I’m not fast enough.
FASTER.My dragon roars.MOVE. SHE’S DYING.
Rurik’s here.Auren’s update comes through.He’s clearing the upper levels. No one’s getting out.
The massive doors at the corridor’s end are reinforced with dragon-forged steel, covered in warning runes that pulse red with the Relic’s influence. A lesser dragon would hesitate. Read the warnings. Fear the power beyond.
I hit them shoulder-first without slowing, and they explode inward with a shriek of torn metal.
The cavern beyond steals my breath.
Cathedral-high ceiling lost in darkness.Pillars carved with symbols that hurt to look at, glowing with sickly red light. At the center, a black stone altar pulses with power—ancient, terrible, awakening. The air itself thrums with magic, pressing against my lungs with every breath.
And there. Chained to the wall. Bleeding.
Selene.
The sight of her stops me cold.
Her arms are covered in shallow cuts—dozens of them, precise and cruel, blood dripping into carved channels that feed the altar. Her head hangs forward, hair matted with sweat and crimson. The skin around the magic-suppressing manacles is raw, blistered where she must have struggled against them.
But she’s alive. The claiming mark on her chest glows faintly beneath her torn shirt, fighting the drain with stubborn persistence. Still burning. Still hers.
Still mine.
HURT OUR MATE. THEY HURT HER.
The shift takes me before I can stop it. Claws burst from my fingertips. Fangs distend, jaw cracking as it reshapes. Scales ripple across my shoulders and down my arms, bronze armor emerging from flesh. Partial transformation—enough to kill, not enough to lose myself completely.
Every instinct screams to go full dragon. To let the shift complete, to burn this entire fortress to ash with Selene cradled in my claws. But the cavern’s too cramped. The risk of bringing the ceiling down on us too high.
So I stay caught between forms, half-man and half-monster, and I’ve never felt more myself.
“Guardian King.” Veylor’s voice echoes from the shadows near the altar. He steps into the red glow, scarred face twisted with cruel satisfaction. One-armed, one-winged, one eye—and still radiating the kind of menace that makes lesser dragons flee. “I wondered how long it would take you.”
A dozen rogues materialize from the darkness around the chamber. More than I can fight alone while reaching Selene. They’ve been waiting. Using her as bait.
Then a side passage explodes inward, and Zyphon steps through, shadows writhing around him like living weapons.
“You didn’t think he came alone?” Zyphon’s voice carries dark amusement. His violet-cracked scales pulse with power as he surveys the rogues. “I’ll handle these. Get to your mate.”
“Your protective instincts are admirable,” Veylor continues, circling closer to the altar as if Zyphon’s arrival means nothing. “Predictable, but admirable. We knew you’d come. We knew you’d abandon strategy for emotion. Dragons in love make sucheasy targets. You’re too late,” he adds. “The Relic wakes. Her blood has unsealed the first barrier. Soon?—”
I’m already moving.
Zyphon crashes into the nearest cluster of rogues, shadows swallowing three of them before they can react. His presence draws their attention, splits their focus—exactly what I need.
The first rogue who tries to intercept me goes down with my claws through his chest, ribs cracking around my fingers. The second loses his head to a horizontal slash. I tear through them with calculated fury—not berserk, not mindless. Methodical. Efficient. Every strike serves a purpose: clear the path to Selene.
Veylor shouts orders. More rogues pour from side passages, scales glinting in the altar’s red light. Fire blooms in the darkness as dragons shift, claws and teeth seeking my flesh.
Zyphon and I kill them.
A rogue’s tail catches me across the ribs—scales protect me from the worst, but pain flares bright. I ignore it, spin, open his throat with a backhand slash. Another’s claws rake my shoulder. Blood runs down my arm, hot and slick.
Doesn’t matter. Keep moving. Keep killing. Get to her.
Bodies pile up around us. The stone grows slick with blood—theirs, not ours. Most of it, anyway.
