MATE IN DANGER. MOVE. NOW.
I crash into the creature from above, claws tearing through darkness that feels like ice and tastes like despair. It shrieks—a sound that vibrates in my bones, in my teeth, in the parts of my soul I try not to think about. My fire pours into the wound, white-hot and desperate, and the creature dissolves into smoke and screams.
But more are coming. Always more.
I land in the courtyard, blocking the path to Aisling’s quarters. Wings spread. Flames licking from every scale. Ready to die before I let anything past.
Come on, then.The challenge burns in my throat.Come and try.
AISLING
Fire, screaming, and the sound of wings.
For one horrible moment, I’m back in captivity. Cold stone beneath me, chains on my wrists, the wet sound of blades and the copper smell of my own blood draining into carved channels. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except curl against the wall and wait for the pain to start again.
Then Rurik’s dragon fills the doorway—massive and red-gold and terrifying—and something shifts.
He came for me.
He crashed through a stone wall because there wasn’t time for doors. He put himself between me and danger, roaring loud enough to shake the foundations, wings spread like a shield made of scales and flame.
He’s fighting for me.
The paralysis shatters. I’m on my feet, heart hammering, fire surging through my veins with desperate intensity. The terror is still there—still pressing against my chest, still trying to drag me back into helplessness—but underneath it, something else is rising.
Fury.
I’m done being the victim. Done cowering while others fight my battles. Done letting fear make my decisions.
Rurik launches from the breach, diving into the chaos outside. The sounds of battle filter through the ruined wall—roars and shrieks and the crack of dragon fire against stone. I should stay hidden. Should wait for the all-clear, let the warriors handle the threat.
A shadow moves in my peripheral vision.
I spin, fire flaring at my fingertips, and find a rogue climbing through the debris. Smaller than Rurik in human form—lean,scarred, scales rippling beneath pale skin as his dragon strains toward the surface. His focus locks onto me with predatory hunger.
“Fire-Bringer.” The word drips from his lips like poison. “The Queen will be so pleased.”
The Queen. Valdris.
My fire roars higher. The room brightens, shadows retreating from the blaze in my palms.
“Get out.”
He laughs. Takes another step toward me. “Little flame, you don’t understand. You’re valuable. Precious. Your blood has already woken things that should have stayed sleeping.” Another step. His claws extend—black, curved, gleaming with something that looks like poison. “Come quietly, and I’ll make this painless.”
Something snaps inside me.
Not into fear. Into fury.
The fire erupts.
It pours from my hands in a torrent of white-gold flame—hotter than anything I’ve produced before, brighter than the sun breaking over the mountains. The rogue has half a second to look surprised before the blaze engulfs him completely.
He doesn’t even have time to scream.
When the flames die, nothing remains but ash drifting in the air and the smell of burnt flesh.
I stare at my hands. They’re still glowing, residual heat pulsing beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
