A rogue approaches with a curved blade. Kneels beside me, traces the tip along my forearm.
The first cut burns.
But beneath the pain, the claiming mark pulses. Warm. Defiant. Fighting the extraction with everything it has.
Veylor’s wrong about one thing. The mark isn’t just slowing the drain—it’s fighting. Every drop of blood the channels take, the mark claws back a fraction. Every second the Relic tries to consume my fire, the claiming flame burns brighter, more protective.
I’m still dying. Slowly. But I’m dying slower than Veylor planned. And the mark is buying me time.
Time for Drayke to find me.
And through the muffled bond, faint but growing stronger with every passing second:
I’m coming. Hold on. I’m coming.
I close my eyes. Focus on the warmth of the claiming mark over my heart. On the thread of Drayke’s presence, distant but approaching, burning brighter as he gets closer.
The rogue makes another cut. The blood flows. The Relic stirs.
But I’m still here. Still fighting. Still his.
Hurry.
FIFTEEN
DRAYKE
Ifind her by following the fire.
The claiming mark pulses in my chest—faint, subdued, but unmistakable. South. Underground. Every wingbeat carries me closer, and with each mile, the thread grows stronger. Brighter. More desperate.
Pain bleeds through. Not mine. Hers.
Sharp and rhythmic. Blade cuts. Each one sends a jolt of agony through my bones, makes my dragon howl with rage. They’re hurting her. Right now. While I fly through cold night air, they’re carving into my mate’s skin.
My wings beat faster.
We’re with you, brother.Zyphon’s voice cuts through my rage, steady and lethal. He flanks my left, obsidian scales gleaming with violet cracks. Auren takes my right, gold-white wings slicing through the night air.
Rurik?
Following. Slower.Auren’s response is clipped.Head wound. He insisted on coming anyway.
Of course, he did. The Brotherhood doesn’t abandon its own.
The rogue stronghold rises from a mountainside like a scar—ancient stone carved into cliffs, torches flickering in crudewindows, guards patrolling ramparts that haven’t seen real war in centuries. They’ve grown complacent. Lazy. Confident in their hidden fortress and their numbers.
Good.
I don’t slow. Don’t circle. Don’t plan.
Four hundred years of discipline, of control, of measured responses—gone. Burned away by the echo of Selene’s pain in my chest.
Zyphon, east wall. Auren, west. I’ll take center.
And when Rurik arrives?
Tell him to leave no survivors.
