I glance back at Aisling, who’s helping Selene adjust her armor straps. Her red hair catches the torchlight. Her hands have stopped shaking.
“I won’t lose her,” I say. “Whatever it takes.”
“See that you don’t.” Auren’s voice softens—fractionally. “And Rurik? Try not to get yourself killed either. Paperwork is tedious enough without having to file death reports.”
I grin. “Was that almost sentimental? Should I hug you?”
“Touch me and I’ll have Zyphon dump you in the training yard.”
“There’s the Auren I know and tolerate.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Go. Save your Fire-Bringer’s cousin. And try to bring the mountain down on Valdris’s head while you’re at it.”
EIGHTEEN
AISLING
The tunnel smells like blood.
I knew it would. I spent weeks breathing this exact copper-rot stench while Valdris’s servants drained me drop by drop. But knowing and experiencing are different things, and my body remembers this place in ways my mind can’t control.
Keep moving. Niamh needs you. Keep moving.
Selene walks ahead of me, flames dancing at her fingertips to light our path. Rurik brings up the rear, his presence a wall of heat at my back. The channels are narrow—too narrow for dragons to shift, just like I told him—but wide enough for three humans to move single file.
Ancient runes line the walls. Some I recognize from journals. Others pulse with magic I don’t understand—wards and triggers and things that would kill us if Selene’s fire weren’t burning them away before we reach them.
“She’s been busy.” Selene’s voice echoes off volcanic rock. “These wards are new. Layered. She’s protecting something.”
“Niamh.” My cousin’s name is a talisman. A reminder of why I’m walking through my own personal nightmare. “Or whatever she’s planning to do with her.”
“Both, probably.” Rurik’s hand brushes my hip—brief contact, grounding. “Valdris doesn’t do anything without multiple purposes.”
Above us, muffled by stone and distance, I hear the first roars of battle. Drayke’s assault has begun. The mountain trembles with impacts that shake dust from the ceiling.
Good. I push forward, letting the distant violence fuel my determination. Keep her distracted. Keep her looking up while we come from below.
The channel slopes downward. Deeper into the mountain’s heart. The temperature rises with each step—volcanic heat pressing against my skin, making sweat bead along my spine.
And then I hear it.
Crying. Muffled. Desperate. Coming from somewhere ahead.
“Niamh.” Her name tears from my throat. I’m running before I can think, fire blazing in my palms, caution abandoned in the face of that sound.
“Aisling, wait—“ Selene’s warning dies behind me.
The channel opens into a chamber I remember. The one where they drained me. Stone altar in the center, blood channels carved into the floor, chains hanging from walls scorched black by relic energy.
And there, suspended from those chains, beaten and bloody andalive?—
“Niamh.”
My cousin’s head snaps up. Her eyes—swollen, but still that familiar warm brown—find mine. Her cracked lips form my name.
“Ais... Aisling?”
I’m across the chamber before I’m conscious of moving. My hands find the chains, fire surging through my palms, melting iron links that were designed to hold Fire-Bringers. Niamhcollapses into my arms—lighter than she should be, shaking with sobs that rack her whole body.
