The wind clawed at his cloak, the peaks of Drakmyr casting long shadows across the valley. His generals waited in tense silence, none daring to speak as their king stared east into the fading light.
She was supposed to be a myth by now. A whispered name in the dark. A ghost with a dagger, not… this.
Not a queen.
"She burned them all," Kael said quietly, more to himself than to the armored men around him. "The Order. The traitors. Even Torin."
The words tasted bitter. He should have felt triumph—relief that she had done what he was going to have to do. She'd eliminated the rot, severed the head of rebellion before it could rise again.
But there was no relief in him. Only a storm tightening in his chest.
Because Lyra hadn't just shattered the Order. She had replaced it.
And she hadn't crowned herself with shadows or vengeance. No, she had taken the hearts of the forgotten—the soldiers left leaderless, the outcasts abandoned, the broken choking on the ashes of old kingdoms.
A queen by choice.
A queen of flame.
Kael exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his brown hair. "She's rewriting the game."
A smile, reluctant but real, tugged at the corner of his mouth. Gods help him, he admired her for it.
He readjusted in his saddle, reins creaking as the wind howled through the pass. His commanders glanced at him, waiting, but no order came yet. Only silence, heavy as an executioner's blade.
Finally, he spoke. "We ride no farther tonight."
One of his men blinked. "My king?"
Kael's gaze didn't waver from the east, where the horizon glowed faintly with the ember-fire of the Virellan Guard's banners. "Not to war. Not yet. To a town nearby."
The men shifted uneasily, but no one argued. When the Dragon King set his jaw like this, nothing could move him.
Kael turned to his steward. "Summon a courier. Prepare parchment and seal. By nightfall."
The steward bowed low. "To whom, my king?"
Kael's eyes burned as he fixed them on the distant glow of her stronghold. His voice was quiet, reverent, as though naming her aloud might spark something he couldn't control.
"To the Crimson Queen."
The letter arrived at dawn.
Not borne by a gilded envoy or armored knights, but by a crow inked with the sigil of Drakmyr Peaks—its obsidian wings stamped into a crimson seal.
Lyra stood in the indoor shadow garden, the early sun spilling across her shoulders like a coronet. The scroll was small, deceptively simple, its weight heavy only in what it implied.
Her Guard clustered close. Flick folded his arms with a scoff. "A letter? That's a first. Usually, the Dragon King sends armies."
Lyra's fingers traced the seal, feeling the press of obsidian against her skin. Her lips curved into something unreadable.
"Maybe," she said softly, "he's learning new tricks."
Calen said nothing. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword.
Savi's eyes burned faintly with a seer's light. "It's laced with magic. Truthbinding, maybe. No curse… but it's weighted."
Lyra cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment.
To the Crimson Queen,
The winds carry word of your rise—and of the ashes left in your wake.
Where blades once clashed in secret, now banners rise in the open. Where whispers once ruled, now a queen stands declared.
I offer no challenge.
Instead, I extended an invitation.
A gathering of kings and rulers will convene at Drakmyr Hall—a night of accord beneath the old accords of fire and stone. A dance, a feast, a council of peace… or of war.
I would have you come.
As the ruler of your people.
As the queen you have chosen to be.
The Dragon King
Lyra read it twice.
Then again.
She didn't recognize the signature—there was none. Only the title.
But the implications hit hard.
"The Dragon King," she said aloud, rolling the words across her tongue.
Calen's brow furrowed. "Dravaryn?"
Flick shrugged. "If it is… he's bolder than I thought."
Savi's gaze grew distant, a flicker of foresight crackling behind her eyes. "I see embers… and blood. A blade beneath silk. Danger… and something more."
Lyra exhaled slowly, folding the letter with deliberate care.
"I thought the Tyrant was the last Dragon King."
"Apparently not," Calen said quietly.
Flick's grin turned sharp. "Well… good thing we make a habit of killing kings."
Lyra smiled faintly.
She looked to her Guard—the only souls she trusted in this world.
"We're going to that ball."
Calen gave a curt nod. Savi clasped her hands in silent blessing. Flick gave a low whistle.
"And we're going to make sure the Dragon King doesn't leave it alive."
That night, in the war chamber, plans unfurled like blades drawn in the dark.
"We enter as honored guests," Lyra said, marking points on a rough map of Drakmyr Hall. "Savi, you'll mask our auras. Calen, you're my personal guard—no one questions you. Flick… you know the halls better than any of us."
The rogue gave a lazy salute. "I'll make sure we're not the only knives in the dark."
Lyra's violet eyes burned. "The king will expect a dance. We'll give him one."
Calen's jaw tightened. "And after?"
Lyra unsheathed her crimson blade, its edge glinting like a dying sun.
"After… I'll slip the blade between his ribs before the final song ends."
Silence fell. The only sound was the crackle of the war-room flames.
"I won't let another tyrant rise," she said softly. "Not in this realm. Not in any."
The Guards bowed their heads.
"Bound by blood," Calen said.
"Loyal by choice," Savi whispered.
Flick flashed a grin. "And ready to dance."
Lyra stared at the letter one last time.
She had no idea the king she planned to kill… was the same man whose embers still haunted her every dream.
And Kael… had no idea if this dance would end with a dagger in his heart.
Or a spark he could never extinguish.
Kael paced the grand chamber of Drakmyr Hall, the letter he'd sent weighing heavier on his heart than armor.
He hadn't signed it with his name. Not because he feared her.
But because he wasn't sure if the man she remembered still existed.
The war council watched him with veiled eyes, sensing the storm within their king.
"You've invited her into your court," General Rhys said, a hint of warning in his tone. "She's a dagger aimed at your heart."
Kael met his gaze with a cool, steady fire. "She's more than that."
"More dangerous?"
Kael gave a faint, humorless smile. "More necessary."
He turned toward the great hall's window, watching the banners ripple in the wind.
He didn't know if Lyra would come seeking peace… or blood.
But one truth burned brighter than any fear:
He couldn't let her walk into Drakmyr Hall without seeing the man who'd risen from the ashes…
And perhaps—without knowing that some embers never die.