Perhaps an hour,she replied, wings pumping with sharp efficiency.I told him to rest. To keep an eye on Zander. That display took more from him than he’s willing to admit.
My grip tightened on the ridged edge of her scales.So we’re flying into the most dangerous place on the continent, and we’ve got an hour head start before the most overprotective dragon alive notices you’re gone?
You say that like we haven’t done worse.
I didn’t argue. Because she wasn’t wrong.
Below us, the ocean churned like something alive—waves cresting with a frothy rage, slamming into the jagged rocks that ringed the Blood Isle like fangs. But it was the clouds ahead that held my attention. Thick and dark, coiling like smoke from a dying fire. Magic. Not storm, not sky.
Blood magic.
My stomach twisted as we dipped lower, the scent of copper and salt crawling over my skin.
This place smells of death,Kaelith said.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t.
I was already staring at the island of blackened cliffs and ashen hills, my heart pounding like a war drum.
Elara was somewhere down there.
And I was the only one who could save her.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Kaelith touched down on the black sand with a hiss of wind and ash, her massive wings folding against her sides as I slid from her back. The beach was jagged and cold beneath my boots, littered with the skeletal remains of ships that had once tried to reach this cursed place.
There was no point in stealth. Severeth had been expecting me.
The air trembled, and a faint hum sliced through the tension. A hole in the wards—thin, silver like a tear in a veil—shimmered into being. Kaelith growled low in her throat behind me.
Stay close,I whispered.But don’t follow. Not unless I call for you.
She is not to be trusted.
I know.
I took a breath, steadying my nerves, and stepped through the shimmer.
The magic slid over my skin like ice, then flame, then… nothing.
The beach vanished behind me.
I stood on a stone road that wound through a dead forest, eerie branches clawing at the sky. No birds. No wind. Just silence and rot.
Ash clung to the withered trunks like snow.
The path led upward, a slow incline toward the jagged silhouette that loomed above everything else—Veralin’s castle. It rose like a black crown over the isle, its towers crooked and broken, the walls scorched and crumbling in places, as if fire had tried to burn it down and failed. Magic still pulsed faintly from its stones, a sickly red that bled across the sky like a second sunset.
The gates were already open. Of course they were.
I crossed the threshold.
The great hall was hollowed out, its vaulted ceiling veined with dark magic, the chandeliers broken, rusted chains hanging like nooses from above. Ancient banners lined the walls, displaying the Blood King’s sigil, which, though faded, remained visible—a serpent wrapped around a crown, its mouth open in a scream.
My boots echoed across the stone as I walked toward the end of the room.
