The chamber burned.
Wine-soaked velvet, shattered glass, overturned trays—what had been a room of indulgence was now a battlefield.
Aric stood before Denari, daggers poised, breath steady, gaze unblinking. The dragon rider across from him, his drunkenness burned away by the violent heat surging through the ring on his hand.
The ring markings blazed like a furnace, scales creeping across his arms and shoulders in patches, hardening flesh into armor.
The air between them rippled with heat, a low vibration that made every breath taste of copper and smoke.
Serina stood near the doorway, veil drawn, hands raised.
The muffled thunder of boots echoed in the corridor outside—the inevitable rush of guards stirred by the noise.
She exhaled, and with a twist of her fingers a wave of force rolled into the hallway, slamming the first pair of armored men back into the walls.
