We pass beneath enormous arches hewn from rock, massive enough to swallow a warship whole, and finally come to a vista that makes my breath catch like a bell rung inside my ribcage.
The Bloody Talon stronghold.
It sprawls across the fractured landscape, a fortress of obsidian and bone, buttressed by chunks of iron-red stone thatjut from the earth like jagged teeth. Fires burn at every rampart. Barbed banners snap in the wind — black on crimson — a war-song in cloth and flame.
The walls resonate with the deep pulse of ancient drums — not music, not quite, but aheartbeat.A call. A warning. A welcome.
I exhale through my nose, stunned.
This is home.
For these warriors. For Kallus. Perhaps, in some strange way, for me now too.
Our steps echo as we enter the heart of the fortress — a vast open courtyard ringed with more Reapers, more beasts, more banners. Somewhere in the distance, a forge thunders, the clang of hammer on metal beating like a drum in time with my pulse.
And here, standing tall and immeasurably old, is Elder Daggon.
He is the one they call “The Bone-Speaker,” a Reaper elder draped in furs of ironwood and crimson, bone charms hanging from his neck like a storm’s whispers. His eyes are deep pits of history, every scar a tale, every line a testament to time.
He surveys me — slow, unblinking — like he’s scanning not just flesh and blood, but spirit and fate.
I stand straighter.
I’ve been called many things — precious cargo, prisoner, curiosity, barbarian’s bride — but I willnotbe reduced to another sideshow specimen.
“Ayla Verne,” Kallus says, his voice rich and steady. “Mate of Kallus of the Bloody Talon.”
The elder’s gaze sharpens, then sweeps over me again. I can feel the weight of his scrutiny like a thousand eyes in the back of my skull.
“No,” he says at last — slow, measured. “We seek only truth. Show me the bond.”
Before I can react, Kallus steps aside — not to abandon me, but to let me stand on my own truth.
“I am not ashamed,” I say, voice firm despite the tremor in my gut. “I belong to him because my heart led me to where mine meets his. And if you need proof — then speak it plainly.”
Daggon’s gaze narrows, but not with hostility. Something else — reverence. Ancient recognition.
He steps forward, bringing his massive hand to hover near my wrist. The air between us vibrates with the scent of old wars and old rites — iron and bone and fire.
Then, faint at first, I feel it: a pulse against my pulse. A faint warmth beneath my skin. Like ember heat before a flame fully awakens.
The elder’s thumbs press lightly to the inside of my wrist — not scanning, not questioning, butfeeling.Not because he doubts me — but because he mustknow.
A moment passes.
Then two.
Then the elder draws back, and I see his eyes widen — just slightly — before he masks it with the stoic calm of an elder who has seen centuries of miracles.
“It resonates,” Daggon says — voice like gravel and incense smoke. “The jalshagar sings in you.”
My heart thuds like a battle-drum in my ears.
Before I can digest the weight of his words, Daggon murmurs something deep and old — a blessing, a chant, a recognition — that vibrates the very stones beneath my feet.
It is a song of land and bone. A song ofmemory.
And I feel it in my belly first — a stirring so intimate it jolts breath into my lungs. A warmth blooming low, like ancient roots reaching toward sun and water after centuries of drought.
