Chapter 4

The doors opened once more.

This time, they groaned.

Two dragonkin entered without a word, flanking her like ceremonial guards. They didn’t touch her. They didn’t have to. The mark on her chest throbbed softly beneath her skin, pulsing in sync with something deeper now—something tethered to the Warlord. Every step away from him left her aching in places she couldn’t name.

The corridors beyond the Sanctum felt different. Wider. Hotter. The obsidian walls wept heat and glittered faintly as if dusted with stardust or bone ash. Steam hissed from cracks in the stone. The keep breathed around her—alive and ancient.

She didn’t know where they were taking her. But she could feel it wasn’t down.

They climbed.

The stairs wound tightly, carved from volcanic glass, sharp at the edges like a serpent’s spine. And still, they rose. She lost count of how many levels they passed, how many arched doors they left behind. Each one darker, quieter, hotter than the last.

At last, the dragonkin stopped before a massive archway. The chamber beyond glowed with a soft red light, filtered through curved windows of veined crystal. The ceiling disappeared into shadows high above.

“This is your cage,” one said.

It wasn’t cruel. Just true.

Sera stepped forward. Inside, gold gleamed in heaps. Tapestries of scales and clawed battles adorned the walls. A massive bed carved from blackened stone stood at the center, dressed in furs the color of dried blood. This was not a room.

It was a lair.

And it smelled like him.

Smoke. Spice. Hunger.

The mark on her chest pulsed once, sharp and possessive.

She was alone, but not free.

Not anymore.

The silence pressed in.

Sera stepped farther into the chamber, the heat rising like breath against her thighs. The doors sealed behind her with a whisper, leaving her in a space that felt more alive than any court she had ever walked. Her bare feet sank into thick furs strewn across the floor, soft and warm from the heat that radiated up through the stone. Everywhere she turned, gold glinted—coins, goblets, blades, armor. Some ancient, some freshly bloodied. All of it his.

A sword hung above the hearth, wickedly curved and far too heavy for any mortal hand. She reached toward it but stopped short. The air around it shimmered. It didn’t want her touch.

The bedding drew her next. Massive. Overbuilt. Black stone carved in the shape of something primal, piled with furs the color of dried blood and midnight. As she stepped closer, a scent rose—smoke, heat, spice… and something else.

Her.

The realization struck like a slap. She stumbled back, heart thudding. He had prepared this place long before she arrived. As if he’d known.

As if he’d always known.

The sigil on her chest pulsed again, stronger this time. Her skin heated beneath it. She yanked at the sheer fabric that clung to her, tearing it off in a sudden surge of fury. The brand glowed faintly in the low red light, throbbing in time with her breath.

She tried to scream. Nothing came out.

Instead, she fell to her knees beside the bed and pressed her fist to her mouth. She wouldn’t sob. She wouldn’t give him that. But her body shook, silent and splintering.

She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for him.

A rustle broke the silence.

The door hadn’t opened, but a shape stood at the threshold now—one of the dragonkin. A woman with burnished scales along her throat, eyes like coal fire.

She carried a tray in one hand, and folded garments in the other—black and gold, finer than the sheer gown Sera had worn before.

The dragonkin approached slowly, then knelt.

“Consort,” she said.

The word landed like a brand all its own.

“I’m not—” Sera rasped, voice raw.

“You are marked,” the woman said softly. “The fortress recognizes you now. It will not harm you. Nor will we.”

She set the clothing and tray gently on a golden stool and rose again, gaze lowered.

“I was told to leave food. You’ll find it warm.”

Without another word, she turned and vanished through the shadows.

Sera stared after her.

Marked. Recognized. Kneeling.

The sigil pulsed again, stronger when she touched the robe. The fabric warmed under her fingers like it had been waiting for her.

She stood slowly, wrapping herself in the new garments. Heavier. Real. Armor of silk. Not meant to tempt—meant to command.

She crossed to the window—narrow, curved, sealed in glowing crystal—and looked out.

The mountains stretched endlessly, smoke curling from distant vents. She saw no sky. No path. No freedom.

Her fingers pressed to the stone.

She was not free.

But she was not broken.

Not yet.

She turned from the window, unable to stomach the sight of confinement stretching into forever, and looked again at the room—his room. Her gaze landed on the sword above the hearth, the furs still carrying her scent, the way the air hummed softly around her, as though whispering her name. Her brand pulsed in agreement.

It unsettled her.

In a corner near the bed, she noticed a small object half-buried beneath a pile of gold—a pendant. Simple, elegant, shaped like a dragon’s eye. She didn’t recognize it, and yet it sent a strange pang through her chest. Was it left for her? Or was it taken from someone else, someone who had stood here before her?

She looked away quickly.

She thought of her sister’s chambers—light-filled and lined with ivy-carved walls, always scented with orange blossoms and warmed by sun. This place smelled of ash and ancient hunger. And the contrast cut deeper than she’d expected.

Why had he accepted her?

She was meant to rule Aeryth, not be given away like some golden trinket. The Warlord could have burned the kingdom to the ground. He had that power. But he hadn’t. He’d taken her instead. Not just as a spoil of war, but as something… worthy.

Her throat tightened.

She sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the furs giving way beneath her like they recognized her weight. Her palms pressed into her thighs. She tried to push the thoughts away, but they slithered back.

The way he had looked at her in the Sanctum.

The way he stood, utterly bare—unashamed, powerful. There had been no armor, no robe. Just heat and muscle and ancient, terrifying calm. It had taken every ounce of control not to let her eyes fall lower. Not to betray that flicker of curiosity pulsing beneath the fear.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

What did a dragon’s rut look like?

What would she be enduring in days’ time?

Her hand drifted over the sigil through the fabric. It pulsed again—warm, slow, patient.

As if it already knew.

The air shifted again, subtly but undeniably. The room warmed—not from the ever-present heat of the mountain, but from something more responsive. As if the fortress itself was aware of her thoughts. Her presence. Her breath. The light near the hearth pulsed faintly, shadows crawling up the wall like slow-moving vines.

She remembered a story told to her as a child—an old nursemaid’s tale, whispered when the moon was high and the fire low. Of dragons who snatched wicked girls from their beds and carried them off to be devoured in caves carved from the bones of mountains. Of how no one ever heard the screams.

At the time, she’d laughed. Called it silly.

Now she wondered if it had been a warning.

The brand on her chest pulsed again, but slower this time. Not urgent—calming. Like a hand at her back.

Her breath came easier. The tightness in her chest loosened. But it wasn’t her own doing. The sigil was regulating her, tethering her. The warmth that spread through her limbs was not from peace. It was control.

Even alone, she wasn’t free.

The fortress was watching her.

And the Warlord—he was inside her now, in a way she didn’t understand. She didn’t know his name, not truly. But his presence clung to her like breath she couldn’t exhale. She could feel him like a shadow behind her thoughts. Not speaking. Not pressing. Just present.

She folded her arms over her stomach and backed away from the bed.

She wouldn’t sleep here. Not yet. Not until she could do so without feeling like she was crawling willingly into his arms.