The wind stank of scorched sand and blood.
Elarya stepped through the last veil of smoke. Her dress hung in tatters, the hem blackened, her hair clinging to her sweat-slick face. Her fists were clenched, trembling—not from fear, but from fury.
Across the clearing stood the Crimson Lady. Red silk draped her like a living flame, and in her arms she held Sulien, cradled close against her chest.
Two men flanked her, cloaked in red and bronze. One gripped a writhing sack that squealed and chirped—the sound of her dragons. Her children. Muffled. Frightened.
Far behind, steel clashed against steel. Kael and four Rhazkaan warriors fought to hold back the ash-marked fanatics spilling from the treeline. The ring of blades carried across the clearing, yet none of the zealots dared come near the Crimson Lady.
Elarya stopped, her chest heaving. "Give him to me."
The Crimson Lady smiled—a slow, sharp thing, like a blade being drawn. "Oh, I will… in time. But first, I'll teach him what you cannot. His fire is wasted in your arms, soft as a nursemaid's lullaby. He was born to wake the world, not hide from it."
Elarya's nails dug into her palms. "His my son..."
"Yours to love, perhaps," the Crimson Lady said, her eyes narrowing, the smile never warming. "Mine to shape. You birthed the child, I'll grant you that… but I will make him more, and I will see the fire in him burn the way it was meant to."
She drew Sulien closer, her red silks whispering like embers in the wind. "And when you follow—and you will follow—you'll thank me for it."
Her gaze lingered on Elarya, a smile on her lips that never touched her eyes. "You've carried him through fire and ruin, yet you still think he's just a babe to be rocked to sleep. Look at him."
The wind rose. Ash swirled between them. She looked down at Sulien, brushing an ash-silver lock from his brow.
"I don't need to look," Elarya said. "He's my blood—my son."
"He is fire reborn," the Crimson Lady said, her voice low but thrumming with a fervent heat, eyes blazing with zeal. "Magic made flesh. The old world stirs in his veins—and you think you can hold him in your arms like a normal babe?" She tilted her head, the smile curving wider, equal parts pride and hunger. "The world forgot us. Buried us. Called us fairy tales. But this boy… he is prophecy made flesh."
Inside Sulien's mind, thoughts tumbled. Okay… I think this lady's insane. She's not in the original book. This isn't supposed to happen.
From behind the Crimson Lady, the sack gave another violent jolt. One of the dragons shrieked—a furious, crackling sound like flint striking iron.
Elarya's gaze darted to it. The Crimson Lady noticed. "Ah. Ferocious creatures, aren't they? I'm sure your son will be one too."
Elarya stepped forward, each footfall heavy with the weight of her rage, anger burning hotter with each heartbeat. Every word from the Crimson Lady, every calculating glance from her and her crimson-clad men, stripped away Sulien's humanity and reduced him—her son, her blood—to some prized creature to mold and break. The thought of this witch seeing him as a beast to tame made her stomach churn and her vision narrow, a red haze edging the world.
"He's not some lump of ore for you to hammer into your weapon," she said, her voice trembling with fury. "He's my blood, my child—not your monster."
The Crimson Lady's smile thinned, her tone dripping with both mockery and calculation. "Careful now. Don't be foolish, Shakareen. I would hate for his mother to perish because of her own impulsive steps." She let her gaze travel over Elarya like a merchant appraising fine stock, voice softening into something far more chilling. "In truth… I was planning to take you as well. The birthing of this boy is a miracle—but imagine birthing more. Whole legions of such blood. That would not just change the world… it would remake it."
She waved a hand. Her men stepped forward.
Elarya backed away, dread flooding her veins, the cold weight of isolation settling heavy in her chest. Behind the Crimson Lady, in the distant echoing, Kael and the Rhazkaan warriors clashed steel against the hooded men who barred their path, the fighting a vicious knot of bodies and flashing blades. The shouts of her allies and the ring of steel on steel carried faintly to her, muffled by the press of crimson-clad zealots and the roar of blood in her ears. She could picture Kael's blade hacking through the tide, could almost feel the tremor of each blow in her bones—but the battle was too far, the way blocked, and none of it could reach her here. Alone. No guards. No one between her and the Crimson Lady, only the gauntlet of crimson and shadow that stood between Elarya and her son.
The dragons hissed and chirped in the sack, sensing their mother's fear.
Sulien whimpered, emberlight flickering along his spine. What did she just say? Is this lady planning to— His tiny brow furrowed in anger and disgust.
Heat built in the Crimson Lady's arms. She glanced down. Sulien's throat glowed faintly, his expression sharpening.
The men lunged for Elarya, rough hands clamping around her arms. She thrashed with every shred of strength she had, her voice rising in a ragged scream that carried her fury across the clearing. Her nails clawed at fabric and skin, feet kicking against the packed earth. One of the crimson-clad brutes snarled, swinging a heavy backhand that cracked across her cheek, silencing her with a burst of pain and a copper tang flooding her mouth.
Sulien saw.
The fire inside him surged, hotter and fiercer than the eastern sun at its zenith, searing through every vein. His small wings twitched with barely-contained power, membranes shivering like banners before a storm. His tail lashed once, twice, a whip of molten intent cutting the air.
"Calm now, child. What is the matter?" the Crimson Lady murmured.
But then she saw his eyes—deep purple, slit pupils that cut through her like a blade. It was a predator's gaze, raw and ancient, and it made something deep in her chest tighten. Her breath hitched, dread coiling in her stomach as if the world itself were holding its breath. His nostrils flared, drawing in the scorched air, and a low growl built in his chest, steady and rising like the rumble before an earthquake, a sound that told her the fragile thread between them was about to snap.
The heat in her arms grew unbearable. Panic flickered across her face.
Far too late for second thoughts.
Sulien's mouth opened, the glow deepening down his throat. A pit of blue fire roared forth, bright as the heart of the sun.
The Crimson Lady screamed, a piercing cry that tore through the smoky air. Her hood caught fire in an instant, flames racing up the red silk like hungry serpents. The searing heat licked her skin, and she staggered back, arms flailing as instinct overpowered pride. In that heartbeat of agony and chaos, she dropped him—Sulien tumbling free, emberlight still clinging to him like a living halo.
The men grappling with Elarya turned at the sound of their mistress's screams, the sight of her silks aflame halting them mid-struggle. Seizing the moment, Elarya tore herself free and lunged for the man clutching the writhing sack of dragons. She stumbled in the rush, but her hands found the rough fabric, wrenching it open. With a furious chorus of shrieks, the hatchlings burst into the air—small, brilliant shapes that wheeled and spat streams of searing flame. The zealots' cries turned to screams as fire took them, the reek of burning cloth and flesh choking the air.
Elarya dropped to her knees, scrambling toward Sulien where the witch had let him fall. She gathered him into her arms, voice breaking as she whispered, "Oh, my baby… you're safe now. I'm here."
In Sulien's mind, faint and weary, came a thought: I'm glad she's okay. His tiny chest rose and fell unevenly. But spitting flames like that… not exactly ideal… losing… sight… Darkness swam in. With a soft sigh, he went limp in her embrace, exchausted from breathing fire yet again.
Kael, locked in fierce combat alongside the Rhazkaan warriors against the last of the hooded zealots, was suddenly bathed in searing light as a torrent of fire swept through the melee, consuming their foes in an instant. Overhead, the newly freed hatchling dragons wheeled and shrieked, their tiny jaws spilling gouts of flame that turned enemy cries into screams, the acrid stench of burning flesh and cloth thick in the air. Through the swirling smoke and rain of embers, Ser Kael's gaze was drawn to a sight that stilled his sword arm—Elarya, striding through the chaos of blood and fire, Sulien cradled safe and unscathed in her arms. In that moment, it was as though the pyre of the past had risen again before him; the scene seared itself into his soul, a thing both terrible and wondrous, more beautiful than anything he had ever beheld.
The screams had faded into the hiss of dying flames. Rhazkaan warriors moved among the fallen, driving their blades into the last of the hooded zealots to ensure none would rise again. Through the carnage, Elarya walked with steady steps toward a single figure—the Crimson Lady—now crawling in the dirt, her once-beautiful face burned and blistered, hair singed, silks in tatters. The enchantress lifted her head and saw Elarya approaching, Ser Kael at her side and two hatchling dragons perched upon her shoulders, their golden eyes unblinking. It was a tableau of triumph, and the witch knew it—humiliation burned as hot as her wounds.
Through cracked lips and a rasp scraped raw by smoke, the Crimson Lady croaked, "You think this is over? I am but one of many who will covet what you hold in your arms… and there are far worse than I." She let out a ragged, choking laugh that dissolved into coughing.
Elarya stood silent for a long moment, Sulien sleeping peacefully against her, his warmth seeping into her arms. Her frown deepened. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and edged with steel.
"Then tell them to come," she said, her gaze hard as tempered steel, a slow, fierce smile curling at the edge of her lips. "Tell every vulture, every would-be lords, every monster hiding in shadow. I'll burn them all before I let anyone take what's mine."
The witch's blistered lips twisted into something halfway between a snarl and a smile. "Brave words," she rasped, voice like smoldering coals. "But fire consumes its bearer, Shakareen. One day, you'll burn with him."
Elarya tilted her head, studying the ruined face before her. "Maybe," she said quietly, her tone almost gentle—but her eyes were all steel. Then her voice dropped to a low, dangerous murmur. "But I'll make sure you burn first."
The Crimson Lady gave a dry, cracked laugh, blood spotting her teeth. "You'll regret crossing me."
Elarya's smile sharpened into something wolfish. "Regret?" She stepped closer, until the heat of the scorched ground seemed to coil between them like a living thing. "No. When I set the flames of prophecy to your skin, I'll savor every scream. And when your ashes scatter, my son will never even remember your name."
For the first time since they met, the witch's gaze flickered—not in rage, but something that looked almost like fear.
At those words, the hatchlings on Elarya's shoulders hissed in unison, their throats glowing molten gold. In a heartbeat, they unleashed twin torrents of fire. The Crimson Lady's eyes widened; she shut them against the glare, but there was no escaping the oncoming inferno.
Flames struck her like a living tide, swallowing silk, flesh, and shadow in a single breath. Her scream was brief, smothered under the roar of dragonfire. When the blaze receded, nothing remained but blackened ruin.
No name was spoken. No last curse was uttered. She was simply gone—swallowed by heat and silence—already sliding into the nameless void where the forgotten go.
They did not linger in Albareen.
By Elarya's will, the Rhazkaans and the surviving Volkheren swept through the burning streets like a tide of steel and flame. The city's proud spires cracked and toppled, its markets and temples drowned in smoke. Fire ate its palaces, fire claimed its vaults. They took what could be carried—gold, silks, jewels, grain—and left nothing for those who might crawl from the ruins. The scent of conquest hung heavy in the air, sharp with ash and blood.
Once, she had been only a Shakareen—rootless, hunted, a mother shielding her child. Now she remembered what the Crimson Lady had tried to strip from her. She was the daughter of a conqueror. Blood of Vyrmyr.
When the plundering was done and the last embers left to smolder, they put to sea. Their prize was a great vessel of fine make, her hull lacquered and her cabins adorned with carved panels and gold fittings. Rhazkaan warriors stood at the rails beside the grim-faced Volkheren survivors, while the sailors they had spared bent to the work of rigging and sail.
On the quarterdeck, Elarya stood with her son in her arms and her dragons draped across her shoulders like living mantles of flame. Sulien slept, his small head resting against her breast, his warmth sinking into her skin.
The ship's prow cut clean through the dark waters, but she turned to look back one last time. Albareen lay behind her, a blackened carcass beneath a crown of fire, smoke rising to stain the evening sky.
Ser Kael watched her from a cautious distance, his hand resting on his sword hilt, his eyes wary. He did not ask what she meant to do next. Perhaps he feared the answer.
Elarya faced the sea again, the wind in her hair, the taste of salt on her lips. Beyond the horizon lay the East—and the rest of her destiny. She would cross it all, for her home yet to be built, for the children taken from her, for the fire in her blood.
The dragons shifted on her shoulders, their golden eyes fixed on the same horizon as hers. Behind them, the last of Albareen burned. Ahead, the sea waited.
And so they sailed into the dying light, toward the place where her true home lies..