A dragon statue carved from obsidian, jagged and sharp-edged, stood in the center. I had the feeling it was of Veralin’s dragon as it was large and black like midnight.
I could feel him.
Watching.
Waiting.
And somewhere beyond these stone walls… Elara.
I crossed the room and the heavy doors groaned as they opened, their iron hinges shrieking like wounded beasts. The air inside was metallic, damp, and pulsing with ancient magic that coiled like smoke through the halls.
My boots struck the black stone floor with every step, echoing off vaulted ceilings choked with shadows. Flames flickered in braziers of dark iron, casting shifting patterns across the floor like slithering creatures.
The Blood Fae lined the corridor, on either side, as silent as statues. Their crimson eyes tracked my every move, unreadable. Some wore armor that looked like it had been forged in nightmares, others robes laced with bone charms and sigils I didn’t recognize. But none stopped me.
They’d been ordered not to.
As I reached the far end of the corridor, one stepped forward, a tall female with pallid skin and cruel eyes. She didn’t speak. Just placed a hand against the obsidian door.
It creaked open on its own.
A wave of pressure rolled out from within. Cold. Ancient. Saturated with power.
I stepped through the threshold.
The throne room was vast and circular, wreathed in red flame and shadow. Columns twisted like petrified roots climbed toward the ceiling high above. The very air felt heavier here, the stone beneath my feet darker, older—as if it remembered every drop of blood spilled in this room.
At the center of it all, on a dais carved of the same black stone as the castle itself, sat Veralin.
The Blood King.
He reclined on his jagged throne as if it had grown around him. His cloak was deep-crimson, draped over one shoulder and pinned with a brooch shaped like a bleeding fang. His skin was as pale as moonlight, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. His eyes, the color of dying embers, sparked when they met mine.
He smiled.
“Hello, Storm-born,” he said, his voice low and rich, a blade wrapped in silk. “We have been waiting for you.”
My throat tightened.
Elara had to be close. And whatever this was… it had only just begun.
The Blood King stood slowly, his presence expanding like a storm cloud unfurling across the sky. Power radiated from him in heavy, relentless waves, pressing against my chest like a second heartbeat. His crimson eyes locked on mine, ageless and unblinking. The tattered hem of his long, black robe dragged across the stone as he descended from his throne—more shadow than man, more myth than flesh.
“Where is Elara?” I asked, bracing myself against the pull of his magic. She had to be safe. She had to be.
His lips curved, the faintest hint of amusement in their line. “She is with your sister.”
I stared at him. “My… what?”
“Sister,” he repeated with a tilt of his head, as if testing the word on his tongue. “One you’ve never met. She is a few years older than you. Our associates acquired her when your mother was pregnant with you.”
My stomach twisted. What kind of game was this?
“But before you see either of them,” he continued, “you must answer a question. Tell me the truth, and you may proceed. Lie, and I will bury your tongue in the sand outside my walls.”
I swallowed, hard. “What’s the question?”
He stepped down fully from the dais, the heat of his magic crackling against my skin. “The wards were down. Now, they are not. How did that happen?”
