The night pressed down on us like a weighted cloak. The air was sharp with cold, laced with salt from the docks, every breath turning to frost in front of me. Even the sea seemed to hold its breath, waves lapping softly against the wood as if afraid to make a sound.
Muir crouched beside me on the rooftop, perfectly still—too still for someone who usually couldn't shut up for more than ten seconds. His eyes were fixed on the main street below, following the flicker of lanterns through the fog.
I adjusted my position, boots silent against the roof tiles. From here, I couldn't see Raiden or Revik, but I didn't need to. We had drilled the plan until it lived in my bones—each exit mapped, each fallback point memorized.
Still, the unease wouldn't fade.
The docks creaked beneath the shifting tide, ropes groaning against their posts. Every sound was too loud—the faint rattle of armor, the slosh of water against hulls, the whisper of the wind curling through the narrow alleys. I tried to still my heartbeat, but it pounded anyway, echoing like drumfire in my ribs.
The dragon inside me stirred, restless. pacing the edges of my soul like a caged beast. Heat gathered in my chest, begging for release.
Muir's hand brushed my arm, grounding me. "Eyes up, Primal" he murmured. "They'll be here soon."
I nodded once, forcing the tension from my body.
And then I saw movement.
A flicker of light—lanterns swaying.
The merchant's convoy emerged from the mist.
I counted—one, two, three… then stopped. My breath hitched.
There weren't six guards. There weren't even twenty.
There were a hundred.
A fully armed battalion marched in perfect formation, armor glinting beneath the torchlight. This wasn't an escort. This was a war party.
My stomach dropped. I looked at Muir, and he looked at me. We didn't need to speak. He realized it the same moment I did. His intel had been wrong. Badly wrong.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
At the center of the column, surrounded by soldiers, was a wagon. A cage.
Four small figures huddled inside. Girls—young, no older than eleven.
Chained. Bruised. Barefoot.
Their wrists were bound in iron, their faces streaked with dirt and fear. One of them clutched another's hand like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
A cold horror seeped through me, followed by something darker.
A whisper slipped into my thoughts, soft and sinuous, curling around the edges of my mind like smoke.
You want to kill them, don't you?
I froze.
The voice was quiet, patient. The kind of voice that didn't command—it was so inviting.
You know what they are. What he'll make of them. A pause. Use me, little dragon. I can make it quick.
My nails dug into my palms until blood slicked my fingers. I could barely hear Muir's breath beside me over the roar building inside my head.
The dragon shifted again, scales pressing against the inside of my ribs, hunger scraping bone. My vision began to blur at the edges, flickering black and red.
Below, the merchant strode into view—a heavyset man in fine clothes, arrogance dripping from every step. He barked orders at his guards, his tone casual, impatient.
Then he stopped beside the wagon.
One of the girls made a sound.
It wasn't a word. Not even a cry.
It was a strangled, gurgled thing, like her throat couldn't form the noise right.
The merchant turned, frowning. His hand shot out, grabbed her by the hair, and yanked her up so hard her feet left the ground. The others whimpered, but none dared move.
"Filthy little brat," he hissed—and slammed her down.
The sound that followed was a crack.
Not the sound of wood.
Bone.
She convulsed once, twice—and then went still.
Something inside me broke.
The whisper purred, cruel and eager. Yes. He deserves it. Do it. Do it. DO IT!
The world snapped red.
I didn't think. Didn't breathe. Didn't exist.
Only fire.
It roared through me, molten and unstoppable, consuming air and reason alike. The roof vanished. The sky vanished. The world was nothing but heat.
I dropped from the rooftop, fire spiraling around me in ribbons of gold and crimson. The ground split beneath my landing, cracks spidering through the stone.
The nearest guard turned, eyes widening—too slow.
I raised my hand, flame coalescing into a spear—
—and something slammed into me, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
We hit the wall. My back struck stone. My fire flared, ready to obliterate whoever had dared—
Raiden.
His body pinned mine to the cold bricks, his hand clamped over my mouth before I could unleash the inferno clawing at my throat.
"Lyra," he hissed, low, urgent. His breath ghosted across my cheek. "Not yet."
I fought him, the rage still burning, my magic fighting to break free. My wings threatened to unfurl, scales prickling beneath my skin. The dragon didn't want to be contained.
"Let me go," I tried to say against his hand, but it came out muffled, half-growl, half-plea.
His grip tightened. "If you burn now, they die too," he snapped. "All of them."
That stopped me. Barely.
"Breathe, little thief," he said again, softer now, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Not yet."
He pressed his forehead to mine, and the contact hit like a spark meeting water—sudden, grounding, cold.
The world shrank. Just the sound of his breathing. The scent of smoke and salt between us.
My fire faltered, sputtering against the edges of his calm.
"Look at me," he whispered.
I did.
His eyes met mine, steady and sure. Eyes that had seen war, loss, and still carried enough patience for me.
"I need you with me," he murmured. "Not lost to this."
For one trembling heartbeat, I was suspended between the fire and his voice. Between destruction and control.
Then I exhaled.
The flames withdrew, slinking back beneath my skin. Smoke curled faintly from my fingertips as the last spark faded.
Raiden's hand dropped, his touch lingering at my jaw for half a second longer than it should have.
We stayed there, neither of us moving, the air between us heavy with unspoken things.
Muir padded up beside us, boots whispering over stone. "You two always pick dramatic timing," he muttered, but the usual sarcasm had been flattened into something taut. His eyes flicked to the cage, then back to us. "Don't worry. I took care of the onlooker," he added—too quickly.
I couldn't meet his gaze. The smell of ash clung to me. My magic hummed, restless and ashamed.
Raiden straightened first, scanning the docks. The convoy had started to move again, the merchant still shouting orders, oblivious to how close he'd come to dying.
"Move," Raiden said quietly. "We stick to the plan. We take him alive."
Muir nodded, slipping back into the shadows.
I stood frozen for a heartbeat longer, staring after the wagon as it rolled away.
The fire inside me was gone, but the echo of it remained—low, smoldering, dangerous.
Raiden's hand brushed mine, just briefly, a silent reassurance.
I didn't look at him. Couldn't.
Because the truth was, part of me didn't want the fire gone.
Part of me wanted to finish what I started.
The flames had died.
But the fury didn't.
It coiled deep inside my chest, whispering promises I wasn't sure I could ignore.
And as the night swallowed us whole again, I prayed that when the time came, I'd still be able to tell the difference between justice—
and vengeance.