But the dreamdoesn’t end there.
I’m floating above my own body now, watching from somewhere outside myself. I see the moment Zyphon bursts into the clearing—not the dragon I know now, aged by centuries of grief and curse, but younger. Fiercer. His face twisted with a desperation that makes my heart clench even in death.
He sees me on the altar. Sees the blood in the channels, the life drained from my body, the stillness where movement should be.
The sound he makes isn’t human. It’s not dragon either—something beyond both, a grief so vast it tears the air apart. The Shadow Clan members scatter, but Balroth doesn’t move fast enough.
Zyphon kills him with his bare hands.
I watch it happen—my brother’s death, the death I was raised to believe was murder. But it’s not murder. It’s execution. Justice. The righteous fury of a man who just lost everything, visited upon the one who stole it from him.
Balroth doesn’t beg. Doesn’t apologize. Just dies with the same cold smile on his face, satisfied even in death that he’d finally won something. Finally mattered.
And then Zyphon gathers my body from the altar. Holds me against his chest, his arms wrapped around me, his face buried in my hair. The curse is already taking root—I can see it, shadows crawling up his arms, sinking into his skin, the price the Shadow Clan has extracted for his love.
He screams. Screams until his voice gives out. Screams my name, over and over, as if he can bring me back through sheer force of will.
He can’t.
And I realize, watching from wherever dead souls go, that I’m about to leave him alone with grief and a curse that will consume him slowly, painfully, for the crime of loving me.
I wake screaming.
Shadow-flame erupts from my skin, uncontrolled, wild with the grief and rage pouring through me. The room fills with dark fire, consuming the air, licking at the walls. Somewhere in the chaos, I hear Zyphon calling my name.
He reaches for me—I feel his hands on my shoulders, trying to anchor me, trying to pull me back from the edge of destruction.
I flinch away.
Not because I’m afraid of him. Because I’m afraid of myself. Afraid that if anyone touches me right now, I’ll shatter into a million pieces and never find my way back together.
“Don’t.” My voice comes out raw, broken. “Don’t touch me. Please.”
He freezes. I can feel his confusion, his pain, his desperate need to help. But he stops. Pulls his hands back. Gives me the space I’m begging for, even though I can see how much it costs him.
The fire keeps burning. I can’t control it. Can’t think past the memory of Balroth’s smile, his cold words, his satisfaction as he watched me die. My brother. My blood. The person I loved and trusted more than anyone in the world.
He sold me to monsters. Led me to slaughter with gentle hands and reassuring words. And I trusted him. I walked into the dark because he asked me to, and he?—
A sob tears from my throat. Then another. The shadow-flame flickers, responding to my grief, and somewhere in the distance I hear doors opening, footsteps running.
TWENTY-TWO
NASYRA
Selene reaches me first.
She doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t demand explanations or try to fix things with words. She just drops to her knees beside me—I’ve somehow ended up on the floor, curled into myself—and wraps her arms around me.
Her fire rises to meet mine. Not fighting it, not suppressing it—just... joining it. Letting my flames burn alongside hers, giving them somewhere to go that isn’t destruction.
“I’ve got you,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Safe. The word feels foreign. How can anywhere be safe when your own blood can betray you?
Aisling appears moments later, her red hair wild from sleep, her expression sharp with concern. She takes in the scene—the scorched walls, the wild fire, Selene holding me on the floor—and moves to my other side without a word.
“Breathe.” Her voice is calm, clinical, the voice of someone who’s dealt with crisis before. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Focus on my voice.”
