DRAYKE
“I’ve found him.”
Zyphon’s voice cuts through the war room, shadows writhing around him with barely contained violence. His violet-cracked scales seem darker than usual, the curse marks on his skin pulsing with an eerie glow.
Every dragon in the room goes still. Auren pauses mid-sentence. Rurik’s knife stops its endless sharpening. And Selene—my Selene—straightens beside me, her hand tightening on mine under the table.
“Veylor?” Her voice is steady, but I catch the undertone. The anticipation. The hunger for justice that’s been building since he drained her blood on a stone altar.
“The mark I left on him during the fortress collapse.” Zyphon’s mouth curves into something that might be a smile on anyone else. On him, it’s a promise of death. “He’s been running for weeks. Hiding in caves, abandoned mines, anywhere dark enough to mask his presence. But he stopped running three days ago.”
“Why stop?” Auren leans forward, analytical mind already working. “He knows we’re tracking him. Stopping makes him vulnerable.”
“Because he’s out of options.” Zyphon’s shadows pulse with dark satisfaction. “He’s gathering what forces he can for a final stand.”
“Where?” I’m already on my feet, the dragon roaring to life beneath my skin. Weeks of waiting. Weeks of planning. Weeks of watching Selene train and strategize while the bastard who tortured her walked free.
“Abandoned fortress in the northern mountains. Three days’ flight.” Zyphon spreads a map across the table, tapping a location I recognize—old territory, claimed by no one for centuries. “He’s not alone. My shadows count at least twenty rogues, maybe more. But they’re scattered. Disorganized. Whatever army he was building died with his stronghold.”
“He’s wounded and desperate.” Auren studies the map with cold calculation. “That makes him dangerous, but also predictable. He’ll make a stand rather than keep running.”
“Good.” Rurik’s grin is sharp, predatory. “I’m tired of chasing. Time to end this.”
Selene rises from her chair, fire flickering at her fingertips. “When do we leave?”
I turn to her, ready to argue, ready to insist she stay where it’s safe—and stop myself. She’s spent weeks proving she can fight. Proving she’s not a liability. And this is her battle as much as mine. Veylor hurt her. She deserves to be there when he falls.
“Dawn,” I say instead. “We fly at dawn.”
Her smile is fierce, proud, and entirely too attractive for a war council. “I’ll be ready.”
“You’d better be.” I pull her against me, press a kiss to her temple. “Because if you get yourself killed, I meant what I said about bringing you back to yell at you.”
“Still romantic.”
“I try.”
TWENTY-TWO
SELENE
Three days of flying.
I’ve gotten better at riding Drayke’s dragon form—learned to anticipate his movements, to lean into turns and brace for dives. But three days is a long time to spend clinging to bronze scales while wind tears at your hair and cold seeps into your bones.
We stop twice to rest, landing in isolated clearings where the dragons can hunt and the five of us can plan. Twelve of our younger dragons fly with us—not the whole Brotherhood, but enough. Trained fighters who’ve proven themselves in smaller skirmishes, eager to face a real battle.
On the second night, Drayke finds me sitting apart from the others, staring at the fire I’ve conjured to keep warm.
“You’re worried?”
I quietly nod.
His arm wraps around me, pulling me against his side. “You’re not the woman who set my training field on fire because she couldn’t control her emotions. You’ve learned. Grown. Become something extraordinary.”
“Flattery.” But I lean into him, letting his warmth chase away the cold that has nothing to do with the mountain air. “Will it be enough? Tomorrow, when we face him for real?”
“You burned a Relic into dormancy while bleeding out on a stone floor.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “Veylor doesn’t stand a chance.”
