“No,”Vornokh corrected in his mind.“They were hunting her.”
Kaeroth, with Brynnek and Darian strapped together, banked to the west. Tarken stayed centered with Baelor. Vornokh followed. Nyxariel flew wing-close to Vornokh, their bodies moving in unison again for the first time in centuries. The dragons rose into the dark of the night sky. Mirra pulled to the eastern flank and vanished into the cloud. Vaelion, riderless, flanked the rear.
Thaelyn fought to keep her composure. Her fingers were shaking, her vision blurring with tears she refused to shed. Darianwas hurt and unconscious. Thorne was ahead of her, bleeding into the wind, jaw locked against pain.
Behind them, the fog of Godshollow folded inward, the necromancers vanishing into it. A whisper carried on the wind, low, hungry, inhuman.
They had tasted shadow. They had tasted storm. And they would come for both again.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Dawn crouched somewhere below the horizon, painting only the faintest silver along the clouds. The squad flew through it, cutting across the dark like comets with wings. Wind screamed between their scaled forms, and every beat of Vornokh’s wings sent tremors through the air.
An hour later, the palace rose from the mist. Not merely a fortress, an empire of stone and starlight. White spires speared upward, their silver inlays catching the first glint of dawn. Walls layered outward in concentric rings, each one carved with glowing ward sigils that shimmered like veins of living light. From above, the stronghold looked like a sunburst carved into the mountainside, its towers piercing the heavens, its watchmen tiny sparks along the ramparts.
“Hold formation,” Thorne called through the bond. His voice cut clean through the wind.
Vornokh rumbled his answer, banking low.
Then came the sound, a single, sharp blast of a horn that tore through the stillness.
“Dragons approaching!” The warning cry rolled across the hills, answered by the clang of armor and the thunder of boots.
Another horn, lower, deeper, ceremonial. “Prince Thorne is returning! Escort formation!”
The palace stirred awake. Torches blazed to life along the parapets, turning the air gold. The outer gates yawned open, theirhinges groaning as runes flared alive. Guards lined the edges of the flying field, shields gleaming, spears poised in salute.
Thorne hit the ground before Vornokh had even finished folding his wings. His cloak whipped behind him, heavy with blood and soot. He yanked free his torn gauntlet and strode toward the line of guards.
“First Officer!” His voice cracked like a whip.
A man in silver-blue livery sprinted forward, chest heaving. “Your Highness!”
“Send word to the King and Queen. We need healers, now!”
The man ran. Others followed.
Behind him, Brynnek worked quickly at Kaeroth’s saddle, unfastening Darian’s straps. The fire wielder hung limp, sweat beading on his pale skin.
“Easy, brother,” Brynnek muttered, looping one arm around Darian’s chest. “Kaeroth, down.”
The dragon exhaled a plume of smoke but crouched, wings folding. Brynnek heaved Darian over his shoulder, careful with the blackened wound that still smoked faintly beneath his tunic.
Light pooled across marble floors veined with gold. Glass mosaics arched overhead, catching the first sunlight and throwing it across the halls in shifting shards of blue and violet. The air smelled of lavender and charmed lilies. Every breath of wind carried incense from enchanted braziers. Healers were already waiting, in white robes, silver-threaded hems. One reached for Darian, but Thorne’s voice cut through them.
“Where is Kranon? We need the Elder Healer. There’s dark magic in him.”
The head healer hesitated. “We’ve sent for him. He’ll come.”
Together, Thorne and Brynnek lowered Darian onto a cot etched with runes that pulsed faintly under the dying fire wielder’s body. The smell of burnt flesh lingered. The boy’s breathing rattled, uneven, shallow.
Thorne leaned in, brushing damp curls from Darian’s forehead. “You’re not dying on me,” he whispered. “Do you hear me? I won’t let you.”
The door opened. Queen Elyria stepped through, and the room fell still. Her bare feet made no sound on the marble. Her gown flowed behind her like liquid silver, and when she looked at them, her eyes glowed faintly, violet flame flickering beneath glass.
“Has the dark settled?” she asked, voice soft, melodic, and utterly commanding.
