I’m moving before I finish the thought, bare feet slapping against cold stone, the shift already rippling beneath my skin. The fortress shudders around me—explosions somewhere to the east, the crash of stone, the unmistakable shriek of dragon fire meeting dragon fire.
Eight rogues. I smell them now—sulfur and rot and the copper tang of hostile magic. Plus something else. Something that makes even my dragon hesitate.
Shadow-creatures. Valdris’s pets.
The corridor opens onto Aisling’s wing, and I don’t slow down. Don’t stop. The shift takes me mid-stride, bones cracking,scales erupting, wings tearing free as I transform from man to monster in the space between heartbeats.
Her door is too small. I go through the wall instead.
Stone explodes inward, raining debris across the room. I register the bed—empty, sheets tangled—and then I find her. Pressed against the far wall, hands raised, fire flickering at her fingertips. Alive. Terrified. But alive.
I place myself between her and the gaping hole where her wall used to be. Spread my wings wide enough to shield her completely. Let the roar tear from my throat—a challenge that shakes dust from the ceiling and rattles the remaining windows in their frames.
MINE. PROTECT. KILL ANYTHING THAT THREATENS.
The dragon’s thoughts blend with my own until I can’t tell where instinct ends and intention begins. I’ve protected people before. Defended territory, guarded allies, fought for causes that mattered. But this?—
This is different.
Every scale on my body burns with the need to keep her safe. Every breath carries her scent—wildflowers and fear and the sharp ozone of barely controlled fire. She’s behind me. Safe. Nothing else matters.
A rogue appears in the breach, smaller than me but fast, scales black as pitch and eyes glowing with borrowed power. He sees Aisling. Grins with too many teeth.
I tear his throat out before he can take another step.
The courtyard has become a battlefield.
Drayke’s bronze form dominates the eastern wall, flames pouring from his jaws in controlled bursts that turn roguesto ash mid-flight. His roar carries centuries of authority—commands that even hostile dragons hesitate to disobey.
HOLD THE PERIMETER. PROTECT THE FIRE-BRINGERS. NO RETREAT.
Auren coordinates from the northern tower, his gold-white scales catching the pre-dawn light as he directs archer positions with cold precision. Every order calculated. Every movement efficient. The strategist in his element.
Zyphon moves through the shadows like death given form. I catch glimpses of him between the chaos—appearing behind a rogue, shadows wrapping around its throat, then vanishing before the body hits the ground. His curse makes him terrifying in darkness, and dawn hasn’t fully broken yet.
And Selene?—
Drayke’s mate stands at his shoulder, fire blazing from her palms. Not hiding behind her dragon. Fighting beside him. Proving that Fire-Bringers aren’t just targets to be protected. They’re warriors in their own right.
I launch from the hole I made in Aisling’s wall, wings catching the smoke-thick air. Two rogues converge on my position—young, stupid, drawn by the Fire-Bringer’s scent like sharks to blood. I meet them with claws and flame, tearing through scales, burning through flesh.
For her. Every kill is for her.
The dragon roars its approval.MATE. PROTECT. DESTROY THREAT.
I don’t argue. Don’t have time to unpack the implications of that word—mate—or what it means that my dragon has claimed her without my permission. A rogue’s tail catches me across the flank, and pain flares bright and hot. I spin, claws raking, and the rogue falls in two pieces.
Another one. Then another. The courtyard runs red with blood that steams in the cold morning air.
MATE. PROTECT. MATE. PROTECT.
The rhythm becomes a heartbeat. A battle hymn. Every flame I breathe, every enemy I destroy—it’s all for her. For the woman with fire in her veins and steel in her spine, who almost smiled at me yesterday when she lit a single candle.
A shadow-creature materializes from the darkness near the eastern wall. Not a dragon—something worse. Formless malevolence given shape, claws of pure darkness, eyes like dying stars. It ignores me. Ignores Drayke. Heads straight for the breach in the wall.
Straight for Aisling.
I wheel mid-flight, wings screaming in protest, and dive. The shadow-creature is fast—faster than any rogue, faster than anything made of flesh and blood. But I’m faster. I have to be faster.
