The wastelands stretch endlessly beneath us as we fly.
From above, they look even more desolate—a vast sea of cracked earth and jagged stone, broken only by the occasional cluster of thorny shrubs or the skeletal remains of something that once lived here.Theheat rises in shimmering waves, distorting the landscape and making everything feel unreal.
I clutch theDrake’sscales, the wind tearing at my hair and robes as we soar higher.I’mwondering how we’ll find theFireDemon.Whatdoes one even look like?Ihave no idea—we didn’t cover demons at the temple other thanSisterAgathatelling us to steer clear of them.Whatkind of house would aFireDemonlive in?Orwould he have a house at all?Probablyhe’s living in a crevice or cave or?—
My thoughts are cut off abruptly asIsee something down below that makes no sense.Atfirst,Ithink my eyes are playing tricks on me, because what sits in the middle of this barren, lifeless land is a mansion.
I stare at it in confusion.It’sa massive, sprawling structure of dark stone that seems to drink in the sunlight rather than reflect it.Tall, narrow windows gleam like black glass, and twisted spires rise from the roof like frozen flames.
The building looks as though it has no business existing here…like it was placed in the wasteland by some unnatural force.
As we descend,Isee that the ground around it is scorched black, the earth cracked and split as if something burned it from the inside out.Noshrubs grow here.Nolife clings to the edges—only ash.
TheDrakelands in a wide, barren clearing before the mansion, his claws scraping against the hardened earth.Amoment later, heShiftsback intoTheron.
“Well,”Isay, trying to keep my voice steady asItake in the looming structure before us.“Iguess this must be it.Thefinal quest—let’s do it.”
I start forward, my heart pounding in my chest but beforeIcan take more than a few steps,Theroncatches my arm.
“Wait—let me do this,” he says.
“It’s my quest!”Isnap, the words coming out sharper thanIintended.Iunderstand why he won’t help me—won’t touch me—butI’mstill hurt.Idon’t need his help.
I pull free of his grip before he can stop me again.Ineed to do this on my own.Ican’t rely on him for everything—not whenIdon’t even know if he’ll still be there when this is over.
The path to the mansion feels longer than it should—each step echoes faintly asIstep on it in the heavy, oppressive silence that surrounds the place.Upclose, the front door is even more intimidating.
It’s enormous—easily twice my height—and made of some dark, charred wood reinforced with bands of blackened metal.Thesurface is carved with intricate patterns that twist and curl like living flames, the grooves filled with a faint, ember-like glow that pulses softly, as though the door itself is alive.
Heat radiates from it—not enough to burn me, but enough to make my skin prickle.
I hesitate for just a fraction of a second but then decideIshould just get on with it.Ilift my hand and knock.Thesound echoes hollowly, swallowed almost immediately by the stillness around me.
My heart pounds so loudlyIcan hear it thundering in my ears.Behindme,Ican feelTheron’spresence—tense, watchful and ever protective, even afterIsnapped at him.
I feel a twinge of guilt—Ishouldn’t have pushed him away.Ishouldn’t have?—
The door swings open, interrupting my thoughts andIsee…
AFireDemonstaring back at me.
48
ELOWEN
For a moment,Ican’t breathe.
I don’t know whatIexpected when the door opened—something monstrous, perhaps.Somethinghulking and terrible and barely contained.Butthe being standing before me is…refined, almost elegant.
And infinitely more frightening because of it.
He is shaped like a man—tall and slender, with long limbs and a straight, aristocratic posture.Hisclothing looks like something out of a noble court, though not oneI’veever seen.Velvetbreeches cling to his long legs, the fabric a deep, wine-dark red that seems to drink in the light around it.Hiswaistcoat is richly embroidered with intricate gold thread, the pattern curling and twisting like flames caught in motion, and at his throat is a cascade of fine white lace, pristine and untouched.
Untouched—that’s what makes my stomach twist.
Because his skin is on fire.
It’s not just glowing—it’s activelyburning.Flamescrawl over him in a constant, shifting dance—licking up his arms…curling along the line of his jaw…flickering through the dark strands of his hair as though they belong there.Thefire does not consume him or damage his clothes—the velvet does not char, the lace does not blacken.
