Scene 1

  -Ryker-

  The cavern opens before us like the hollow of a mountain’s heart. It is vast, echoing, swallowing every scrap of torchlight before it reaches the ceiling. It is so massive the entire lower half of the castle could fit inside. I remember seeing the entrance from the sea once, a dark mouth carved into the cliff, but being inside is different. Dragons could fly full circles in here without brushing each other’s wings.

  A cold wind slips in from the open arch behind us. Another storm is coming.

  Light runes crawl up the pillars in faint white gold threads, pulsing like veins beneath skin. Smoke drifts in thin ribbons. Rain, salt, and incense settle deep as we enter.

  All the candidates walk in a straight line, boots whispering across sand-smoothed stone.

  At the center lies the Bonding Rune. It is carved deep into the floor and inlaid with white stones. Its channels glow softly, breathing in their own rhythm. Older than Cliffside. Older than any guild. The air hums across my arms as we pass.

  To the left, the guild leaders stand in rigid rows with banners cascading behind them.

  The Tidekeeper’s navy sash flickers.

  The Hearthwarden’s copper mantle catches every ember.

  The Rider-Captain’s obsidian armor throws torchlight back like broken stars.

  They do not move. They do not blink. They watch and judge and measure.

  To the right, the dragons wait.

  The elders sit closest. Their bodies are massive with scar and scale, and their breaths are slow enough to count. Their eyes glow like banked coals, and each inhale stirs dust across the floor. Younger dragons line the outer walls with wings twitching in restless energy. Younger is relative. Some are almost as large as the elders. A few lower their heads to sniff us as we march past, curious instead of unkind.

  The cavern feels too open and too tight at the same time. We all look identical in our tunics, stripped of charms and ribbons and bracelets. The ceremony demands we enter with nothing but bone, breath, and whatever power refuses to leave us alone.

  My breath stays steady only because I force it to. The cavern presses inward, thick with eyes from humans and dragons.

  A few paces ahead, I catch sight of Elara. Something about her is different. She walks like a weight has been lifted from her, chin high and spine straight. Calm on the outside. Fear flickering just beneath. She carries it better than I ever learned to. Better than I am doing now.

  The drums begin. Their low thrum echoes through my ribs like the cavern’s heartbeat. The rhythm hits, pauses, and waits for the cave to answer.

  Great.

  Matching gray tunics. Stone floor. Dragons. Politicians.

  A perfect night for public humiliation.

  I try to smirk, but my chest tightens instead.

  Without my bracer, my ruined arm feels exposed and raw. Each step pulls at the twisted scar, the burn marks darkening under the rune-light. People do not need to stare directly for me to feel it. Their attention clings to the arm like burrs.

  A whisper behind me.

  Another above.

  A hiss near the guild seats.

  They know the stories.

  The boy who killed his father by staring into a dragon’s eye.

  The boy who reached for a rune he was not ready for.

  A curse from the Rune Father himself, punishment for pride.

  None of it true.

  None of them willing to hear the truth.

  We loop around the carved oval in the center of the chamber. A flash of red erupts in my mind, burning through skin and bone and memory.

  The accident.

  My fault.

  Their favorite warning tale.

  I keep my eyes on the far wall, but the back of my neck prickles.

  They are not afraid of me.

  They are afraid of what might happen again.

  I curl my fingers slowly. Not a spark comes. Only a pressure deep in my palm, a ghost of a power I am not allowed to touch.

  Not tonight.

  Not ever, if the masters get their wish.

  “Lightning is volatile.”

  “Unpredictable.”

  “Dangerous.”

  They banned it from my trials after the accident. No lightning, no storms, not even a spark, not with an audience this large and dragons this close.

  And the worst one of all:

  “Especially with your arm.”

  As if the scar is the problem.

  As if I am the problem.

  I breathe out through my teeth.

  Not in front of dragons who can smell fear and power better than any human alive.

  But anger stirs, filling my chest with heat.

  If they insist on seeing the cursed and broken version of me, then maybe tonight I will show them what came from all those stories.

  My fist unclenches.

  Ready.

  The drums deepen. The cavern drops into silence.

  A guild leader steps forward. His voice rolls across the chamber with ritual weight.

  “Tonight begins as every ceremony before it. Yet the elders decree that one truth must be spoken before all others. The dragons have revealed what has not been seen in nearly a decade: a new mating bond. A Lumira and an Umbryx have chosen one another as mates.

  Their names are Vitalis and Obsidian.”

  The names strike a memory. I realize we studied them in our lessons. A rare bond. A lesson spoken like myth.

  “Rare and wondrous is their union. Let all present bear witness, for it is a blessing upon the nest and our kingdom.

  Thus the elders speak. Thus Balance is kept.”

  A hush sweeps the cavern.

  Movement stirs at the far wall.

  From the mouth of the nest caves, an Umbryx steps forward with scales so deep a blue they are nearly shadow. His eyes are pale as winter ice. A blast of cold follows him. I cannot tell if it is the storm outside or his presence.

  Obsidian.

  The dragon who refused rider after rider.

  The one who teetered on the edge of half souled.

  The one everyone expected to be driven out before the year’s end.

  Yet here he stands. Calm, steady, and whole.

  Beside him lands a Lumira with wings pale as dawn and scales glowing faint gold in the rune-light.

  Vitalis.

  They bow toward each other in perfect rhythm as they circle in the center, making direct eye contact. The bond between them is unmistakable. Sacred. Nearly forgotten.

  Gasps ripple across the cavern and fall into reverent silence.

  Seeing them make direct eye contact feels wrong. It is something no one is allowed to do with dragons, and if memory is right, even dragons rarely do it with each other unless they are mates. I wonder why. Respect, control, power. My thoughts wander before the ceremony pulls them back.

  The guild leader lifts his voice again.

  “Obsidian will not take part in the ceremony. But his mate, Vitalis, will join the choosing.”

  A wave of awe sweeps the room.

  Vitalis.

  A cream gold Lumira.

  Mate to a dragon who had no business surviving the dark.

  Something tightens beneath my ribs. Dread or hope or both twisted together.

  The trials will not be the same for whoever she chooses.

  Scene 2

  -Elara-

  The announcement rolls through the cavern, and while the attendants shift into place, I scan the crowd for Mira. It takes a moment, but then—I find her near Lorewarden Brannis, quill in hand, scroll already half-filled, I’m sure. Of course she’s taking notes. Of course she was tasked to record everything. But she isn’t looking at the ceremony. She’s looking straight at me, wearing that sister’s grin that warms me down to the marrow. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together, I think, before turning back to the voice echoing through stone.

  The drums settle into a steady heartbeat, deep enough to vibrate in my ribs. A single string instrument threads through the rhythm, its notes drifting in and out like another presence telling its own story. When the guild leader finishes the announcement—something I never believed I would live long enough to witness—we begin to move. We turn toward the Bonding Rune carved into the floor, its veins glowing softly. As I pivot, I catch sight of Ryker. He stands stiff, jaw tight, the muscles in his shoulders locked. His arm is uncovered. Not just scarred. Charcoal black from wrist to elbow, threaded with faint red veins that pulse when the torchlight touches them. A wound, a mark, a story burned into him. My heart aches for him—not in pity, but in recognition of someone carrying more than any human should be asked to bear. Misfortune, curse, or something the Rune Father wrote for him long ago… I don’t know. But he turns away before I can look longer.

  We circle the oval together. The Bonding Rune brightens beneath our feet, its pale threads pulsing in time with the drums—as if the stone itself breathes when we draw close. A hum rises from the floor and travels up my spine.

  An attendant presses two smooth river-stones into my palms.

  One holds the Form mark—the rune we shape with our own strength, our own intent.

  The other bears Wisdom, the one dragons call upon to see the truth of us.

  “You’re in the first group,” he murmurs before moving on.

  The stones are warm, heavier than they should be, as though breath has already curled itself inside them. Across the platform, banners shiver in the cave-wind. Elder dragons watch us without moving, their golden eyes still as carved suns. Somewhere behind me, Mira is watching with held breath. I picture her fingers curling into her sleeve, twisting fabric, too anxious to stop.

  Someone nearby whispers a prayer. Someone else swallows hard. I realize my mouth is dry too—fear hanging in the air as we all hold our breath for what comes.

  The attendants raise their hands and walk away.

  The drums stop.

  We turn.

  And I step forward.

  The Bonding Rune flares beneath me, light rising up my legs. The stone in my hand pulses once—like a heartbeat waking. My fingers tremble before I command them still.

  I begin.

  Slowly, carefully, I trace the Fire rune into the stone. Each line shimmers, sinking into the grooves as though the stone is drinking the meaning from my fingers. When the shape is complete, I press both palms to it, sending breath and strength downward—sending my intention toward the flame.

  The stone answers with a humming thrum.

  And then—I lift it.

  The rune awakens.

  Fire unfurls.

  Ribbons of light stream behind the stone as I move. When I close my eyes, the old rhythm rises to meet me—my rhythm—the part of myself that existed before fear carved its shadows into me. Thin sparks trail from each motion. I sweep my wrist in a looping arc; flame coils after me, lingering before dissolving in a soft sigh of embers. I turn, and the fire follows—obedient, bright, warm as breath against the skin of my arm.

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  Old footwork stirs within me, carried up from memory. Peace and joy slip into the spaces fear once held.

  The fire doesn’t resist me.

  It welcomes me.

  It matches my pulse, my breathing—the steadiness I can never seem to hold in waking life. Heat wraps me without burning, a living current holding me upright, as though the flame and I share a single, steady heartbeat.

  Gasps echo through the cavern, but I keep my eyes closed. I keep moving.

  Tracing light.

  Tracing memory.

  At last, the final ribbon folds into the stone, its glow dimming to a faint shimmer. I bend and place the Form stone behind me, as the ritual requires.

  Then I reach for the second.

  The Wisdom stone pulses—heavier, deeper—as though aware of what it will reveal. I trace the rune of truth more slowly this time. Line by line. Breath by breath.

  When the shape is whole, I press my palm to it.

  Power spills out of me.

  For a single heartbeat—nothing.

  Then gold erupts.

  Light blooms outward, warm and blinding, and the floor trembles beneath my feet.

  The rune awakens.

  A vision rises from its heart:

  ? Mira’s face, bright with laughter.

  ? Spring blossoms curling like a crown of pale petals.

  ? Sunlight threading through gray.

  ? Fire transformed—not devouring, but awakening life.

  Healing.

  Renewal.

  Friendship.

  The first breath of beginning again.

  Whispers swirl across the cavern—gasps, shifting feet, the scrape of boots on stone. Some faces tighten in confusion. Others lean forward, captured by the glow.

  The vision folds slowly back into the stone. Its radiance settles into a soft, steady thrum.

  I step forward, bend, and set the Wisdom stone beyond the oval. Its pulse joins the others—a small, golden heartbeat.

  Then I rise, breath trembling free of my chest, and return to my place in the line.

  My part is done.

  Scene 3

  -Ryker-

  The second she stepped into the circle, I lost the thread of everything else.

  Elara didn’t perform — she moved, like the air answered her before she asked. Her feet carved patterns I’d never seen here, her arms pulling fire into shapes that shouldn’t have been possible. Not for anyone. Definitely not for someone our age.

  And the fire…

  Rune Father, the fire followed her.

  It wasn’t rage or ruin, not the kind of flame that scars. It curled around her like it trusted her, yellow-gold ribbons matching each breath she took. A story instead of a burn. Healing.

  Different.

  I’d seen her activate runes before — always too fluid, too instinctive, like she was remembering something the rest of us were still trying to learn. But this… this was something else entirely.

  Her second stone touched the sand, and I realized I’d been staring at her the whole time.

  Idiot.

  I rip my gaze away as she steps back into the line, but the image sticks — the way she carried the fire like it belonged to her.

  Beautiful.

  The word slips up before I can crush it.

  I don’t know if I mean the flame…

  or her.

  Doesn’t matter.

  It shouldn’t matter.

  This isn’t about her. This is about what I have to prove. My scarred arm, my mistakes, my story — mine, not theirs to decide.

  The drums thunder.

  My turn.

  I step forward.

  The stone in my hand thrums, heavy, alive — like it recognizes the part of me I pretend isn’t there. For a moment, I want to look for Joren, catch even half a breath of steadiness, but the ritual faces us outward. Alone.

  Fine. This is mine to carry.

  I close my eyes.

  This is the part where I’m supposed to obey. Where I pick something safe, something sanctioned. I don’t.

  I picture the rune: every line perfect, carved into memory after years of practice.

  Then I picture the lightning — raw, sharp, coiled behind my ribs like a caged animal.

  I force them together — storm into shape, memory into meaning.

  The stone burns.

  When I open my eyes, the rune is already embedded, whole and waiting. I press my palm to its surface, push power into it until static climbs my arm.

  Control.

  I’ve controlled myself for years — every emotion, every breath, every mistake — and this is no different.

  I lift the stone high with my blackened arm.

  Lightning tears free.

  A jagged spear rips upward into the dark, blinding white, splitting the cavern open with sound. Gasps snap through the crowd.

  I drag the stone down, hauling the storm with it. The bolt hits the sand hard. Heat blossoms, glass hissing beneath my boots as it hardens smooth and black.

  Silence drops heavy when the thunder fades.

  I set the stone behind me. The first part is done. It’s mine — not theirs, not rumor or whisper or fear. The leaders saw it. The dragons felt it. The hidden truth is out now, and no one can pretend otherwise.

  My power isn’t perfect, but it’s mine to understand — my story to start writing.

  I reach for the second stone — Wisdom. Its weight drags at me, heavy in a way that has teeth. It knows exactly what I don’t want to show. Still, I close my eyes and shape the Rune of Memory.

  Not truth.

  Not scars.

  Peace.

  Just… peace.

  Small things rise first:

  Rain in a forest.

  Bread baking warm in the kitchens.

  Grass atop the cliffs, wind cutting clean.

  I press them into the stone. Seal them. Lay my hand flat.

  Light flows out — soft, golden, steady. The images bloom above the stone, visible to everyone. Little moments. Ordinary. But real.

  A murmur ripples from the guild leaders — surprise, maybe even relief. Like they didn’t think I had anything gentle left in me. For a moment, my heart eases. I breathe.

  This is what I want them to see.

  Power and peace.

  That’s all they see.

  Then a Pyraeth roars from the far archway.

  My vision fractures.

  Fire.

  Screams.

  My father’s face lost in light I could never outrun.

  The memory slams into the rune. The stone drinks it — hungry— before I can drag it back. Beneath my hand, something twists.

  No.

  Not today.

  I force it down. Control it. The vision breaks apart before it can take root. My breath shakes as I step forward with the stone held tight, like it might snap if I loosen my grip.

  The glow folds inward, softening, sealing.

  I crouch and place the Wisdom stone at the edge of the circle. My jaw locks; my smirk is a mask stretched thin.

  “Not today,” I whisper.

  And I return to the line, pulse still pounding like thunder inside my chest.

  For now, my part is done.

  Scene 4

  -Elara-

  The echo of Ryker’s lightning still trembles through the cavern.

  Glass shards lie at his feet, a thin, jagged lake beneath the rune-light — proof of power no one can pretend not to see.

  But it isn’t the storm that holds me.

  It’s the way he made it.

  He didn’t trace the lines like the rest of us. He didn’t even stumble through them the way initiates do when nerves shake the hand. The way I had to steady mine only moments ago.

  He simply closed his eyes, lifted the stone, and when he opened them, the rune was already there.

  Whole. Embedded.

  Impossible.

  I’ve read enough in the Scholar halls to know the truth: embedding is mastery work, reserved for those who have spent years shaping meaning into metal and stone. Yet he did it as easily as breathing.

  And his Wisdom rune…

  The vision he cast was simple. Quiet.

  Rain through the trees. Bread steaming in the kitchens. Grass moving above the cliffs. Small, ordinary mercies.

  The guild leaders whispered behind their hands, surprised, maybe even relieved that a boy with lightning in his bones chose a memory that gentle.

  But something in it unsettles me.

  Not because it is wrong, but because it feels… unfinished.

  Like a story that stops before the last line.

  The drums strike again. The moment shatters.

  The dragons begin to circle.

  Claws scrape stone, sending sparks skittering across the sand. Wings beat against the cavern walls, stirring the air until it turns knife-cold in my lungs. One dragon roars, and the sound shakes the Bonding Rune itself; the veins of light tremble as if the stone remembers fear.

  The ceremony shifts—from showing ourselves to surviving—in the space of a heartbeat.

  My breath quickens. My palms grow slick. My knees lock for a moment that feels too long. I knew this was coming. We all did. We have trained for this, recited the steps, rehearsed our calm.

  But knowing does not make it less terrible.

  A boy beside me takes two small steps back. I hear the scrape of his boots before I see him. Then a tail slams into him—fast, unthinking. The next sound is his body hitting the wall behind us, and a scream that ends too soon.

  I swallow hard.

  This is not a pageant. It is a winnowing.

  If we are not what the dragons deem worthy to defend their nest—and our kingdom—then we are ash before the ceremony ever ends.

  Gasps and choked sobs ripple through the line, but no one breaks formation.

  We can’t. Not now.

  I fix my gaze forward, toward the cavern mouth where more dragons emerge from shadow. Their numbers swell, circling tighter, drawing the ring smaller around us.

  Testing. Choosing. Killing.

  Lessons from Rune School ring sharp in my mind:

  Never make eye contact.

  Never break stance.

  Dragons search for weakness. Even curiosity can be death.

  So when the coal-dark dragon lowers its head in front of me, smoke curling between its teeth, I do as I was taught.

  I stand tall. My chin lifts just enough to show resolve, but my eyes stay forward, fixed on the middle distance, never rising to meet its gaze. Heat presses against my face. Its breath sours the air.

  The dragon lingers.

  Waiting. Hunting for the smallest flinch.

  I do not give it what it wants.

  A growl rolls through its chest, deep enough to shiver the sand, and then it veers away, wings beating once before it rejoins the circling storm.

  My lungs burn. I realize I’ve been holding my breath too long and force air back in. My hands tremble at my sides, but I keep them still.

  I am still standing.

  At the arena’s edge, a rune flares where a dragon’s claw brushes stone. For a heartbeat, its lines blaze, and the vision is brought back to life. The beast pauses, eye lingering on the glow, before melting back into shadow.

  Another dragon swoops low, a scarred creature with rust-red wings. Sparks rain as its tail scrapes along the floor, showering the candidates in embers. I stamp out the ones that catch at my hem, jaw tight, never shifting my stance more than a heartbeat’s allowance. Others cry out, but I hold still.

  Then she comes.

  The cream dragon.

  Her scales catch the torchlight like polished bone, pale and gleaming. She does not roar or snap. Instead, she sweeps low over the line and exhales a steady gust of wind, strong enough to whip my hair back from my face, to clear the smoke from my lungs.

  For an instant, gratitude rises in me—a foolish, instinctive urge to bow my head to the kindness.

  But she does not leave.

  She adjusts her stance, turning until her body faces me fully. Her chest lifts, and there—pressed into the pale scales over her heart—I see it.

  A rune.

  Not painted. Not carved by any human hand. Embossed into the dragon’s hide itself, as though the scales grew around its lines. The curves are old and sure, every stroke intentional. It glows faintly, light breathing beneath the surface.

  I know it.

  This is the Lumira dragon the herald named earlier. Vitalis. And upon her chest rests the Rune of Remembrance.

  My breath catches.

  The glow does not feel like a command. It feels like an open door.

  I let my eyes trace it—every curve, every crossing—until the pattern burns into me. The warmth of it presses through my fear, seeping into the cracks doubt left behind.

  She wants me to see it.

  She wants me to keep it.

  The thought settles heavy and sure in my chest.

  So I do.

  I memorize the rune until I know it as well as my own breath, until its quiet light feels less like fire and more like restoration laid gently along my bones.

  Only then does the cream dragon move again.

  She steps closer, lowering her massive head until her maw hovers before my chest. Smoke drifts from between her teeth—soft at first, then thickening, threaded with faint gold.

  The smoke reaches for me.

  Tendrils curl around my arm. At first they are cool, like mist after rain. Then they tighten, hot as a brand, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep the cry trapped in my throat. The smoke crawls upward, over cloth and skin, until it settles along my shoulder.

  There, it carves.

  Not with flame, but with smoke itself—lines of heat searing through tunic and flesh, etching the same rune that rests on her chest into mine. Pain lances sharp and unrelenting; tears sting my eyes.

  But beneath the pain runs something else.

  Warmth. Steady and whole, like a hand on my back.

  Remember, it seems to say.

  Remember and do not run from what was.

  When the glow finally dims, my legs wobble. I stagger a half-step, breath ragged, shoulder throbbing with raw heat.

  But I know.

  This is not the full bond. Not yet. This is the first mark—the ash before the flame. Her rune rests on me now, claimed but not completely joined, as if she has written a promise in my skin and waits to see what I will do with it.

  The Rune of Remembrance is mine to bear.

  Vitalis rumbles low, a sound that feels like approval, and steps to the side. Her shoulder lowers until it comes level with my reach.

  I do not hesitate.

  Just as we were taught in Rune School, I lift my hand and lay it against her scaled shoulder. Heat hums beneath my palm, pulsing in time with the ache in my own.

  With the cavern watching in held-breath silence, I step forward and walk beside her, following her out of the circle—not yet her rider, but already marked by her story.

  Scene 5

  -Ryker-

  A scream splits the cavern.

  I don’t look. I only hear the boots, the panic—then the thud of a body hitting stone.

  From the corner of my vision, a girl breaks from the line, sprinting for the far wall.

  She gets five steps before the Hydrith moves.

  Not a tail this time.

  A shape—wing, claw, shadow—launches from the ring and lands on her with a sound like ribs shattering under a falling boulder. The breath punches out of the cavern. She doesn’t even scream.

  The dragon’s jaws snap once.

  A clean, final crack.

  Silence follows, sharp as a blade.

  I keep my eyes forward. My jaw clenches until pain blooms along the hinge. Another gone. Another name already fading into ash.

  The circle tightens. Wings beat hard enough to stir sand into smoke. Claws spark against stone. And then one comes for me.

  A scarred red Pyraeth sweeps low, heat rolling off its breath so hot it stings my scar through the wrappings. I plant my feet. I refuse to bend. The dragon hangs there, staring, waiting for me to break or bow or look.

  I give it nothing. Even as my burned arm ignites with pain—alive, furious, begging me to move.

  After a single tense heartbeat, it snarls and veers away, the heat peeling from my skin like a second hide.

  Wisdom runes ignite around the perimeter in slow, pulsing breaths—dragons testing those who remain. Some pass without looking. Others lower their heads, pausing to watch the flare of light before moving on.

  I do not look at mine.

  Another shadow. Another rush of wings.

  A slate-gray Terragon dives, claws screeching across the floor so close the stone bursts into shards. One slashes across my cheek. The sting is sharp, warm. Blood slips down my jaw.

  My body screams to move. To duck. To live.

  I lock my knees and let the dragon choose.

  It growls—low, considering—then pulls up, buffeting me with ash and grit as it climbs back toward the ceiling.

  Still standing.

  I force my breath steady and keep count as riders leave the circle, claimed one by one. Ash marks burning across skin. Pain sealing fate. Six gone. Then seven.

  Almost done. Almost over.

  Then I see him.

  Joren stands on the far side with his hand pressed to the shoulder of a broad brown dragon, its chest rune glowing like a quiet sunrise. Relief punches through me—hot, sharp, breath-stealing. Pride hits right after, biting deep.

  He did it. The hours we trained, the nights his hand shook over the same lines until it stopped… they were enough.

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

  Seven gone. Joren bonded. The trial is nearly finished.

  Nearly.

  One by one, dragons withdraw into the caves. More than usual. Far more. The ash swirls around their wings, thinning the air. Eight. Nine. Ten. By the time the dust settles, twelve riders have left the circle marked.

  Twelve.

  Almost double what anyone expected.

  My chest tightens, an ache that feels like pride and something hollow fighting for space beneath my ribs. Heart full. Heart hurting.

  I didn’t want this, I tell myself.

  A lie that throbs sharper than any wound.

  Movement draws my eyes.

  Vitalis steps forward at last, her cream scales catching the torchlight, her chest rune pulsing soft gold. Beside her, Elara walks with a hand on her shoulder, her steps unshaken, her face steady.

  She’s the final one. The last to leave.

  A smile tugs at me before I can stop it. I’m happy for her. Truly. Even if something in me aches that it isn’t me walking with a dragon’s warmth at my side.

  Then the shadows shift.

  Obsidian emerges behind her—massive, deliberate, each step landing like a drumbeat. He follows his mate toward the Nest, wings tucked, eyes low.

  His talon comes down on something at the edge of the oval.

  A Wisdom stone.

  My Wisdom stone.

  It cracks with light—gold bursting upward in a flare that throws sparks across his scales.

  Obsidian freezes.

  One heartbeat.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Then he steps back, lowering his head. His molten eyes narrow at the glowing rune beneath his claw. He stares for a long moment, unblinking.

  As if he recognizes it.

  As if it called to him.

  My blood turns to ice.

  “Flames take me,” I whisper.

  The cavern goes still, carved into silence.

  And in that frozen breath, one truth hits me harder than fire ever could:

  Whatever the ceremony was supposed to be…

  It isn’t over.