Chapter 61

The wind howled over the cliffs of Dravenreach, scattering loose stone and salt spray from the sea far below. Serenya drew her cloak tighter, the silver embroidery catching the first light of dawn. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she stared into the cavern ahead—a mouth of darkness carved into the mountain.

Kaelen stood beside her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though his eyes flicked to her more often than the shadows. “Once we step inside, there is no turning back,” he murmured. “The dragons do not forgive betrayal, nor do they grant second chances.”

Serenya lifted her chin. “We’ve come too far to retreat now. If the Pact is broken, every kingdom will fall into Thalric’s hands. I will not let my people burn.”

Kaelen’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Then stay close to me. The fire speaks in riddles, and even truth sounds like a lie in there.”

The words sent a chill through her, but she followed him into the cavern.

The air grew warmer with every step, the stone glowing faintly underfoot. Ancient runes pulsed like veins through the walls, illuminating the path deeper within. Serenya brushed her fingers across one, feeling the hum of power beneath her skin.

So much forgotten. So much stolen from us, a voice whispered inside her mind. She gasped, pulling her hand back.

Kaelen looked over his shoulder. “You heard them already?”

Serenya nodded, unsettled. “They sound…angry.”

“They always do. Dragons remember every betrayal, even those a thousand years old.” He paused at the final bend, where the tunnel opened into a vast chamber. “Serenya, this is where you decide whether you stand as heiress…or as something greater.”

The chamber was alive with firelight. Rivers of molten gold ran across the floor, carving channels toward a dais of black stone. Above it, wings unfolded—vast, shimmering, and terrible. The dragon’s scales caught every hue of flame, from crimson to violet, its eyes burning like two suns locked on her.

Serenya fell to one knee without thinking, the sheer weight of its presence pressing her chest. “Great one,” she whispered, “I come to honor the Pact.”

The dragon’s voice thundered through the chamber, shaking her bones. Little spark. You wear the blood of Vale, and yet you dare kneel where your forebears swore false oaths.

“I am not my forebears,” she said, forcing strength into her voice. “Their deceit ended in ruin. I seek to restore what was broken.”

The dragon lowered its head, a hiss curling from its fanged maw. Words. Always words. What is it you offer us, child of shadows?

Kaelen stepped forward, bowing his head but keeping his sword arm tense. “She offers her crown,” he said.

Serenya’s breath caught. “Kaelen—”

“Do you think they will listen to half promises?” His voice was sharp, but his eyes softened when they met hers. “The dragons demand more than pretty speeches. They demand blood, fire, and sacrifice.”

The dragon rumbled, smoke spilling across the floor. This knight speaks truer than most. The Pact was forged in sacrifice. Without it, no flame endures.

Serenya steadied herself. “Then let it be my sacrifice, not theirs. If my crown is the price, I will pay it. If my blood must burn, let it burn for my people.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed, as though measuring the weight of her soul. Silence stretched, thick and unbearable.

From the shadows at the edge of the chamber, another figure emerged—Cyrion Duskbane. His cloak was torn from travel, his blade glinting with black steel.

“You think your sacrifice alone is enough?” His voice dripped with contempt. “Dragons do not bind themselves to weakness. They demand power. And I, not you, carry the fire of our ancestors.”

Serenya’s heart sank. “Cyrion—what are you doing here?”

He smirked. “Taking what should have been mine. You hide in disguises and whispers, but I have walked through ashes and carried kingdoms on my shoulders. The dragons will see the truth. They will choose me.”

Kaelen’s hand shifted to his sword, but Serenya held out her arm, stopping him. This was not a battle of blades. It was a battle of destiny.

The dragon’s gaze turned toward Cyrion, studying him with the same fierce intensity. You carry rage like a torch in a storm. But rage burns out, leaving only cinders.

“And yet cinders can light a thousand fires,” Cyrion countered, stepping onto the dais. “Grant me your flame, and I will raze Thalric’s armies to dust. I will forge a crown that no betrayal can topple.”

Serenya’s pulse raced. If the dragon chose him, everything she had fought for would collapse.

Summoning courage, she moved to the opposite side of the dais. Her voice shook, but she raised it high. “Great one, do not mistake destruction for strength. A ruler who burns everything leaves nothing to rule. Let me prove that flame can heal as well as destroy.”

The chamber shook as the dragon rose, wings spreading until they blotted out the molten glow. Fire spiraled upward, casting both Serenya and Cyrion in flickering light.

Only one of you may bind with our flame, the voice roared. Only one may carry the Pact forward. Show us, heirs of ash—who deserves the fire?

The runes along the walls flared. Two streams of molten gold surged across the dais, forming a circle of fire between Serenya and Cyrion. Heat blistered the air, forcing them to meet each other’s gaze across the divide.

Cyrion’s eyes glinted. “You’ll break, cousin. You’ve always been too soft.”

Serenya clenched her fists, lifting her chin. “And you’ve always mistaken cruelty for strength.”

The dragon lowered its head. Flames licked from its jaws, weaving into two arcs of fire. Step forward. Take the flame, if it will have you.

Serenya’s legs trembled as she walked into the circle. Fire curled around her, hot but not burning, wrapping her in a cocoon of light. She closed her eyes and thought of her people—the children hiding in ruined villages, the mothers who buried their dead, the warriors who still held the walls though hope grew thin.

I do not seek flame for myself, she whispered inwardly. I seek it for them.

The fire pulsed, responding to her thought, and a warmth unlike anything she had ever known flooded her chest.

On the other side, Cyrion thrust his arms wide, laughing as fire engulfed him. “Yes! I will wield you as a weapon. Together we will tear down thrones and build an empire from the bones.”

But even as he shouted, the flames around him sputtered, turning black, coiling like smoke strangling its own source. He snarled, forcing them tighter around his body, but the fire recoiled, refusing his command.

The dragon’s voice boomed once more. One seeks flame to serve, the other seeks flame to enslave. The Pact is not a chain. It is a bond. And bonds cannot be forged in hatred alone.

Light blazed around Serenya, bright as a star, lifting her from the stone. She gasped as power surged through her veins—ancient, fierce, alive. She could feel the heartbeat of the dragon itself echoing in her chest.

The great beast bowed its head. Heiress of Vale, you are chosen. The Pact is renewed.

Cyrion roared, stumbling as the fire abandoned him, leaving only smoke curling from his cloak. “No! This is mine! She is nothing but a girl who hides behind masks!”

Serenya’s feet touched the ground again, her cloak billowing with embers. She looked at him with sorrow, not triumph. “I am more than a mask now. And you…you are more lost than ever.”

Kaelen rushed to her side, steadying her. For a heartbeat, his hand lingered against hers, and in his eyes she saw both pride and fear.

“Serenya,” he whispered, “you carry a dragon’s fire now. But fire consumes as easily as it warms. You must learn to master it—or it will master you.”

She nodded, her breath still ragged. “Then stay with me. Help me hold it.”

The dragon’s wings unfurled once more, sending waves of heat crashing through the chamber. The Pact is sealed. Shadows rise, but so do the stars. What you do with this flame will decide the fate of every kingdom under the sky.

As the dragon’s form dissolved into light, fusing its essence with the runes, Serenya knew the world outside had shifted. Thalric’s armies would not wait. The rival heirs would not surrender. And Cyrion, though beaten, would not vanish quietly.

The true war was only beginning.

But she carried the fire now.

And for the first time, she believed she could win.