The wind tears the breath from my lungs.

  Not violently—almost cleanly—but it leaves me gasping all the same, fingers locked into leather straps, body pressed low against heat and muscle and scale. The dragon’s wings beat beneath us in vast, patient strokes, each one lifting the world farther away. Below, distance stretches until the ground no longer feels real, until depth becomes something my mind cannot quite hold.

  I have never been this high.

  The underground taught us ceilings. Arches. Stone close enough to touch. Even the great caverns had limits—pillars and vaults, smoke trapped beneath rock like breath held too long. Here, there is nothing to press against. No edge. No boundary but the horizon itself.

  The dragon banks, and the land opens.

  A city spreads below us, vast and deliberate, carved into dark stone and fire-colored metal. Towers rise in sharp, confident lines, their roofs catching the sun in bronze and ember. Bridges span open air instead of tunnels. Streets wind freely, not cut for survival but shaped for movement, for purpose. Smoke rises openly—from forges, from hearths—unafraid of choking anyone below.

  I stare until my eyes ache.

  People are visible. Tiny, yes—but unmistakably alive. Moving. Crossing open ground. Pausing where the streets widen. A thousand lives lived beneath open sky.

  “This is Dravareth,” Valorn says over the wind, his voice steady beside me. “The capital of Vaelorth.”

  The words land heavier than the height.

  My chest tightens with something that is not quite wonder and not quite grief.

  This is what they built while we buried ourselves.

  The dragon dips again, angling toward the heart of the city where the stone grows darker, older. Walls rise in layered strength, encircling a massive citadel fused into the mountain beneath as if the rock itself chose to become a fortress. Its towers are broader, heavier than the city’s spires. Heat scars the stone in places—old marks, deliberate, unhidden.

  Within the walls, a wide circular space opens—bare stone scored with scorch marks and worn smooth by repeated landings.

  The dragon descends.

  The impact is controlled, powerful. Heat rolls beneath my palms as Tirath folds its wings. For a brief, foolish moment, I think perhaps this is where I will be left. Perhaps the sky was the point.

  The dragon settles fully, heat rolling beneath my boots as I shift my weight and slide down from its flank. Stone greets my feet—solid, unyielding, real. For a heartbeat, no one touches me.

  The space is wide and bare, marked by old scorch lines that spiral outward across the landing circle. The walls loom high around us, sealing the sky away piece by piece. I straighten without meaning to, instinctively searching for balance now that the world no longer moves beneath me.

  Valorn dismounts ahead of me. He does not look back.

  Two guards step forward.

  They stop an arm’s length away. I can feel them waiting.

  Valorn gives a small nod.

  Hands close around my arms then—firm, practiced. They draw my wrists behind me and bind them quickly, cord biting into skin. Not cruelly. Not gently. As if this were simply the next step in a familiar sequence.

  We move.

  Inside, the citadel swallows sound. Stone corridors stretch forward in measured turns, walls thick enough to hold centuries. Tapestries line them—deep red and gold, heavy with thread, their weight evident even without touch. Paintings fill the spaces between: battles frozen mid-strike, figures crowned in firelight, dragons coiled around banners.

  Everything here is expensive in a way that has nothing to do with shine.

  My footsteps echo wrong against the floor.

  We round a corner and nearly collide with an old woman moving with surprising steadiness, her hair bound in silver braids, her robes dark and plain but finely cut. She looks up—and smiles at Valorn.

  “We didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” she says.

  Valorn inclines his head. “We left earlier than anticipated,” he replies evenly. “A certain encounter with a hammertail encouraged haste.”

  Her brows lift. “A hammertail?” Surprise flickers across her face. “They’re usually so peaceful.”

  “They were,” he says.

  Her gaze shifts then—to me. Not alarmed. Not curious. Simply assessing, as if noting an object that does not belong where it stands.

  “They’re eating,” she says after a moment. “It’s a good time for introductions.”

  Valorn nods once more, and we continue.

  The corridor widens toward a set of tall wooden doors banded with iron. Two guards stand at attention. They open the doors without question.

  Warmth spills out first. Then voices. The low murmur of conversation, the controlled comfort of people who do not fear interruption.

  Inside, a long table gleams beneath hanging light. At its head sits a man broad-shouldered and composed, his presence anchoring the room without effort. Beside him, a woman with calm, watchful eyes. Two younger figures flank them—one attentive, one distracted, both unmistakably of the same blood.

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  The guards halt.

  One steps forward and strikes the floor once with the butt of his spear.

  “Captain Valorn Kaedricen Vaerath,” the guard announces, his voice carrying. “Of House Vaerath. Nephew to His Majesty. Commander of the Hunter’s Legion.”

  The room turns toward us.

  My breath leaves me in a single, silent rush.

  Nephew.

  I look at Valorn—really look at him—and suddenly the way he moves, the way others part for him, rearranges itself into something colder, sharper.

  Not just authority.

  Inheritance.

  The room does not rush to fill the silence.

  The man at the head of the table studies me with an interest that is neither kind nor cruel before he rises.

  He does not stand all at once. He places his hands against the edge of the table first, measured, as if nothing in this room has ever required haste. When he steps toward me, the others remain seated. No one speaks.

  He stops an arm’s length away.

  “Remove the hood,” he says.

  One of the guards moves. Fabric loosens, slides back. Light touches my face fully for the first time since we landed. I keep my eyes lowered until his hand lifts my chin—firm, not unkind.

  “Look at me.”

  I do.

  His gaze is intent, focused not on fear or defiance but on detail. The color of my eyes. The set of my pupils. The way my breath catches and steadies again. Something in his expression shifts—not surprise, but recognition.

  A slow smile touches his mouth.

  “You found one,” he says.

  The words are quiet. Satisfied.

  He steps closer, close enough that I can smell clean linen and smoke and something metallic beneath it. He studies me as one might examine a blade drawn from old ash—checking not its shape, but whether it still remembers what it was made for.

  His gaze lingers, precise and unhurried, moving from my eyes to the hollow at my throat, as if the truth he seeks lies just beneath the skin. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, calmly, “We will test her blood.”

  He straightens and turns his head slightly. “Send for the priestess.”

  The order is immediate. One of the guards leaves at once. Only then does the man look past me—to Valorn.

  The severity eases from his features, replaced by something almost like pride. He steps forward and places a hand on Valorn’s shoulder, fingers closing with familiar weight. Then, to my surprise, he draws him in briefly, a firm embrace meant to be seen.

  “Well done, my boy,” he says, smiling.

  Valorn inclines his head. No pride. No false humility. Simply acknowledgment.

  “She is as she appears,” Valorn says. “Untouched by the Ash. Alive when she should not be.”

  “Excellent,” the man replies.

  At the table, the girl watches me with open intensity, her gaze sharp and curious, unhidden. The boy’s attention is quieter, heavier—his eyes move from my bound wrists to Valorn, then back again, as if measuring something that does not yet have a name.

  The woman rises at last and joins the man’s side. Her expression is composed, but her eyes are bright now, intent.

  She steps toward me then, close enough that I can see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the careful softness of her smile. Up close, she smells faintly of smoke and herbs, something warm and cultivated.

  “Welcome to the court,” she says gently, as if greeting a guest rather than a bound offering. “If the blood test goes in your favour, you will serve the royal family.”

  Her gaze moves over me—not dismissive, not unkind. Appraising.

  “You were a very thoughtful gift,” she adds, her tone warm with approval. Something in my chest tightens, sharp and quiet.

  She turns her head slightly. “Release her.”

  The guards hesitate only long enough to be certain the order is meant. Then the cords are loosened, hands withdrawing from my arms. Blood rushes back into my wrists in a painful bloom. I lower them slowly, flexing my fingers as sensation returns.

  The woman gestures toward the table.

  “Come,” she says. “Sit with us.”

  My feet move before my thoughts catch up.

  She leads me to the long table, resting a guiding hand briefly at my back—not pushing, not restraining. Inviting. When we stop, she turns toward the two figures seated nearest, her smile brightening.

  “I forget sometimes,” she says lightly, glancing back at me, “that those who live beneath the ground are not accustomed to such formalities.”

  Her eyes warm with something almost playful.

  “But I suppose I can grant you the pleasure. This is Prince Rhael,” she says, indicating the young man. His posture is straight, his expression composed, eyes sharp with attention. “Heir to the throne.”

  Then she turns to the girl beside him, whose gaze has not left me since I entered the room.

  “And this is Princess Seren,” she continues. “His sister.”

  Seren smiles at me—quick, curious, unguarded.

  I realize then, with a clarity that makes my breath hitch, that whatever I am to them has already been decided.

  Not prisoner.

  Not guest.

  Something far more deliberate.

  The woman’s smile brightens as she takes my silence for uncertainty rather than fear.

  “Forgive me,” she says lightly. “I am Queen Liora.”

  She inclines her head—not deeply, not formally, but with an ease that suggests she has never needed to prove her place. Her eyes remain warm, curious, almost kind.

  “You must be starving,” she continues. “You’ve traveled far.”

  She gestures to the table, to the place set beside Princess Seren. “Eat. You are safe here, for now.”

  The word slips in unnoticed, wrapped in gentleness. Exactly the way Enna treated me my first morning above the ground.

  Servants move at once, appearing from the edges of the room as if summoned by tone alone. A plate is set before me—bread still warm, meat glazed and steaming, fruit cut carefully into neat slices. The smell is overwhelming. My stomach tightens painfully in response.

  Queen Liora watches with open satisfaction as I take my seat.

  “Good,” she says, pleased. “I always forget how little the first meal feels like enough.”

  She turns then toward the king, her expression bright with a familiar excitement.

  “The blood test is always such a spectacle,” she says conversationally, as if discussing a performance rather than a judgment. “For those who are allowed to witness it, at least.”

  King Kaedric’s mouth curves faintly.

  “Tonight?” he asks.

  “Why not?” she replies at once. “We’re already gathered. The court is restless, and it would give them something meaningful to look forward to.”

  Her eyes flick briefly to me, then back to him.

  “And it has been far too long since we last presented one.”

  She turns then, smoothly, toward Valorn.

  “And you,” she says warmly. “You were missed.”

  Valorn inclines his head. “Your Majesty.”

  “I mean it,” she continues, studying him with open interest. “The hunters always make the halls feel quieter when they’re gone. I look forward to the new year’s campaigns.” Her smile sharpens, just a little. “I find them endlessly fascinating.”

  Valorn allows himself the smallest exhale, something like relief—or perhaps acknowledgment. “I trust they have not grown dull in my absence,” he says.

  “Never,” she replies. “Danger has a way of keeping things interesting.”

  She returns her attention to me then, eyes bright.

  “Eat,” she urges again. “Tonight may be… long.”

  Not all welcomes are mercies.

  Some are invitations.

  What do you think?