“I’m not going anywhere.”
The crown-forge chamber stops us both.
Crowns hang from the ceiling. Hundreds of them. Golden and gleaming, each one a chain waiting to wrap around some ruler’s throat. Some are half-formed, still being shaped in the blue flames of the forges. Others pulse with finished power, ready to be placed on whatever head the Arbiter chooses.
I’ve read about these. Studied them in archives and ancient texts. But seeing them in person—hundreds of instruments of control dangling overhead like grotesque decorations—makes my stomach turn.
“Every one of these…” I can’t finish the sentence.
“A kingdom controlled.” Tyr’s voice is flat. Hard. “A future stolen.”
“Gods.”
“Not gods. Their tools.” His palm presses between my shoulder blades, steering me forward. “And tools can be broken.”
We move through the chamber without speaking. The crowns seem to track our passage, swaying slightly even though there’s no wind. My skin crawls. I want out of this room.
The central chamber opens before us.
The space is massive—bigger than any throne room I’ve ever seen. Black ice stretches in every direction, polished to a mirror shine. Our reflections stare back at us, distorted and dark.
And there, at the center, sits the Arbiter of Crowns.
It’s huge. Fifteen feet of black ice shaped into something almost human. Armor that gleams like frozen obsidian. A face that’s wrong in ways I can’t quite name—too smooth, too still, no expression at all. No eyes, but I feel it watching us.
And in its chest, a lattice of golden light pulses like a heartbeat. The crown-heart. The source of everything it is. Every crown it’s forged, every ruler it’s bound, every city it’s frozen—all of it flows from that golden glow.
Through my sight, I see what others can’t. The crown-heart isn’t real authority. It’s a lie made solid. Power that only works because everyone believes it does.
“Dragon.” The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. Cold. Empty. “You have returned.”
“For the last time.”
“You have always been a flaw.” The Arbiter rises from its throne, unfolding to its full height. Bigger than I thought. Bigger than should be possible. “A mistake that should have been corrected long ago.”
“And yet here I am.”
The massive head turns toward me. No eyes, but I feel its attention like ice water down my spine.
“You brought the witch. The one who sees.” A pause. “Interesting.”
“She does more than see.” Tyr’s voice carries an edge of warning.
“Yes.” The Arbiter takes a step forward. The ground shudders beneath its weight. “She has changed. You both have. The mating altered you.”
“Enough talking.” Tyr’s power flares, shattering the ice beneath his feet. “You’ve been hunting me for centuries. I’m done running.”
“You were never running.” The Arbiter’s voice holds no emotion. No anger. No satisfaction. Just a cold statement. “You were being herded. Every escape, every near miss—I let you go. I wanted you strong. Desperate. Willing to bond with the truth-seer when survival demanded it.”
My blood goes cold. “What?”
I push my sight outward without thinking—a reflex, the Auric Veil reaching for the lie I desperately need to find there. But the claim sits solid and unchanged under my scrutiny. No fractures. No false authority. The Arbiter is not lying.
“You’re lying,” Tyr growls.
“I do not lie.” The Arbiter tilts its massive head. “I saw the potential. A dragon who rejects control, bonded to a witch who sees through lies. Together, you might threaten me. Apart, you were merely inconvenient.”
“If you wanted us together, why hunt us at all?”
