Heirs Of The Dragon / Season 1, Episode 1
Blood of the Flame
Episode 1: Blood of the Flame
The dragon’s roar shattered the dawn, a sound like thunder tearing through stone. Princess Kaeryn Velthyr clung to the jagged cliff edge, her fingers raw and bleeding against the black rock of Draemond’s Spire. Below her, the abyss yawned—a thousand feet of nothing but mist and the distant crash of waves against the shore. Her breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, the cold air biting into her lungs like shards of glass. Sweat stung her eyes, and the wind howled, tugging at her dark cloak as if it meant to rip her from the mountain and fling her into oblivion. She didn’t dare look down. Not yet. Not until she heard it again.
There—another bellow, closer this time, vibrating through the rock under her hands. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She pressed herself flatter against the cliff, the rough stone scraping her cheek, and squinted into the gray haze above. A shadow moved through the clouds, vast and sinuous, wings cutting through the fog like obsidian blades. Vyrakthax, the last of the great dragons, bound to her bloodline by ancient oaths. And right now, he was hunting her.
“Kaeryn!” A voice cut through the wind, sharp and desperate. Her brother, Torvyn, clung to a ledge twenty feet below, his black hair plastered to his face with sweat and rain. His leather armor was torn at the shoulder, blood seeping through the gash, staining the gray fabric dark. “Climb, damn it! He’s coming back!”
“I’m trying!” she snarled, her voice raw. Her arms trembled as she hauled herself up another inch, her boots scrabbling for purchase on the slick rock. A loose stone skittered free under her foot, tumbling into the void. She didn’t watch it fall. She couldn’t. Every muscle in her body screamed, but she bit down on the pain and reached for the next handhold, her nails splitting against the granite.
Above, the clouds parted for a heartbeat, and she saw him—Vyrakthax, his scales a molten red-gold, gleaming even in the dim light of the storm. His eyes, twin furnaces of amber, locked on her, and a low growl rumbled from his throat, shaking the air itself. Smoke curled from his nostrils, and she swore she could smell the sulfur, the heat of his breath even from here. He banked sharply, wings folding as he dove, a spear of fire and fury aimed straight for her.
“Move!” Torvyn shouted, but there was nowhere to go. Kaeryn flattened herself against the cliff, her cheek pressed to the cold stone, and braced for the impact. The dragon’s shadow swallowed her, the air growing hot and thick, and then—a burst of flame roared past, missing her by inches. The heat seared her skin, the smell of singed hair filling her nose. She bit back a scream as the fire licked the rock above, blackening it instantly.
He missed. On purpose. Vyrakthax didn’t miss unless he wanted to. This wasn’t a kill. It was a warning.
The dragon wheeled away, his tail whipping through the air with a crack like lightning, and Kaeryn let out a shuddering breath. Her hands shook as she gripped the rock tighter, her knuckles white. “He’s toying with us,” she spat, her voice barely audible over the wind.
“No,” Torvyn called back, his tone grim as he pulled himself up to a wider ledge. “He’s testing us. Father’s gone, Kaeryn. The bond’s broken. He doesn’t know who to serve now.”
She wanted to argue, to snap that Vyrakthax had been their family’s guardian for three centuries, that he’d sworn to protect the Velthyr line. But the words died in her throat. She’d felt it too, the moment their father, King Draevor, had fallen—two days ago, in the throne room, his chest split open by a traitor’s blade. The connection to the dragon, that ancient thread of magic tying their blood to his fire, had frayed. Snapped. And now Vyrakthax was free to choose. Or to burn them all.
“We can’t stay here,” Torvyn said, his voice closer now as he climbed. “We need to reach the summit. The altar. If we can renew the oath—”
A scream cut him off, raw and guttural, echoing from somewhere below. Kaeryn’s stomach dropped. “Rhaemys,” she breathed. Their youngest brother, barely sixteen, had been with them at the base of the Spire when Vyrakthax had turned on them. They’d split up in the chaos, Rhaemys scrambling down toward the lower caves while she and Torvyn climbed. She twisted her head, peering into the mist, searching for any sign of him. “Rhaemys! Where are you?”
Another cry, fainter this time, swallowed by the wind. And then the dragon roared again, the sound so close it rattled her bones. Kaeryn’s blood turned to ice. “He’s got him,” she whispered, more to herself than Torvyn. “We have to—”
“No.” Torvyn’s voice was hard, cutting through her panic. He’d reached her level now, his face pale but set, his gray eyes like steel. “We stick to the plan. Summit. Altar. We can’t help Rhaem if we’re dead.”
She wanted to scream at him, to tell him he was a coward, but she knew he was right. They were no match for Vyrakthax like this—unarmed, battered, clinging to a cliff in a storm. The altar at the top of Draemond’s Spire was their only chance, the ancient site where their bloodline had first bound the dragon to their will. If they could reach it, if they could spill their blood on the stone and speak the words, they might reclaim him. Might.
Kaeryn nodded once, her jaw tight, and forced herself to climb. Her hands burned, her legs shook, but she didn’t stop. Above, the storm thickened, rain lashing her face like needles. Below, another scream tore through the air, and she clenched her teeth so hard she tasted blood. Hold on, Rhaem, she thought. Just hold on.
The throne room of Velthyr Keep smelled of iron and ash. Two days ago, it had been a place of gold and glory, banners of crimson and black hanging from the high arches, the dragon throne—a monstrous seat of obsidian and bone—gleaming under torchlight. Now, it was a tomb. The banners were torn, the torches guttered out, and the floor was slick with blood, dried to a dull brown in the cracks between the stones. King Draevor Velthyr’s body still lay where it had fallen, sprawled across the dais, his crown tipped sideways on his graying head. The wound in his chest gaped like a mouth, the edges blackened as if burned from within.
Torvyn stood at the edge of the room, his boots scuffing the stone as he stared at the corpse. He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour, hadn’t spoken. His hands, still crusted with dirt and blood from the climb, hung limp at his sides. Kaeryn watched him from the doorway, her own exhaustion a heavy weight in her bones. They’d made it to the summit of Draemond’s Spire hours ago, after Vyrakthax had veered off into the storm, vanishing as suddenly as he’d attacked. They hadn’t found Rhaemys. Not yet. But they’d found no body either, and Kaeryn clung to that shred of hope like a lifeline.
“You can’t just stand there,” she said finally, her voice rough. She leaned against the doorframe, her cloak still damp and clinging to her shoulders, the cold seeping into her skin. “We need to plan. The dragon’s loose, Rhaem’s missing, and half the court saw Father die. They’ll be coming for the throne by morning if we don’t—”
“Stop.” Torvyn’s voice was low, almost a growl, as he turned his head just enough to glare at her. His face was a mask of shadows, the torchlight catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the scar that slashed through his left eyebrow. “Just… stop. For one damn minute.”
Kaeryn’s temper flared, hot and quick. “We don’t have a minute, Tor. We don’t have anything. Father’s dead, and we’re standing in his blood while the kingdom falls apart. You think the Eastern Clans care that we’re grieving? They’ve been waiting for this. They’ll march on us the second they hear.”
He didn’t answer, just turned back to the body, his shoulders rigid. She wanted to cross the room, grab him by the collar, and shake him until he snapped out of it. But she stayed where she was, her own grief a tight knot in her chest. She’d seen their father die, seen the blade go in, heard his last rattling breath. She’d screamed until her throat bled, but it hadn’t mattered. Now, looking at Torvyn, she saw the same hollow look in his eyes she felt in her own.
A sound broke the silence—boots on stone, quick and heavy, echoing down the corridor. Kaeryn straightened, her hand dropping to the dagger at her hip, the blade still crusted with mud from the climb. Torvyn turned too, his own hand twitching toward the sword on his back, though he hadn’t drawn it yet. The footsteps grew louder, and then a figure burst into the throne room, panting, his face pale under a sheen of sweat.
“Captain Gavren,” Kaeryn said, recognizing the man at once. He was one of their father’s most loyal guards, a grizzled bear of a man with a beard like iron wire and eyes that had seen too many battles. His armor was dented, blood spattered across the breastplate, and his left arm hung awkwardly, as if he couldn’t lift it. “What is it?”
“My lady,” Gavren rasped, dropping to one knee despite the pain it clearly caused him. “My lord. It’s… it’s Prince Rhaemys. We’ve found him.”
Kaeryn’s heart lurched. “Where?” she demanded, stepping forward. “Is he alive?”
Gavren hesitated, his gaze flickering to Torvyn, then back to her. “He’s alive, my lady. Barely. He’s in the lower courtyard, but… he’s hurt. Bad. And he’s not alone.”
Torvyn’s voice cut in, sharp as a blade. “What do you mean, not alone?”
The captain swallowed, his throat bobbing. “There’s someone with him. A woman. She won’t let anyone near. Says she saved him from the dragon, but… I don’t trust her. She’s got a look about her, my lord. Like she’s seen things. Like she knows things.”
Kaeryn exchanged a glance with Torvyn, her mind racing. A stranger with Rhaemys, now, when the kingdom teetered on the edge of chaos? It stank of treachery. Or worse. “Take us to him,” she said, her voice hard. “Now.”
Gavren nodded, struggling to his feet, and led them out of the throne room, down the winding corridors of Velthyr Keep. The air grew colder as they descended, the stone walls damp with condensation, the torches flickering weakly in their sconces. Kaeryn’s boots echoed on the steps, her hand still on her dagger, every nerve in her body taut. She didn’t know what they’d find in the courtyard, but she felt it in her gut—whatever it was, it would change everything.
They emerged into the lower courtyard, a wide, open space ringed by high walls and overlooked by the keep’s towering spires. The storm had eased, leaving the cobblestones slick with rain, the air heavy with the smell of wet earth and iron. A small crowd of guards and servants had gathered near the center, their murmurs a low hum under the distant cry of gulls. Kaeryn pushed through them, ignoring their stares, her eyes locking on the figure sprawled near a stone bench.
Rhaemys. Her little brother lay on his back, his pale face streaked with dirt and blood, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps. His right leg was bent at a wrong angle, the bone jutting through the torn leather of his trousers, and a gash ran across his forehead, oozing red into his matted blond hair. Kaeryn’s stomach twisted, but she forced herself to stay calm, dropping to her knees beside him.
“Rhaem,” she whispered, brushing a lock of hair from his face. His skin was clammy, cold, and his eyes fluttered but didn’t open. “I’m here. You’re safe now.”
“He’s not safe,” a voice said, low and smooth, cutting through the murmur of the crowd like a knife. Kaeryn’s head snapped up, her hand tightening on her dagger as she saw the woman standing a few feet away. She was tall, lean, wrapped in a cloak of deep indigo that shimmered faintly, as if woven with threads of silver. Her face was sharp, almost too perfect—high cheekbones, a straight nose, eyes like chips of obsidian that seemed to see straight through you. Her hair, black as midnight, fell in a single braid over her shoulder, and her hands, though gloved, rested lightly on the hilt of a curved sword at her hip.
“Who the hell are you?” Torvyn demanded, stepping forward, his own blade half-drawn. The guards around them shifted, hands on their weapons, but the woman didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink.
“My name is Selyra,” she said, her voice calm, almost musical, though there was steel beneath it. “And I saved your brother from the dragon. You’re welcome.”
Kaeryn’s eyes narrowed. “Saved him? Or took him? He was with us on the Spire. How did you even get to him?”
Selyra tilted her head, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “I was in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong one, depending on how you look at it. Vyrakthax had him cornered in a cave at the base of the cliff. I… distracted the beast. Long enough to drag the boy out.”
“Distracted,” Torvyn echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. “A dragon. You expect us to believe that?”
“Believe what you want,” Selyra said, her gaze flicking to him, then back to Kaeryn. “But he’d be ash if not for me. And I didn’t risk my skin just to hand him over to a pack of wolves who don’t even know what’s coming.”
Kaeryn’s blood ran cold. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Selyra’s smirk faded, her expression turning grim. “It means your kingdom is bleeding, princess. Your father’s dead, your dragon’s unbound, and the East is stirring. I’ve seen their fires on the horizon. They’re not waiting for you to mourn. They’re coming for you. All of you.”
The courtyard fell silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a storm about to break. Kaeryn stared at her, her mind racing, her hand still on Rhaemys’s cold skin. She wanted to deny it, to call this woman a liar, a spy, but something in her gut told her Selyra wasn’t bluffing. The East—the Clans, the warlords who’d hated the Velthyr line for generations—had always been a threat. But now, with the king dead and the dragon free, they’d smell weakness. They’d come.
Torvyn stepped closer to Selyra, his sword fully drawn now, the blade catching the faint light of the torches. “If you know so much, why are you here? What do you want?”
Selyra met his gaze, unflinching, her own hand still on her sword but not drawing it. “I want what you want, prince. To keep this kingdom from burning. But I’m not here to beg for trust. I’m here to warn you. The Clans have something—someone—who can turn the tide. A weapon, older than your dragon, darker than your worst nightmares. And they’re bringing it west.”
Kaeryn’s breath caught. She looked down at Rhaemys, his face pale and still, then back at Selyra, her heart pounding. “What kind of weapon?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Selyra’s eyes darkened, and for the first time, Kaeryn saw something like fear flicker across her face. “The kind that doesn’t just kill,” she said softly. “The kind that devours.”
[To be continued in the second half of the episode.]
Kaeryn felt the weight of Selyra’s words settle over her like a shroud. The courtyard seemed to shrink, the murmurs of the guards and servants fading into a distant hum as her mind churned. A weapon that devours. The phrase clawed at her, sharp and cold, conjuring images of fire and shadow, of something ancient and hungry waking in the East. She tightened her grip on Rhaemys’s hand, his pulse faint under her fingers, and forced herself to meet Selyra’s gaze.
“Speak plainly,” Kaeryn said, her voice low but edged with steel. “What is it? What have they found?”
Selyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her dark eyes flicking briefly to the crowd around them before returning to Kaeryn. “Not here,” she said quietly. “Too many ears. Take your brother inside, see to his wounds. Then we talk. Alone.”
Torvyn scoffed, his sword still drawn, the tip hovering a few inches from the cobblestones. “You don’t give orders in Velthyr Keep, stranger. You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to throw you in a cell.”
Selyra didn’t flinch. If anything, her smirk returned, faint but sharp, like the glint of a blade in shadow. “You could try, prince. But I’d wager you need me more than I need you. Lock me up, and you’ll never know what’s coming. Or how to stop it.”
Kaeryn shot Torvyn a look, a silent plea to stand down. She didn’t trust Selyra—not by a long shot—but there was something in the woman’s bearing, a certainty that gnawed at her. If the East was truly mobilizing, if they had something worse than armies or steel, then every scrap of knowledge mattered. “Fine,” Kaeryn said, her jaw tight. “Inside. But you don’t leave my sight. Torvyn, help me with Rhaem.”
Torvyn’s glare lingered on Selyra a moment longer before he sheathed his sword with a sharp rasp of metal. He knelt beside Rhaemys, sliding an arm under the boy’s shoulders while Kaeryn took his legs, careful of the shattered bone. Rhaemys groaned, a weak, pained sound that cut through her like a knife, but his eyes stayed closed. Together, they lifted him, the crowd parting as they carried him toward the keep’s lower halls, Captain Gavren barking orders to the guards to secure the courtyard.
Selyra followed at a distance, her boots silent on the wet stone, her cloak rippling like liquid shadow in the torchlight. Kaeryn felt the woman’s gaze on her back, a prickle of unease that wouldn’t fade. Whoever Selyra was, she wasn’t just a wanderer who’d stumbled into their mess. There was purpose in her stride, calculation in her words. Kaeryn didn’t know if she was an ally or a threat, but she intended to find out before the night was through.
They reached the healer’s chambers, a dimly lit room of stone and timber, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs and bitter salves. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars of roots and powders, while a narrow cot sat in the center, draped in rough linen. Mistress Elyra, the keep’s head healer, was already there, her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, her hands stained with tinctures as she prepared a basin of steaming water. Her sharp eyes widened at the sight of Rhaemys, but she didn’t hesitate, gesturing for them to lay him down.
“By the flame,” Elyra muttered, her voice rough as she bent over the boy, her fingers probing the gash on his forehead. “What did this? Dragon claw?”
“Close enough,” Kaeryn said, her throat tight as she stepped back, giving the healer space. “Can you save him?”
Elyra didn’t look up, her hands moving with practiced speed as she tore strips of cloth and reached for a jar of dark paste. “I’ll try, my lady. The leg’s bad—bone’s clean through the skin. He’s lost blood, too much maybe. But he’s young. Strong. If the gods are kind, he’ll pull through.”
Torvyn stood by the door, arms crossed, his gaze flicking between Rhaemys and Selyra, who lingered near the threshold, her expression unreadable. “If,” he echoed, his voice bitter. “That’s not good enough.”
“It’s all we’ve got,” Kaeryn snapped, her exhaustion bleeding into anger. She turned to Selyra, her hand itching to draw her dagger again. “You. Start talking. What do you know about the East? What’s this weapon?”
Selyra leaned casually against the doorframe, her gloved fingers tapping lightly on the hilt of her sword. “Patience, princess. Let the healer work. Your brother’s life is worth more than my words right now.”
Kaeryn took a step forward, her temper flaring, but Torvyn’s hand on her arm stopped her. “She’s right,” he said quietly, though his eyes burned with distrust as he looked at Selyra. “Rhaem comes first. We’ll deal with her after.”
Kaeryn bit back a retort, forcing herself to nod. She turned back to the cot, watching as Elyra worked, cleaning the wounds with a cloth soaked in something that smelled sharp and medicinal. Rhaemys twitched, his face contorting in pain, but he didn’t wake. Every flinch, every shallow breath, was a reminder of how close they’d come to losing him. Of how much they’d already lost.
The minutes dragged, heavy with silence broken only by the clink of Elyra’s tools and the crackle of the small fire in the hearth. Kaeryn’s mind wouldn’t rest, spinning through Selyra’s warning, the dragon’s betrayal, the blood still staining the throne room floor. She didn’t notice how tightly her fists were clenched until her nails bit into her palms, drawing thin lines of red.
Finally, Elyra straightened, wiping her hands on a rag, her face grim but steady. “He’s stable. For now. The leg’s set as best I can, but it’ll need time. Weeks, maybe more. The head wound… we’ll know more when he wakes. If he wakes.”
Kaeryn nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She brushed a strand of hair from Rhaemys’s face, then turned to Selyra, her voice cold. “He’s as safe as he’ll get. Now talk.”
Selyra pushed off the doorframe, her movements smooth, almost predatory, as she stepped into the room. The firelight caught the silver threads in her cloak, making them shimmer like frost. “Alright,” she said, her tone measured. “But understand this—I’m not your enemy. Not yet. What I know comes at a price, and I’m not talking gold. I want assurances. Protection. A place here, if it comes to it.”
Torvyn’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “You think we’d harbor a stranger who shows up with cryptic warnings and a sword she’s too eager to draw? You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I?” Selyra’s eyes glinted, her voice dropping. “You’ve got a dragon who’s turned on you, a dead king, and a kingdom on the brink. You need allies, prince, whether you like it or not. And I’ve got knowledge you can’t afford to ignore.”
Kaeryn crossed her arms, studying the woman. Every instinct screamed not to trust her, but desperation gnawed at her too. “Name your price,” she said finally. “Then we’ll decide if it’s worth paying.”
Selyra’s smirk returned, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Fair enough. I want sanctuary. If the East comes for me—and they will, once they know I’ve spoken—I need your walls, your guards, your name to shield me. In return, I’ll tell you what I’ve seen. What they’ve unearthed.”
Torvyn opened his mouth to argue, but Kaeryn cut him off with a raised hand. “Done,” she said, ignoring the glare he shot her. “Now speak.”
Selyra nodded, her expression sobering. She paced a slow step, her cloak trailing behind her, before she spoke. “The Eastern Clans have been digging in the Black Hollows, a cursed stretch of ground near the border of their territories. Old stories say it’s where the first wars were fought, where blood magic was born. Most thought it was just legend, a place to scare children. But a month ago, they found something buried there. A relic, or a prison—I’m not sure which. They call it the Maw.”
Kaeryn’s skin prickled, a chill running down her spine despite the fire’s warmth. “The Maw,” she repeated, testing the word. It felt heavy, wrong, like speaking it aloud might summon something. “What is it?”
Selyra’s gaze darkened, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’ve only seen it from a distance, through smoke and shadow. It’s… a structure, carved from black stone, older than anything in these lands. But it’s not just stone. It moves, shifts, like it’s alive. The air around it hums, thick with something that tastes like ash and rot. The Clans believe it’s a gateway, or a cage, for something they can wield. A force that can swallow armies, burn dragons from the sky. They’ve got priests, blood mages, working day and night to open it. And they’re close.”
Torvyn’s face was a mask of disbelief, but his voice betrayed a flicker of unease. “You’re saying they’ve found some ancient… thing, and they’re just going to unleash it? Why? What do they gain?”
“Power,” Selyra said simply. “The kind your family’s held for centuries with Vyrakthax at your side. They hate you, all of you, for the dragon’s fire that’s kept them in check. With the Maw, they think they can level the field. Or burn it down entirely.”
Kaeryn’s mind raced, piecing together fragments of old tales her father had told her as a child—stories of the first Velthyrs, of wars fought with more than steel, of darkness bound and buried. She’d thought them fables, meant to teach loyalty or fear. But now, looking into Selyra’s unflinching gaze, she wasn’t so sure. “How do you know this?” she asked. “You’re not one of them. Your accent, your bearing—you’re not Eastern.”
Selyra’s smirk faded, replaced by something harder, colder. “I’ve walked many roads, princess. Some in the East, some beyond. I was with the Clans for a time, long enough to see their madness grow. Long enough to know I didn’t want to be there when they succeeded. So I ran. And I came here, because if they win, nowhere will be safe.”
The room fell silent, the weight of her story pressing down like a stone. Kaeryn glanced at Torvyn, seeing her own doubt mirrored in his eyes. It was too much, too wild to believe—yet too chilling to dismiss. If even half of it was true, they were in deeper trouble than she’d feared. A dragon unbound was one thing. An ancient horror waking in the East was another.
“We can’t trust her,” Torvyn said at last, his voice low, meant for Kaeryn alone. “She could be a spy, feeding us lies to weaken us further. We’ve got enough to deal with without chasing ghosts.”
“Maybe,” Kaeryn murmured, her eyes still on Selyra. “But if she’s right, we can’t ignore it either. We need to know more. About the Maw, about the Clans’ plans. And about her.”
Before Torvyn could argue, a sharp rap at the door cut through the tension. Captain Gavren stood there, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill of the keep. “My lady, my lord,” he said, his voice tight. “There’s… a situation. At the main gate. You need to come. Now.”
Kaeryn’s stomach dropped. “What kind of situation?”
Gavren hesitated, his gaze darting to Selyra before returning to her. “It’s the dragon, my lady. Vyrakthax. He’s back. And he’s not alone.”
The night air bit at Kaeryn’s skin as she stood on the battlements above Velthyr Keep’s main gate, the wind carrying the salt tang of the sea and the acrid sting of smoke. Torvyn was at her side, his hand on the hilt of his sword, while Selyra lingered a few paces behind, her cloak pulled tight against the cold. Below, the courtyard was a hive of activity—guards shouting, servants scrambling to reinforce the gates with iron bars and timber. Torches flared, casting jittery shadows across the stone, and the air thrummed with a tension so thick it felt like a storm about to break.
Beyond the gate, in the darkness of the outer plain, Vyrakthax loomed. His massive form was a silhouette against the clouded sky, his scales glinting faintly red-gold under the flicker of distant lightning. His wings were half-furled, each one as wide as a ship’s sail, and smoke curled from his nostrils, drifting upward in lazy spirals. His amber eyes glowed, fixed on the keep, unblinking, and every so often a low growl rolled from his throat, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
But it wasn’t just the dragon that held Kaeryn’s attention. Around him, scattered across the plain like ants, were figures—hundreds of them, maybe more. Men and women in rough armor, their banners snapping in the wind, bearing the sigils of the Eastern Clans: jagged black wolves, crimson spears, broken chains. Their campfires dotted the horizon, a constellation of orange flickers that spoke of an army far larger than anything Kaeryn had expected so soon.
“They’ve come already,” Torvyn said, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the wind. “How? Father’s been dead two days. They couldn’t have mobilized this fast.”
“Unless they knew it was coming,” Kaeryn said, her mind racing. She turned to Selyra, her eyes narrowing. “Did you know about this? Is this why you came?”
Selyra’s face was unreadable, her gaze fixed on the army below. “I knew they were stirring,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t know they’d march so soon. Or that they’d have him.” She nodded toward Vyrakthax, her voice tinged with something like awe—or fear. “They’ve done something to him. He’s not just unbound. He’s… theirs.”
Kaeryn’s blood ran cold. “That’s impossible. The bond can’t be forced. It’s blood magic, tied to our line. They can’t—”
“They have,” Selyra cut in, her tone sharp. “Look at him. He’s not attacking them. He’s guarding them. Whatever they’ve done, whatever they’ve promised or taken, he’s not yours anymore.”
Torvyn gripped the stone parapet, his knuckles white. “Then we’re finished. Without the dragon, we can’t hold them. Not an army that size. Not with half our forces scattered after the assassination.”
Kaeryn wanted to argue, to find some thread of hope to cling to, but the sight below stole her words. Vyrakthax shifted, his massive head swinging toward the keep, and for a moment, she swore his gaze locked with hers. A shiver crawled down her spine, not just from the cold. There was no recognition in those amber eyes, no trace of the guardian who’d once soared above their banners, who’d burned their enemies to ash. There was only hunger. And malice.
Captain Gavren appeared at her side, his face grim, his injured arm still held stiffly. “My lady, their herald’s approached under a flag of parley. He’s demanding an audience. Says they’ve got terms.”
“Terms,” Torvyn spat, his laugh bitter. “They’ve come to gloat before they slaughter us.”
“Maybe,” Kaeryn said, forcing her voice to stay steady. “But we hear them. If there’s a chance to delay, to buy time, we take it. Gavren, bring the herald to the lower hall. Under guard. Heavy guard.”
The captain nodded, barking orders to the men below as he descended the steps. Kaeryn turned to Selyra, her mind a storm of suspicion and desperation. “You’re coming with us. If this is a trap, if you’ve led them here, I’ll gut you myself.”
Selyra’s smirk returned, faint but unyielding. “I’d expect nothing less, princess. But I’m not the one you should fear tonight.”
They descended to the lower hall, a cavernous space of cold stone and flickering torches, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and old iron. The Eastern herald awaited them, a wiry man in leather and furs, his face scarred and weathered, a black wolf sigil stitched into his cloak. He stood flanked by six of Velthyr’s guards, their hands on their swords, but he showed no fear, his stance relaxed, almost mocking.
“I speak for Warlord Krenvar of the Black Fang Clan,” the herald said, his voice rough, his accent thick with the harsh vowels of the East. “And for all the united Clans of the borderlands. We’ve come to offer mercy, Velthyr heirs. Surrender the keep, lay down your claim to the dragon throne, and you live. Resist, and we burn this place to the ground. With your own beast leading the charge.”
Kaeryn’s hands clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. “You think we’ll bend to threats? This is our home. Our blood. You’ve got no right to it.”
The herald’s smile was thin, cruel. “Rights are for the strong, girl. Your father’s dead, your dragon’s ours, and your walls won’t hold. But Krenvar’s generous. He offers one night to decide. Dawn comes, and so do we. Choose wisely.”
Torvyn stepped forward, his hand on his sword, but Kaeryn grabbed his arm, her grip iron. “We’ll consider it,” she said, her voice cold, masking the fury boiling beneath. “Now get out.”
The herald bowed mockingly, then turned, the guards escorting him back to the gate. The hall fell silent, the weight of his words pressing down like a blade at their throats. Kaeryn’s mind spun, searching for a way out, a strategy, anything. But every path led to the same dark end—surrender or slaughter.
Selyra broke the silence, her voice low, urgent. “There’s another way. A ritual, older than your blood oath, to reclaim Vyrakthax. But it’s dangerous. And it requires sacrifice.”
Kaeryn turned to her, hope and dread warring in her chest. “What kind of sacrifice?”
Selyra’s eyes glinted, her expression unreadable. “Blood, princess. More than you’ve ever spilled. And a life, freely given. But if it works, the dragon’s yours again. If it fails…” She trailed off, her gaze flicking to the gate, to the army waiting beyond.
Before Kaeryn could press her, a low, shuddering roar split the night, so powerful it shook the very stones of the keep. Vyrakthax. And then, from the shadows of the hall, a scream—raw, panicked, echoing from the healer’s chambers. Rhaemys.
Kaeryn’s heart stopped. She bolted toward the sound, Torvyn and Selyra at her heels, the dread in her gut growing with every step. She burst into the chamber, her breath catching at the sight before her.
Rhaemys was awake, his eyes wide with terror, his body arched off the cot as if in agony. But it wasn’t the wounds. Around his neck, black veins pulsed, spreading like ink under his pale skin, creeping toward his face. Elyra backed away, her hands trembling, muttering prayers under her breath.
“What’s happening to him?” Kaeryn demanded, rushing to his side, her hands hovering over him, afraid to touch.
Selyra’s voice cut through, sharp and cold. “It’s the Maw. They’ve marked him. He’s not just hurt—he’s cursed. And if we don’t act fast, he’ll be their weapon, not yours.”
Kaeryn stared at her brother, the black veins crawling higher, his screams tearing through the night, and knew in that moment that their fight had only just begun.