Something flickers in his expression—surprise that I remembered, maybe. Or something softer. “You were exhausted. The library floor isn’t designed for sleeping.”
“You could have woken me.”
“You needed rest.” He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “You push yourself too hard. Someone needs to make sure you survive your own determination.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Making sure I survive?”
“That’s the mission objective, yes.” But his voice catches on the clinical phrasing. Betrays him. “Acceptable losses don’t include you.”
My fire flares—not with power, but with something deeper. Warmer. This man who spent decades hating everything my bloodline represented is standing here telling me I matter. Not the Crown. Not my power. Me.
I don’t know which of us moves first. His hand comes up to cup my face, cold against my warmth, and I lean into the touch without hesitation. My own hand finds his chest, resting over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath my palm. He’s so cold, and I’m so warm, and somehow we balance.
I look up at him—really look. At the sharp angles of his face, softened now by something he’s not quite ready to name. At the mouth that so rarely smiles but is almost smiling now. At the eyes that have been watching me since I arrived, cataloging, assessing, and somewhere along the way, wanting.
“Morrigan will learn what happens when she underestimates a true Valdorian princess.”
He doesn’t kiss me. I think we both know that if he started, neither of us would want to stop, and there’s too much to do, too many preparations to make. But I feel the moment he considers it—the slight tightening of his fingers against my cheek, the way his gaze drops to my mouth for just a heartbeat before returning to my eyes.
I want him to. The realization hits me with startling clarity. I want this cold, calculating dragon to kiss me until neither of us can think. Want to know what it feels like when ice finally melts.
He nods once, sharp and precise, then turns and walks away. I watch him go—the controlled stride, the rigid shoulders, the man who just held my face like I was something precious and then retreated before either of us could acknowledge what that meant.
My cheek is still cold where his fingers rested. I press my own hand to the spot, feeling the ghost of his touch, the frost patterns already fading against my warmth.
Before the week is out, we march on Morrigan’s stronghold. I face the sister who destroyed everything I loved.
But right now, standing in an empty war room with my heart beating too fast and my skin still tingling from a touch that meant everything, I’m not thinking about Morrigan.
I’m thinking about a dragon who’s terrified of losing me. And how terrified I am of what that makes me feel.
And somehow, that terrifies me less than going in alone.
SEVENTEEN
AUREN
The fortress looks grown rather than built.
Dark stone erupts from the earth at angles that make my strategic mind itch with wrongness. Towers spiral in directions that defy geometry, their peaks disappearing into mist that shouldn’t exist at this altitude. The walls shift subtly when I don’t focus on them directly—subtle movements at the edge of vision that set my teeth on edge and make my dragon rumble with unease.
Morrigan designed this place to unsettle. To make intruders feel wrong and unwelcome before they ever breach the outer defenses. The architecture follows rules of geometry that don’t apply in normal space, each angle slightly off, each shadow pooling in ways that whisper of dark magic soaked into the very stone.
It’s working.
I circle high above the stronghold in dragon form, gold-white scales catching the weak sunlight that filters through the perpetual mist of the borderlands. The land here is soaked in old magic—remnants of battles fought centuries ago, ley line intersections gone corrupt. Power seeps from the earth in unpredictable surges that make my wings falter if I fly too low.
Below me, Drayke’s massive bronze form leads the main assault force—twenty Brotherhood dragons in tight formation, approaching from the east where the terrain offers the most cover. His chest glows with that distinctive burning heart that marks him as king, fire already building for the initial breach. Rurik flanks the formation, red-gold scales blazing, flames licking from his wings in chaotic anticipation. Even from this height, I can see the madness in his positioning—too far forward, too eager for combat. Typical.
Zyphon is invisible. Somewhere in the shadows that pool thick around Morrigan’s domain, his obsidian scales and curse-cracked body blend with the darkness he’s learned to command. The purple veins in his form would give him away in daylight, but here, in this tainted place, he’s just another shadow among shadows.
And Tamsin is on my back.
She sits between my shoulder blades, her thighs pressed against my scales, her hands gripping the ridge of bone that runs along my spine. I feel her warmth even through my dragon hide—that impossible white fire banked just beneath her skin, ready to ignite at a moment’s notice. The Crown rests dormant against her chest, a crystallized sphere of light that pulses in rhythm with her heartbeat. Each pulse sends a whisper of power across my scales.
We spent the past days pushing her Crown control until she could call its power without losing herself to it. But training isn’t combat. And Morrigan isn’t a practice target.
“Auren.” Her voice cuts through the wind, amplified by a small ward she’s cast to carry her words. “The wards are layered thick on the eastern approach. She’s expecting the main force to come that way.”
