The background showed a burning city, towers collapsing, armies scattering like ants.
Korin. It has to be.
I moved to the next painting, my pulse picking up.
This one showed a dark brown-skinned woman standing in a burning city square. She wore tattered white linen, her dark brown skin glowed against the flames. Her long black hair whipped in wind that shouldn't exist. But it was her hands that drew my eye—raised, palms forward, shooting twin arcs of silvery-blue ice toward the distant dragon circling above.
Sol.
The artist had captured the exact moment the ice left her hands, frozen in time—I could see the crystalline structure, the way frost bloomed in the air, the power radiating from her fingertips.
And the dragon—that same golden-black beast—wasn't attacking.
He was watching her.
Hovering.
His massive form backlit by flames, but his eyes locked on her with that same hunger and even wonder.
My throat tightened.
I moved to the third painting, larger than the others.
This one showed the interior of a cave—no, a hoard. Mountains of treasure rose in glittering dunes. Gold coins spilled like rivers. Jeweled crowns lay scattered among ruby-studded goblets and diamond-encrusted chalices. Ancient weapons with ornate hilts jutted from piles of pearls.
And in the center, the same massive dragon lay coiled protectively around the sleeping Black woman.
She rested against his scales, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other on his massive foreleg. The dragon's wing curved over her like a living blanket, sheltering her from the world.
His eyes were closed, but even in sleep, he looked possessive.
Protective.
Oh my God.
The detail was staggering. I could see individual coins in the treasure, each one painted with care. The texture of scales—how they overlapped, how light caught the ridges. The soft rise and fall of the woman's chest. The way her dark skin glowed warm against the gold surrounding her.
It should have looked monstrous—a beast holding a woman captive.
Instead, it looked. . .breathtakingly sacred.
I swallowed hard and moved to the final painting, knowing that I was probably going to get spoiled since I hadn’t read the rest of the book yet.
Oh my.
This one showed a massive bed draped in furs and silk the color of cream. And on that bed, three figures were intertwined in an intimate embrace.
The same woman—Sol—from the other paintings lay at the center, naked, her dark skin luminous against white sheets. Her black hair spilled across pillows like ink.
On one side, a man with long black hair and golden eyes held her, his face buried in her neck, one arm possessively wrapped around her waist. His body curved into hers with desperate tenderness.
On the other side, another man—identical to the first, mirror-perfect except for the way he looked at her. This one seemed way more intense. He had his hand tangled in her hair, lips pressed against her temple. His eyes were open, golden and burning, watching her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Twin dragons.
Both impossibly beautiful.
Both golden-eyed, black-haired, and muscular.
