The Shadow Rift still bled fire. Red tongues licked the treeline where the First Dragon's breath had scorched the earth raw, and the air carried the stench of molten stone and burned marrow. My skin prickled as the glyphs etched into me still pulsed faintly, like embers refusing to die.
Damon slumped against me, his arm heavy and trembling where it clung to my side. His blood was hot against my palm, but he breathed, and that was enough—for now.
The silence was unbearable. It wasn't peace—it was the stillness after a scream, the moment the world itself inhaled before it shattered again.
Then came the voice.
It slithered through the smoke, low and guttural, until it pressed against the base of my skull. Not spoken, but whispered within bone. The Bloodhound had returned.
"Vel'ruun karith drakhen… thrael Aurikhan Veil…" His words rolled like broken thunder. Then, softer, his voice cut straight into me.
"Find the Drakhen Conclave in Aurikhan Veil… only with their guidance can you hope to quell the First Flame. Time bends; the world trembles. Do not linger."
I shivered, tasting ash on my tongue. The Veil. I had heard whispers of it before—Aurikhan, the shrouded land where even gods tread lightly.
The ground beneath us quaked, as if to remind me what would come if I hesitated.
I pressed Damon closer, my lips forming words I had never spoken before, and yet they fell from me as if carved into my marrow. A whisper in the ancient tongue, a vow against despair:
"Sareth'ka veyrathuun… drakhae ven'rahl. Kaelith nur."
(By blood against the First Dragon… I will endure. I will not break.)
The glyphs under my skin flared briefly, then dimmed again, like a warning more than a promise.
I knew what the Bloodhound meant. This wasn't just survival anymore. If I didn't find the Conclave, the First Flame would consume everything—flesh, sky, soul, even memory itself.
And I was already far too late.
---
The Red Flame shivered in my chest like a living wound, pulsing, demanding, threatening to unmake me from the inside. My hands trembled against the cold stone floor, scarlet light bleeding through my skin as if my veins had become fire. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. Instead, I froze, caught between the gravity of what the Bloodhound demanded and the memory of what I had once been—the Bride of the First Dragon, his shadow and his ruin.
Damon knelt beside me, his touch anchoring me through the maelstrom. His hand wrapped around mine, hot and steady, grounding me where the Flame wanted only to devour. His voice was low, raw with certainty.
—We've crossed this abyss before, Dahlia. In every life, every fracture of fate, we've clawed our way back to each other. No god, no beast, no prophecy has broken us. Do you think Veyrathuun will be the one?
His conviction cut through the fever of my doubt, and for a heartbeat, I could breathe again. The Red Flame dulled, no longer shrieking but simmering, as though even it listened to him.
I turned my face to him, guilt carving deep into my voice. I can't face him alone, Damon. Not this time. The prophecy… the Conclave… they're the only ones who've touched the Flame before it corrupted gods.
The Bloodhound's whisper coiled around us like smoke, curling through my ears in a tongue older than ash:
"Zerathuun vae kyr, drakhen ul'varis, syrrhal veyr naas."
(Seek the shrouded fangs, the Drakhen Conclave, hidden where light dies.)
Its voice throbbed against the inside of my skull, layering command over desperation.
—The Aurikhan Veil, Damon murmured, half in awe, half in dread. No mortal tongue speaks of it. No map dares mark it.
The whisper bled on, slow and venomous:
"Velkhaar ondriss, kaerath lun, syrrh an draem. Khel vos'thaar, Dahlia…"
(Through the veils of breath, through dreamless dark, only your mark may rend the path. Yours alone, Dahlia…)
My hybrid Flame-brand seared in response, lines of scarlet igniting beneath my skin, weaving themselves into the outline of a sigil I did not yet understand. It pulsed with rhythm, like a heartbeat not mine.
I clenched my fist, inhaling smoke that wasn't there, tasting ash that lingered on my tongue. Fear screamed for me to deny it, to recoil. But the world had no space left for fear.
—I will find them, I whispered, though my voice shook. —Even if it burns me alive, I will summon them. The Conclave will rise again.
The sigil burned brighter, the Flame roaring its agreement within me, and I felt the bloodline of a thousand forgotten vows pressing down on my ribs. Damon's hand never let go.
And beneath it all, the Bloodhound's last whisper:
"Kharuun veyr'ath, syrrhal draem nos'var. Or perish."
(Call them from the hollowed veil… or all will perish.)
---
The clearing split apart in screams and ruin. Damon's hand crushed mine as he pulled me forward, the ground quaking with the aftershock of Veyrathuun's rise. Behind us, the gutted remnants of the Hollow Order howled, torn between obeying their dying masters and running from the Dragon's suffocating aura. The forest itself seemed to shrink, trees curling into black husks as ash veins split their bark. Shadows crawled over the roots like living serpents, snapping at my ankles as though the forest had turned traitor.
We ran. The Ironsworn who survived followed in jagged formation, armor cracked, weapons bent but eyes burning. I felt the weight of their survival on my shoulders—too few, too broken, yet still clinging to me as if I were the flame that might carry them home. Every breath scraped like glass, and with every heartbeat the Bloodhound's voice pressed closer, thick and thunderous inside my skull.
Step between the veils… let the sigils guide your path… anchor your flame, Red Daughter, or be lost to it forever.
His words ignited the glyphs beneath my skin. They flared, searing bands of scarlet light spiraling across my wrists and throat. Pain lanced through me, but I tore free a whisper I barely understood, language burning off my tongue like fire tasting its first air:
"Ashirae vel drakhan, shoriel ven thraem, anakh ruyah ven isthar."
—By ash and dragon, let the veil bend, open the hidden flame's gate.
The air before me cracked like glass struck by a hammer. A shimmer tore the path, a half-formed veil glimmering between branches, giving us a sliver of escape. Damon shoved us through, his growl vibrating against my bones, even as the others stumbled after. The veil shut behind us like a slammed door, shadows crashing against it with furious shrieks.
But the reprieve was fleeting. The Hollow Order rallied beyond, their ragged ranks chanting in broken unison, voices like knives scraping stone:
"Velmorr uthraal, Kaethirn dra'vus, nathrak vel ossian, veyrathuun rise!"
—Through hollow oath, by chained abyss, shadow bind, Dragon rise!
Their call lashed the air, feeding the tendrils chasing us. Black cords of ash punched through the veil's edges, writhing to drag me back. I screamed, my glyphs sparking, and Damon ripped one away before it could close on my throat. Blood slicked his arm, but he snarled as if pain were a lesser thing compared to losing me.
The Ironsworn's captain, half his face masked in soot, raised his broken blade and bellowed a prayer that sounded more curse than blessing. It gave the men breath enough to cut down the Order's stragglers who slipped past, their blades clashing with the madness of those who no longer feared death. The clash reeked of rust and blood, punctuated by the Dragon's distant growl that rolled like a tide through the shattered forest.
I staggered but the Bloodhound's whisper pressed sharp against my ribs, almost cruel now.
"Your flame is a beacon, child of blood and ash. Shield it, or it will draw every mouth of the abyss to you."
I pressed my hand to my chest, whispering again though the words scraped raw inside me:
"Shuriah ven khal, ethrien morra veyl, torash en'dral."
—Seal the light within, bind its glow to the veil, silence the flame.
The glyphs dimmed, their pull lessened, though the silence left me hollow, as if I'd stuffed my soul into a coffin and locked the lid. Damon steadied me, his chest heaving, his golden eyes gone feral. "Don't burn yourself out," he growled, voice more command than plea.
But I had no choice. Every whisper, every chant, every thread of language I carved into the world cost me more than I could afford. Yet if I faltered even once, the tendrils of Veyrathuun would devour me before the Hollow Order's blades ever reached my heart.
Still, we ran. Broken, hunted, yet unyielding, as the Bloodhound's final echo clawed through the smoke inside me—
"Anchor your flame, Red Daughter… or the Dragon will claim it as his own."
---
We broke through the forest wall like hunted animals, the stench of ash still clawing at my lungs. Damon's hand never left my wrist as if he feared I'd vanish into shadow if he let go. The Bloodhound padded ahead, a red-eyed phantom weaving paths only he seemed to know.
The forest shifted, its color bleeding from dusk-black to something alive with ember-gold. Branches shimmered with faint scales, every leaf catching light as though the air itself was a furnace in disguise. The Bloodhound stopped before a wound in the world—an archway of flame that bent without burning, shaped like two great wings folding inward.
The air here was heavy. My glyphs stirred under my skin, burning with their own hunger. The Bloodhound lifted his head and spoke—not to me, but to what lay beyond the veil.
"Dorvhaat'ren xalor, saath drakhen'veil. Red Daughter comes. She bears the flame, unclaimed but unbroken. Judge her if you must."
The veil rippled and from its molten shimmer emerged forms vast and terrible. Dragons—yet not the beasts of children's tales, but ancient shapes of glory, their scales like hammered suns, their eyes twin galaxies. Their voices struck the marrow of my bones when they spoke, many at once, yet one.
"Aenrath valora. The Red Flame awakens again. She carries danger. She carries hope. Will she master it—or will it consume all?"
Damon's grip tightened. The Ironsworn survivors behind us bent their knees instinctively, even the hardened wolves bowing their heads. I alone was forced forward, into the center of their gaze.
The Bloodhound's voice pressed into my skull. Show them you are not a child of ruin. Show them your flame is yours—not Veyrathuun's.
My veins caught fire. The glyphs surged, writhing under my skin like serpents begging release. I raised my hand, words spilling unbidden, not in my tongue but in the one carved into me by the Prophecy.
"Veyrahnth solmaris… en'kai drakhen… veras tharuun shai."
(Flame unbound… flame of dragons… be shaped, not devour.)
The Red Flame burst forth, not as the wild storm that once tore the clearing apart, but as a controlled radiance—a sphere of fire coiled tight in my palm, its heat sharp, contained, alive. It burned without ash, without corruption, like molten dawn distilled to a single breath.
The dragons stirred. Some lowered their heads in grudging acknowledgment. Others flared their wings, uneasy. Their judgment weighed on me heavier than chains.
Then an elder, black-scaled and scarred, leaned forward. His words cracked the veil like thunder.
"Hold it longer, Daughter of Thorne. Hold it until the flame obeys you, not your blood. Fail, and the Conclave will devour you where you stand."
My arms shook, sweat stinging my eyes. The fire pulsed, trying to break free, whispering in Veyrathuun's tongue—voices clawing for my mind.
"Thraxis morvun… ehn'kai ashrath… dal'venor suul…"
(Burn, devour… feed the ash… swallow the sun…)
I gritted my teeth and screamed over it, drowning their whispers with my own words:
"Sael'drakhen mora! En kai, verath shael! I am the flame—I command, not surrender!"
The fire shifted. It no longer tore at me—it yielded. For a heartbeat, the dragons' glow reflected in its surface, and I felt the flame listen.
Silence fell. The Conclave watched. The Bloodhound's tail lashed once, red eyes narrowing. Damon's voice finally reached me in a whisper.
"You did it."
But the elder dragon's gaze did not soften. He only said:
"Then the Red Daughter may enter. But know this—flame tamed is still flame. And flame always hungers."
The veil parted wider. Beyond it shimmered a golden valley where titans once carved eternity with their wings. I stepped forward, the Red Flame still pulsing in my palm—alive, mine, but never tamed.
---
The chamber of the Drakhen Conclave trembled with a living heat, the golden firelight flickering across scales the size of citadels. Their eyes, vast as molten suns, pinned me in silence until one spoke, its voice rolling like thunder across eternity.
"Veyrathuun stirs. The unchained god claws at the marrow of reality. If he breaches the Rift unchecked, flame and void will collapse into one—leaving neither mortal nor immortal realm intact."
Damon's jaw tightened, his wolf aura bristling even in the presence of the dragons. I felt his hand graze mine briefly, grounding me, before another dragon unfurled its wings, dust and sparks raining from its movement.
"You, Red Flame-bearer," it rumbled, "must bind what even gods fear. Your fire is no mere gift—it is the fracture, the wound through which salvation or annihilation pours."
The Bloodhound stepped forward, his shadow-wrought form kneeling before the circle. His voice cracked with reverence as he recited an invocation older than the stars:
"Kharuun vel drakharis, envar thuun veyra'tel, sharrum nax varuun."
(By blood of dragons, by flame of eternity, we bind the god beyond.)
The words bled into the air, carved into fire-sigil runes that hovered like burning chains.
Dahlia—the part of me that still feared what my fire could do—hesitated. Control the Red Flame? Or let it consume me? The council demanded proof that I could wield it without becoming another weapon of ruin.
I inhaled, letting the heat pool deep in my chest until it became unbearable. Then I whispered the words that had been etched in my marrow since the Prophecy first whispered in dreams:
"Aelthar ven drakhar, shoruun meyr veyra, ilthuun'kaar."
(Flame of my blood, obey my will, not my destruction.)
The Red Flame roared from me, not wild but shaped—a radiant burst fanning outward into a controlled sphere, lighting the chamber in crimson-gold brilliance. The dragons' eyes narrowed, testing, judging, but not recoiling. For the first time, I felt the flame bow to me instead of chaining me.
The eldest dragon, scales veined with starlight, lowered its massive head until its eye met mine.
"Then hear our strategy, Shadowblood's heir. At the Shadow Rift, Veyrathuun shall rise. His power swells through the Prophecy's fracture. Alone, neither wolf, flame, nor dragon may contain him. But together—bound in rite—you may stall his dominion."
A deeper silence settled. The air felt like glass about to crack.
The Bloodhound whispered again, darker this time:
"Veyrathuun'na shael'varuun, ixthar omen, khalir drathuun. Veyra'thel shall nevvra."
(Veyrathuun's hunger spreads, the omen devours, the end draws near. His dominion cannot be delayed long.)
The warning etched fear into my bones. If we failed at the Rift, it would not just be death—it would be the unmaking. No rebirth. No afterlife. Only ash, silence, and void.
I clenched Damon's hand now, not for grounding but for strength. We had no choice but to walk into the jaws of the unthinkable.
---
The chamber quieted after the last ember of Drakhen fire dimmed in the air, leaving behind a silence thick with prophecy. Damon's hand lingered at the small of my back as the council withdrew into shadow, their wings folding like obsidian veils. We stood alone beneath the starless dome, and for the first time, the weight of it all pressed against my ribs until I could hardly breathe.
He turned to me—eyes burning like stormfire—and his voice softened in a way it never did before the world. "You're carrying more than a weapon, Dahlia. You're carrying the end of every song, every star. But you won't carry it alone."
I wanted to believe him. Yet my veins already itched with the Red Flame, curling under my skin like serpents eager to strike. My palms trembled as I whispered into them, a shard of forbidden verse that had been echoing since the Conclave's decree:
"Rhae'thuun vel'kaar, zethra'mor ian'druul… shaelth ven drakon."
(Bind the flame, bury the serpent, let the dragon guard the soul.)
The words burned my tongue, and I bit back a cry. Damon caught my wrists, steadying them against his chest. "Look at me," he said, rough and low. "Don't let the fire tell you who you are. Let me."
I raised my eyes to him, and in that stolen moment, the chaos around us blurred away. The prophecies, the Conclave, even the Rift waiting to unmake us all—they became distant echoes. What remained was the tether between us, woven across lifetimes, reforged in blood and betrayal and vows that no god or demon had managed to sever.
Yet a darker thought gnawed at me, one I could no longer keep silent. "What if the Flame swallows me whole this time? What if I can't claw my way back? You saw what I became, Damon. You saw the monster."
His answer came without hesitation, forged in steel and ache. "Then I burn with you. But I will not let you be taken. Not by Veyrathuun. Not by the Hollow Order. Not even by the fire inside you."
The Red Flame stirred, purring at the edges of his vow, like it recognized him—like it wanted him, too. My breath caught, and I pressed my forehead to his, letting the bond pulse between us. For a fleeting heartbeat, it was not weapon nor prophecy nor doom. It was only us—two broken creatures daring to believe in something beyond survival.
And in that quiet, the truth seared itself into me: our bond was more than love, more than fate. It was the anchor tethering Shadowland itself. If I fell, the world would tear apart. If we stood, even gods would have to reckon with us.
The whisper of the Red Flame coiled one last time at the back of my skull, hissing its hunger in a language older than dawn. I exhaled into Damon's mouth, answering not with fear but with vow:
"Kael'thir ven draem, shael'kor ven thalos."
(The flame is ours to bind, the night is ours to claim.)
His arms closed around me, fierce as iron, as though the whole collapsing world could be held together by the refusal to let go.
---
The silence between us did not last long. The veil tore open again, this time not with violence but with the solemn thunder of wings. From the depths of the shadowed horizon, the Drakhen Conclave emerged—scaled war-shapes slipping through fractured stars, their voices a tremor beneath the marrow of the earth. They circled above us, each dragon crowned in runes older than empire, older than memory. Their leader, a silver-scaled titan with eyes like split moons, dipped his head toward me in reverence—yet the weight of it felt like judgment.
I breathed the Red Flame and tasted its hunger. The Bloodhound paced at my side, his eyes bright coals, his growl carrying the pulse of something eternal. He spoke through me without words, urging me to show no fear. I lifted my palm, embered with faint light, and whispered the invocation I had been taught only moments before.
"Xyrrath vel a'thren, drakha moruun, shai valem ossuur."
("Bound flame, ancient pact, let dragon and daughter bleed as one.")
The Conclave shuddered in unison, their wings folding like blades of living night. A covenant had been sealed in fire and breath. Damon's hand brushed mine, a reminder that even in the court of gods and monsters, I was still mortal. Still breakable. But not alone.
We descended toward the Shadow Rift, and the sky bent around us in scarlet storms. Veyrathuun's crown of shadow stretched above the forest, each spire of darkness a finger clawing toward the world's spine. The trees below writhed like worshippers, every branch trembling as if they knew the weight of the god now watching.
The Bloodhound's voice came again, low as the grave: "The Red Daughter has found her allies… now the world awaits her first strike against a god."
---