Human shape, though nothing about her reads as human.
Tall and statuesque, raven-black hair falling to her waist, porcelain skin without flaw or warmth. Too perfect. Too still. Like a sculpture given life by something that doesn’t quite understand how living things move. She wears crimson—a gown that seems woven from dried blood, clinging to her form with every deliberate gesture. Her beauty is a trap, the kind that makes you want to look closer even as every instinct screams to run.
Those eyes find me. Molten gold, burning with intelligence that predates civilizations. The thread in my blood—the one I’ve been trying to ignore since I woke with Rurik’s hand in mine this morning—pulls taut with recognition.
Little flame.
Her voice doesn’t come from her mouth. It comes from everywhere. From the stone walls, from the lava chains, from somewhere deep in my own chest.
You returned to me.
Rurik’s partial shift blocks half my view—claws extended, scales rippling across his shoulders, fangs distorting his jaw. The transformation stretches his shirt tight across muscles I shouldn’t be noticing right now. A growl tears from his throat, low and savage.
“She’s not yours.”
Valdris tilts her head. The gesture is almost birdlike, predatory in its stillness. Her attention slides to Rurik with the casual interest of a cat noticing a mouse.
“The reckless one.” Her physical voice is worse than the psychic one—layered, carrying harmonics that vibrate in my bones. “All fire, no brain. Drayke’s little attack dog.”
“That’s Guardian King’s attack dog to you.” Rurik doesn’t move from his position between us. “Also, you’re uglier than your portraits.”
I can’t see his face, but I can imagine the grin. That wild, reckless grin he wears like armor. The one that makes something flutter low in my stomach even when we’re facing down primordial evil.
Valdris laughs.
The sound scrapes across my nerves like broken glass, echoing off the cavern walls until it seems to come from every direction at once.
Her eyes focus on something behind us.
Drayke shifts fully, bronze scales erupting as he positions himself to guard the exit. Selene’s fire blooms in her palms—I can feel it, a warmth reaching toward my own flames with something like recognition.
“Your Brotherhood killed my general.” Valdris’s voice drops, grief and fury tangling together in ways that make my skin crawl. “My best warrior. The one who would have freed me from this prison you built.” Her gaze finds Drayke, and the temperature in the cavern spikes. “Veylor was worth a thousand of you, Guardian King. And you tore his throat out like the beast you are.”
“He was trying to wake you.” Drayke’s response is flat, unmoved. “He would have destroyed everything.”
“He would have restored what should have been.” Valdris’s attention swings back to me, and her gaze nearly drives me to my knees. “But you’ve brought me something better, haven’t you? A Fire-Bringer whose blood already knows me. Whose flames already answer my call.”
My fire stirs in my chest. Not at my command—athers. Recognition and response, automatic and terrifying.
No.
I shove the flames down. Grip the discipline I’ve been building for weeks like a lifeline.
“I felt your blood sing to me across miles.” Valdris takes a step closer—the projection flickering at the edges, a reminder that her true form remains chained in the pit behind her. “Every drop they drained called my name. Every moment of your pain fed my waking. You’re mine, little flame. You’ve always been mine.”
“I’m not yours.” The words leave my mouth before I can second-guess them. Fire flares in my palms—steady, focused, responding to my will this time. “I’m not anyone’s tool. And if you think I’m going to let you use me again?—“
“Use you?” Valdris’s smile is a wound in her perfect face. “I’m going toremakeyou. Once my chains are broken, once I walk free again, you’ll burn at my side. Not as a tool—as a vessel. My fire in your blood, my will in your mind, my voice speaking through your lips.”
“Over my dead body,” Rurik snarls.
“That can be arranged.”
She moves.
Not toward him—towardme. The projection flickers, reforms inches from my face, and her hand shoots out with predatory grace. Her fingers close around my wrist—solid despite being a manifestation, her will made tangible through sheer force.
The pain is immediate. Absolute.
