“It’s Ronyn. He’s not himself. Something else controls him,” Therion murmurs back.
That writhing creature is Ronyn?
“Approaching,” Therion announces just loud enough to warn the group, and they nod, never taking their eyes off the creature—Ronyn.
We join the group circling Ronyn, his form rigid, yet contorted. He twitches and moves with a jaggedness that looks preternatural. Inhuman.
My breath hitches at the sight of his misshapen body.
This can’t be happening.
But Ronyn stops.
He drags his hands across the earth to pull them in front of his gaze, inspecting them with confusion. As if his own body is foreign to him.
Then, his voice changes.
It drops into a low, rasping growl. “You are not worthy of my soul, mortal. Weak, frail human with lacking intelligence.” The voice rips from his throat in an insulting snarl. But it’s not Ronyn’s voice. It’s somethingother.
“My only question,” Daelen’s voice interjects, “is: what the fuck?”
Ronyn cries out in pain, or anger, or both—I’m not sure. His chest stretches open, and his arms shoot out on unnatural angles, contorting into shapes of anguish. Shapes that shouldn’t be possible.Shapes that remake a person.
“Do something!” I cry, not talking to anyone in particular. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help.
“Rubi, can’t you put him to sleep or something?” Seren begs, crossbow trained on him, though her finger is nowhere near the trigger.
“Oh yeah, sure,” Rubi snaps sarcastically. “I’ll just go whip up a tonic to feed to the thrashing lunatic.”
“Something is changing,” Therion breathes, analyzing Ronyn with a sharp eye, not a shred of panic in his gaze.
“What is that on his shoulders?” Rubi asks through gritted teeth, narrowing her eyes on the dark patches that stretch and expand across his back.
Kael huffs a sound of realization. Training his eyes on the patches, as Ronyn struggles and grunts at the contortion. “Scales,” Kael finally breathes in an awed tone.
Nehvara’s words from our visit to Cindralis barrel into me like a shooting Star—sharp and hot.
You must find the Flame-heart a worthy vessel to take form within.
“It’s awakening within him,” I murmur, watching as the patches unfold into jet-black scales that gleam under the night sky.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again; fuck that,” Daelen quips drily, though his face is humorless.
“Iamworthy,” Ronyn counters, as if in conversation with himself, but I don’t miss the pained agony of his tone. “I’d lay down my life for her and everyone she loves.” He’s talking to no one. Or… someone.Tarrakai.
And he’s talking aboutme.
For Tarrakai to awaken in dragon form, he will need a worthy vessel—someone brave, who holds love for the Dravari line, loyal.Nehvara’s warning from Cindralis collides with my panic.
Ronynisthe worthy vessel.
And then, his body twists.
The sound is the first thing—bones splintering like tree trunks in a storm, the wet crunch of marrow snapping and remaking itself. Ronyn screams, his voice jagged and broken,until it fractures into a guttural growl that doesn’t belong to anything human.
His spine arches, bending wrong, too wrong, until I hear vertebrae grinding and popping. His chest heaves, skin stretching, tearing, and then the scales erupt—black and gleaming like oil under moonlight. They spread down his arms in a rush, each one bursting through his flesh with a sickening rip before hardening into armor.
“Leave him!” Therion bellows in warning. “Do not interfere!” His eyes lock on mine in warning, because he sees the way my fist clenches at my side, the way my jaw grinds, desperate to go to him. Aching to rescue him from the torment.
