But tools don’t choose. Tools don’t love. Tools don’t kneel on cold stone floors while dragons fight to protect them, while Fire-Bringers hold them through the fire, while a man with centuries of grief learns to hope again because of them.
I am not a tool.
I am Nasyra Hawk. I set hedge mazes on fire and reduced scholars to tears and fell in love with a dragon who kept a garden of my favorite flowers alive for hundreds of years. I died on analtar because my brother betrayed me, and I came back from death because a prince wanted vengeance.
But I am not his vengeance. Not his weapon. Not his anything.
I am mine.
The chains shatter.
Not easily. Not cleanly. The Relic fights me, claws at me, tries to drag me back under. But my fire is stronger than it was when I woke in Lakhu’s stronghold, confused and afraid and desperate for something to hold onto.
I have things to hold onto now. Selene’s warmth as she held me while I fell apart. Aisling’s dry humor cutting through my despair. Zyphon’s devotion, patient and fierce and unwavering despite everything I threw at him.
The bond growing between us—not claiming, not yet, but something real. Something that anchors me when the darkness tries to drag me under. Something that reminds me who I am when ancient magic tries to make me forget.
I rise to my feet. The pain is still there, but it’s background noise now—something I can fight through, can push past. My shadow-flame settles back under my control, no longer trying to attack my allies.
Zyphon’s hand finds mine, his fingers threading through mine, his shadows wrapping around my fire in a gesture of support that needs no words.
Lakhu materializes from the shadows at the far end of the chamber, his beautiful face twisted with fury and disbelief. “That’s not possible. The Relic?—“
“The Relic doesn’t own me.” I straighten my spine, meet his gaze without flinching. My voice comes out steady, strong, carrying the weight of everything I’ve survived to stand here. “You don’t own me. I am not your weapon.” The words echo through the chamber, through so much suffering, through weeks of manipulation. “I never was.”
Lakhu’s expression shifts through several emotions—fury, disbelief, calculation—before settling on something cold and dangerous. “You think breaking free of the Relic changes anything? You think your little rebellion matters?”
“I think it matters to me.” I squeeze Zyphon’s hand, feeling his shadows pulse in response. “And I think you’re about to find out exactly what happens when you underestimate a Fire-Bringer.”
Something dark and satisfied flickers in Zyphon’s expression. He releases my hand and steps forward, shadows surging around him, the curse that’s been consuming him finally aimed at the man who deserves it.
“You should have left her dead,” he says to Lakhu. “You gave me back everything I lost. And now you’re going to pay for what you did to her.”
Lakhu’s expression shifts—fury bleeding into calculation, pride giving way to survival instinct. He’s facing two people who have every reason to want him dead, and his primary weapon just refused to work.
“Free Selene,” Zyphon says without looking away from the prince. “Get her and Aisling out of here. I’ll handle this.”
“Zyphon—“
“Go.” He finally looks at me, and there’s something fierce in his expression—something that makes my heart clench even as battle rages around us. “I’ll find you. I always find you.”
I want to argue. Want to stay, to fight beside him, to make sure he survives what’s coming. But Selene is still chained to thataltar, still bleeding, still in danger. And Aisling is already moving toward her, blade in hand, ready to cut her free.
Fire-Bringers protect each other.
I grab Zyphon’s face and kiss him—hard and fast and full of everything I don’t have time to say. His shadows surge around us for a heartbeat, wrapping us in darkness that feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been.
“Don’t you dare die,” I growl against his mouth.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone, a gesture so tender it hurts. “Now go save our Fire-Bringer.”
Our Fire-Bringer. As if Selene belongs to both of us. As if we’re already a family, bound by something deeper than blood or magic.
Maybe we are.
I tear myself away from him and run toward the altar, toward Selene, toward the future we’re going to build once Lakhu is dead and the Relic is sealed and this nightmare is finally over.
Behind me, Zyphon’s shadows surge toward the prince. Lakhu’s magic rises to meet them, cold darkness clashing with cursed darkness in a battle that’s been centuries in the making.
