The interior of Morrigan’s fortress is a continuing nightmare made into stone.
Corridors twist at angles that make my balance uncertain. Shadows pool in corners that shouldn’t have shadows, stretching toward us as we pass. The air tastes wrong—thick with old magic and older malice, the accumulated hatred of decades seeping from the walls themselves. The temperature drops with each step deeper, cold that has nothing to do with climate and everything to do with dark magic concentrated in one place for too long.
Shadow constructs emerge from the darkness every few steps. Not quite alive, not quite dead—creatures of pure dark magic given form and hunger. They reform after being destroyed, pulling themselves back together from wisps of shadow, relentless and patient.
Against normal Fire-Bringer flame, they’d be a serious threat. Against Tamsin?—
White fire erupts from her hands, and the constructs evaporate. They annihilate. Where gold or orange fire would push them back temporarily, her flames erase them fromexistence. No reformation. No recovery. Just absence where shadow used to be.
I watch her fight, and something in my chest tightens.
She moves with a grace that betrays her Valdorian training—every gesture efficient, purposeful, no wasted motion. Her dark hair whips around her as she spins to face a construct that tried to flank us, white fire already arcing from her fingertips before she’s fully turned. The copper highlights glow like molten metal. Her amber eyes burn with focused determination.
There’s nothing cold about the way she fights. She burns with righteous fury, with protective rage, with power that should be terrifying but is instead?—
Beautiful.
The word surfaces before I can suppress it. This woman who should need my protection is carving a path through enemy forces like she was born for it. This princess who should be fragile is the most dangerous thing in this fortress. And I can’t look away.
Magnificent. Terrifying. Stunning in a way that has nothing to do with her face and everything to do with who she is.
My dragon rumbles approval deep in my chest. For once, we’re in perfect agreement.
“Auren.” Her voice snaps me back to tactical reality. “Door ahead. Warded.”
I force myself to focus. The door she’s indicating is massive—iron-bound wood carved with symbols that pulse with dark magic. Pain wards designed to punish anyone who touches them. Behind it, according to my mental map of the structure, should be the great hall.
“Can you burn through?”
She studies the door with eyes that have gone distant, reading magical signatures I can’t perceive. “These wards aredifferent. Keyed specifically to Fire-Bringer flame. If I touch them, they’ll absorb the energy and redirect it.”
“Into what?”
“Me, probably.” Her mouth twists. “Morrigan’s been preparing for my arrival for a long time.”
I step forward, calling frost to my hands. “Then we do this the old-fashioned way.”
Dragon ice isn’t just cold—it’s the absence of energy, the nullification of magical heat. I press my palms against the door and let my power spread through the wood, the metal, the wards themselves. Where Tamsin’s fire would feed the trap, my frost starves it. The dark magic sputters, struggles, dies.
The wards crack. Shatter. Fall away in pieces of frozen darkness that crumble to nothing before they hit the floor.
Tamsin’s hand touches my shoulder—brief, warm. Her fire whispers against my cold. “Not just a pretty face, then.”
“I have many hidden talents.” I kick the door open, frost still crackling from my fingers. “Stay close.”
The great hallis a throne room for a queen who was never crowned.
Dark and cold, lit by flames that burn without heat—witch-fire, purely decorative, casting dancing shadows across walls hung with salvaged Valdorian tapestries. I recognize the weaving style from the intelligence reports. These are pieces Morrigan took when the Shadow Clan destroyed her former home. Trophies from a kingdom she helped burn.
The furniture is expensive, elegant pieces that clearly came from a palace. Tables carved with the Valdorian royal crest. Chairs upholstered in what was once fine fabric, now fadedfrom years in this forsaken place. At the far end of the hall, a throne sits on a raised dais, its high back carved with symbols of authority.
Tamsin goes rigid beside me.
“That’s my father’s chair.” Her voice is barely a whisper. The controlled warrior from moments ago is gone, replaced by a daughter staring at evidence of her family’s murder. “She took it. When she helped destroy everything, she took the throne as a trophy.”
Rage flickers across her features—hot, immediate, justified. Her fire flares in response, white light pushing back the witch-flame shadows. The temperature in the hall spikes.
“Tamsin.” I grip her arm, forcing her to meet my gaze. “She wants you angry. Wants you off-balance. Don’t give her the advantage.”
