The Ashen Reach burned under a crimson sky, its lava rivers pulsing like the veins of a dying god. Rhea Valren, crouched behind a basalt slab, gripped her stolen dagger, its edge nicked but lethal. The air scorched her throat, thick with ash, but she barely noticed. Above, a Sky Lord skyship loomed, its crystal hull glinting, storm magic crackling along its cannons. They'd found her. Again.
"Keep running, Rhea," she whispered, her dark braid plastered with sweat. The Ashen Reach was a death trap,a volcanic, forbidden, a graveyard for fools. But Rhea wasn't a fool. She'd survived three raids this month, dodging enforcers who wanted her head for the magic she couldn't control.
A bolt of lightning tore through the air, shattering a nearby shrine. Rhea dove into a ditch, ash stinging her eyes as rubble rained down. Her chest burned, not just from the heat, but from it. The power she'd buried since the smuggler camp burned. Embers danced in her veins, begging to be unleashed. Not yet.
"Show yourself, ashwitch!" An enforcer's voice echoed, amplified by storm magic. He descended on a gust of wind, armor gleaming, spear sparking with electricity. "Surrender, or we raze this island."
Rhea's jaw clenched. Surrender meant chains, torture, or worse;the Skyspire's cells, where mages like her were drained dry. The ember-heat surged, her fingers trembling. Fine. You want me? Come get me.
She thrust her hand toward the lava river. The ground quaked, embers swirling into a jagged spear of obsidian flame. Pain stabbed her arm, her vision blurring, but she hurled the spear. It pierced the enforcer's chest, shattering his armor. He screamed, tumbling into the molten river below, swallowed by fire.
The skyship's hum intensified. More would come. Rhea staggered up, the ashweaving's cost sapping her strength. She needed to move, but the embers in her chest flared again, whispering of power she didn't understand.
Wings beat above—not mechanical, but alive. A dragon, scales like molten iron, landed with a tremor. Its rider, a young man with wild black hair and a scarred leather coat, leapt down, blade drawn. His eyes, sharp as flint, pinned Rhea.
"You're the ashweaver they're hunting," he said, voice cutting through the wind. "Name's Toren. Exiled dragonrider."
Rhea tightened her grip on the dagger. "And I care why?"
He smirked, glancing at the skyship. "Because that ship's about to turn us to ash. Come with me, or die."
The dragon—Emberclaw—snarled, its tail lashing. Another lightning bolt split the sky, closer. Rhea's instincts screamed to run, but the embers in her chest pulsed, drawn to this stranger. The skyship's cannons whirred, charging.
"Five seconds," Toren said, vaulting onto Emberclaw. He offered a hand. "Move."
Rhea hesitated, then grabbed it. He pulled her onto the saddle, and Emberclaw launched skyward with a roar. The skyship fired, lightning grazing the dragon's wing. Rhea clung to Toren, wind tearing at her, embers sparking unbidden from her hands.
"Who are you?" she shouted.
Toren's grin was half-wild. "Someone who hates Sky Lords more than you do. Hold tight—this gets worse."
The skyship pursued, storm magic lighting the sky. Below, the Ashen Reach glowed, a reminder of the power Rhea couldn't control. Whatever she was, Eryndor wasn't done with her.