant to repel her, to fling her back, to shatter her mind or burn her from the inside out. That was the legend, the only warning she had gathered from the townsfolk during her time on the outskirts of Dravaryn’s capital, Draethmar, but instead, the wards seemed to part for her. There was barely a shimmer in the air, no fanfare, no flash, only a pull, as if the land itself had inhaled and recognized her, opening one eye to let her pass.
She was several steps beyond the barrier when her ears rang, like a bell struck too close, the pressure stabbing behind her eyes. She pressed her palms hard against her skull, fighting the spin of vertigo until the ache dulled enough to breathe. When she dropped into a crouch, her heart pounded loud enough to drown the whisper of wind across the courtyard. She hadexpected alarms, shouts, anything but the silence that followed, which was somehow worse because it feltintentional.
Cocky Dravaryns.
Her fingers pressed against the cloth above her collarbone, making certain her mark was still hidden. It was, but the unease that tightened her chest made it feel as though the truth lay bare.
The air within the outer perimeter was thicker, laced with residual magic that tasted bitter on her tongue. The ground emanated power as she looked across the courtyard, sliced into clean, symmetrical divisions: sparring dummies slumped against their stakes, runic circles scorched into the dirt, weapons racks gleaming faintly in the moonlight, each blade waiting for war. This was where Dravaryn trained its elite, her first glimpse into the mystery of their secrets and the powers their warriors might wield.
She drank it in, storing every detail for later. The air smelled of steel, sweat, and old ash, echoes of countless battles never meant for her to witness. The field was lined with polished obsidian that shimmered like oil in the low light, veins of old enchantments winding through the flagstones.
