I sleep eventually.Fitful, shallow, full of dreams I don’t remember upon waking. The suffocating half-silence pressing against my blood.
Food appears through the slot at some point. I eat it without tasting it, my mind still working through scenarios and possibilities.
He’ll come back. I’m certain of it. Whatever shifted between us during that interrogation—whatever door cracked open that he didn’t expect—he won’t be able to leave it alone. He’ll need to understand. To categorize. To fit me into a framework that makes sense.
I need to be ready.
I spend the hours—or days, I still can’t tell—preparing. Running through everything I know about the Blood Regent’s network, organizing the information into offerings I can present strategically. Practicing the balance between useful and threatening. Not threatening enough to eliminate.
It’s a delicate dance. I’ve danced it before. But never with someone this dangerous.
The viewing slot scrapes open. Different guard this time—I can tell by the cadence of footsteps outside. This one doesn’t speak. Watches through the slot for a long moment, then closes it again.
Checking on me. Confirming I’m still here, still contained, still waiting.
Where else would I go?
I laugh at the absurdity of it. The sound echoes off depressing walls and fades into the half-silence. My magic pulses behind its dampening walls.
I trace my finger along the silver marks on my wrists. Old bindings. Old cells. Old pain that never quite fades.
This cell is different. I don’t know how yet. I don’t know why. But the way he looked at these scars—not as evidence, not as leverage, but as if they hurthim?—
Different.
FIVE
IZAN
The Cinder Throne Hall reeks of barely-leashed violence.
I sense it the moment I pass through the massive doors—the pressure of gathered power, the heat of competing wills, the subtle shifts in dominance that mark dragon politics. The ceiling rises nearly a hundred feet above, lost in shadow and the perpetual smoke from molten veins tracing the walls. Obsidian columns thick as ancient trees support the structure, their surfaces gleaming with reflected firelight.
War council. Called at dawn. Mandatory attendance for all ranking members of the Cinder Flight.
I haven’t slept since the interrogation. Haven’t managed to close my eyes without seeing silver scars and defiance and the way she looked at me as if she could read every fault line in my armor.
The hall is already crowded. Dragons in human form cluster in calculated positions—near the columns for those who prefer cover, around the tiered seating for those who want visibility, along the walls for those smart enough to keep escape routes clear. The black basalt floor radiates heat from the lava channelsbeneath, and the air tastes of smoke and sulfur and predatory tension.
At the far end, the Cinder Throne dominates the space. Massive. Carved from a single piece of obsidian. Empty, today—the Flight hasn’t had a supreme ruler in three generations, preferring collective governance over individual tyranny. But the throne still shapes the room, still pulls attention, still reminds everyone what power in its purest form looks like.
I make my way toward the central platform where enforcers traditionally report. Eyes track my movement. Conversations pause and resume. The weight of attention presses across my shoulders with familiar force.
They’ve heard about the riots. Heard about the Blood Regent’s accelerating network. Heard about the witch I captured and claimed for personal custody.
Good. Let them wonder.
Kaelreth’s voice cuts through the ambient noise.
“Enforcer Sulien. You’re late.”
The senior dragon stands near the throne platform, his iron-gray hair catching the ember-glow from the wall veins. He’s old in ways that show—not weakness, but accumulation. Centuries of experience compressed into every line of his face, every deliberate movement of his body. He’s watched Pyraeth through multiple eras of rule, and he watches me now with unconcealed suspicion.
“I was gathering intelligence.” I stop at the platform’s edge, refusing to ascend to where he stands. A subtle dominance play—I’ll present from here, at his level, rather than below him. “Some of us have actual work to do.”
His expression hardens. Around us, the ambient conversations die. Dragons pause mid-gesture, mid-word, turning to watch the exchange with predatory interest.
“Your work, as I understand it, includes taking personal custody of a prisoner who should be in collective holding.” Kaelreth doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to—the hall’s acoustics carry every word. “The council was not consulted.”
