MY BLOOD IS FIRE

 

Valkhara

When I woke, the room smelled like sex, blood, and danger.

Sevrin was on one side of me, arm slung over my waist, his breathing slow but still tense like his body hadn’t stopped guarding me even in sleep. Azric lay on the other, one leg draped over mine, fingers lazily tracing the bite he’d left on my breast like he was drawing runes in my skin.

I didn’t move. Not yet.

Because beneath the haze of soreness and bond-induced satisfaction, something darker coiled in my gut.

I didn’t come here to be claimed.

I didn’t enter the Trials for a mate—let alone two.

I came to win. To survive. To earn power strong enough to protect the ones who couldn’t protect themselves. My people. My bloodline.

And here I was naked in a bed I hadn’t chosen, marked by two men I barely knew, while the Council waited to see if I was a weapon or a weakness.

No.

I would not be their pawn.

And I sure as hell wouldn’t be anyone’s pet.

I peeled Sevrin’s arm off me gently, sliding from the bed and wrapping myself in the same towel I’d dropped the night before. My thighs ached. My skin was flushed. Every inch of me screamed claimed.

But my mind? My purpose?

That was clear again.

“Going somewhere?” Azric’s voice was low, lazy, too pleased with himself.

“Yeah,” I said, not looking back. “To remember who the fuck I am.”

He didn’t follow. Neither did Sevrin. Good. They were smart enough to give me space—for now.

I made it to the bathing room, threw on the nearest robe I could find, and splashed cold water on my face.

The moment my hands touched the porcelain sink, I felt it—

A shift in the air. A pulse.

And then—

Three sharp, deliberate raps on the suite door.

I tensed, already turning toward it as Sevrin stirred behind me and Azric sat upright.

The door creaked open.

A steward stood there, pale and wide-eyed.

“Lady Valkhara,” he said, bowing too deeply. “A message from the Council.”

Azric moved first, snatching the scroll from his hand and unrolling it.

His eyes scanned the page—then narrowed.

“They moved the Trial.”

“What?” I asked.

“It’s tonight,” he said. “Not tomorrow.”

Sevrin stood, already reaching for his shirt. “Why?”

The steward stammered. “Because… because one of the remaining competitors didn’t return from their Trial. They were found—”

“Found?” I asked sharply.

The boy swallowed. “Torn apart. Something... fed on them.”

Azric cursed under his breath.

Sevrin looked at me. “You need to be ready. Now.”

“I am.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You need to remember what’s at stake. You think they moved it early just because someone died?”

Azric tossed the scroll onto the bed. “They moved it because of you.”

I felt it then.

A whisper across the bond.

Not from Sevrin. Not from Azric.

The third.

Still silent.

Still waiting.

Still watching.

And ready to burn the kingdom down.

An hour later I was about to sit down and then I heard it..

Crack.

A scroll appeared on the table.

Bound in black wax, etched with the seal of the High Blood Council.

I didn’t need to ask what it was.

I knew, it would be the instructions for the trial.

Azric opened it and we all three sat there, reading and processing.

By decree of the High Blood Council,

At dusk tomorrow, you will face your First Trial of Worth.

Each combatant shall enter the arena alone.

You will face another chosen participant in a battle to the death.

There is no surrender.

There is no aid.

Only blood determines who advances.

Should you win, you will be marked as Worthy.

Should you fail, your name will rot with your corpse beneath the arena sands.

Let your blood speak.

4 HOURS LATER

The arena floor reeked of blood, sweat, and old death.

Not metaphorical death. Real, splattered-across-the-stone, scream-echoing kind of death.

I walked barefoot across it anyway.

The robe was gone. My body was wrapped in leather and steel tight enough to move, strong enough to bleed in. My hair was pulled back in a braid that said don’t fuck with me. My skin still glowed faintly with magic, the mark of two mates etched into me like fire and shadow.

The gates slammed shut behind me.

Above, the crowd roared. Nobles, traitors, beasts in skin. Vampires and magic-born. The Council sat cloaked in black behind obsidian shields, faces unreadable.

But I felt them watching.

Every. Single. One.

Azric and Sevrin stood near the edge of the Court’s balcony, forced to remain behind the barrier. Azric’s eyes locked on mine the second I stepped into view. Sevrin? His jaw was tight. His hands flexed at his sides like he was holding himself back from leaping down to fight beside me.

But this was my battle.

And I wanted blood.

The announcer’s voice boomed from above, amplified by magic.

“Valkhara, Emberborn, of the Fire-Touched Line—face your next Trial.”

Another gate opened.

I didn’t flinch.

A man stepped through. Older. Broad. His face scarred from past victories. His armor dented and well-worn. His eyes locked onto mine and narrowed.

His name was Caelun. House Drevyn. He had survived two Trials already. He was considered a favorite.

Unlucky for him, he wasn’t facing a contestant.

He was facing a fucking storm.

We circled each other. The arena fell quiet.

Then he struck.

Fast. Blade-first. Aiming for my throat.

I ducked.

Spun.

And burned.

My palm caught his wrist. Fire bloomed from my fingertips and seared up his arm, blackening the metal, melting leather, branding flesh.

He screamed—and swung with his other hand.

I let it hit.

It sliced across my ribs. Not deep. Not deadly. But enough.

Enough to trigger the bond.

The pain flared—and so did the fire.

She’s bleeding, Azric hissed through the link.

Good, I sent back.

Because when I bled?

They burned.

The crowd gasped as my magic surged. My veins glowed. The mark on my thigh pulsed with light.

Caelun backed up, eyes wide. “What the hell are you?”

I smiled.

“Your final mistake.”

I launched forward, sliding under his next strike and driving my elbow into his gut. He staggered. I twisted behind him—grabbed his head and snapped his neck.

But I wasn’t done.

Not for the crowd. Not for the Council. Not for the message.

My fingers curled in his hair.

And I ripped his head clean from his body.

The crowd screamed.

Blood sprayed across the sand. His corpse hit the floor with a wet, awful thud. The Council flinchedgo od. Azric groaned in approval. Sevrin’s snarl echoed across the arena.

I turned to the balcony, dripping blood and fury.

“I am Valkhara,” I called.

“My blood is fire. My body is power. And my soul does not bend.”

Let them try to cage me.

I’d burn the bars.