The real fight begins.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ZYPHON
Lakhu runs.
Not the desperate flight of a coward, but the calculated retreat of a strategist. He moves through his stronghold with purpose, shadow magic swirling around him, leading me deeper into the mountain’s heart.
I follow. The taste of Nasyra’s kiss still burns on my lips, and it fuels something fierce in my chest. She told me not to die. She told me we have years to make up for. And I intend to collect on that promise.
She’s safe—or as safe as she can be with Selene to rescue and a Relic to contain. Rurik and Aisling will protect her. The Fire-Bringers will handle the Dominion Heart. And I have a prince to kill.
The corridors twist and turn, descending into darkness that feels alive, hungry. Shadow-constructs lunge from the walls, trying to slow me down, but my curse devours them before they can strike. Same source recognizes same source—the darkness in me consuming the darkness Lakhu commands.
Each construct I destroy feeds the curse, makes it stronger, pushes its consumption faster. I don’t care. I’ve been dying byinches for three centuries. What’s a few more inches in exchange for ending the man who tried to use her?
I’ve carried the curse his father created, of living with shadows that eat me from the inside. Lakhu didn’t create my suffering, but he tried to use it. Tried to use her.
That alone is enough to earn his death.
The prince disappears through a doorway carved with symbols I recognize—old magic, blood magic, the kind of power that predates even the Shadow Clan. I pause for half a heartbeat, assessing the wards, then push through.
And stop.
The chamber radiates power.
Ritual circles cover the floor—concentric rings of carved stone, channels for blood, runes that pulse with dormant energy. The walls are lined with focusing crystals, each one humming at frequencies just below hearing. This isn’t a room. It’s a weapon. A massive ritual array designed for something far more ambitious than anything I’ve seen before.
And at the center, suspended in a column of shadow-glass?—
Queen Brinja.
She looks exactly as she did three centuries ago. Pale skin, silver hair, features carved with the same aristocratic beauty that marks her son. Her eyes are closed, her hands folded across her chest, her expression peaceful. As if she’s merely sleeping.
As if I didn’t tear through her on my way to kill the men who murdered Nasyra.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Lakhu stands on the far side of the chamber, shadow magic curling around his hands. His beautiful face is twisted with grief and hatred and something that might be hope.
“For centuries, I’ve kept her preserved. Centuries of planning, researching, waiting for the right combination of power to bring her back.” His voice cracks on the last word. “And then I found it. A Fire-Bringer with both blood and innate magic. The only thing in this world capable of fueling a resurrection of this magnitude.”
“Nasyra.” The name comes out rough.
“Nasyra.” He savors the word. “I brought her back from death to bring my mother back from death. Poetic, don’t you think? The woman you failed to save, dying again to restore the woman you murdered.”
The truth hitsme like a physical blow.
This was never about the Brotherhood. Never about weapons or revenge against dragons who claimed Fire-Bringers. This was about one thing: a son trying to undo his mother’s death.
“You killed her.” Lakhu’s voice shakes with rage and grief intertwined. “My mother. The only person in the Shadow Clan who ever loved me for myself rather than my bloodline. She read to me when I was young. Taught me magic. Made me believe I could be more than my father’s heir.” His hands clench. “And you tore through her like she was nothing.”
“She stood between me and the men who killed Nasyra.” I don’t feel guilt. Not for Brinja. Not for anyone who tried to stop me that night. “I would have torn through an army to reach that altar. Anyone in my path?—“
“Died.” Lakhu’s smile is poison. “Yes. She did. Collateral damage in your little rampage. My father created your curse as punishment, but he was content to let you suffer slowly. He didn’t care about using the power he’d bound to your soul.” He spreads his arms wide. “I’m the one who found a purpose for it. I’m the one who realized that the curse could be channeled, directed, used to power a resurrection ritual if the right catalyst was applied.”
“Nasyra’s blood.”
