ONE #2
A horse whinnies behind me—probably anticipating an apple once he’s back in his stall. I glance over my shoulder and meet Rian’s gaze.
He’s Water Clan. Darker skin than mine, but a brother in every way that counts. We’ve been that way since Rian knocked me on my ass at the age of eleven.
He nods once, his deep blue eyes tight. I know that look. He’s worried about what we uncovered in the Starlit Chamber . . . and the danger we’re carrying in our satchels.
I nod back, hoping to steady him.
Next to him rides Jarek. Garrick’s blood brother—same straw-colored hair, same warm caramel eyes. But he’s my brother too.
Jarek’s expression is unreadable. No evidence of the weight I know he feels.
We lock eyes. Then—he flashes a grin. Just like that, his whole face lights up.
Jarek can swing from one emotion to another with maddening ease. He can find light in any situation. Just like Garrick.
I smile in spite of myself, then turn back toward the Capital.
Voices rise ahead. People are calling to us from the farms surrounding Volcaris. Running to the roadside. Waving. Shouting our names.
I nod. Smile. Reassure them that all is well.
Even though Valen carries proof that everything we know about the Shadow Wars is a lie.
But now is not the time for that truth.
Now is the time to introduce the Spiritborn to the Capital.
AMARA
The city rises ahead of us, looming on the horizon, dark stone and soaring spires stretching into the sky like something carved by giants. Smoke twists from chimneys, the scent of iron and fire carried on the wind, mingling with the earthy scent of the river that winds through the valley.
As we crest the final ridge, the full might of Volcaris unfolds before me. The capital, a city built on power, strength. The capital is carved into the land, an edifice of unyielding stone meant to rule over everything around it.
Pyre Keep rises from the earth like it was forged from the bones of the mountain itself.
Carved into black basalt cliffs, its towers sharp and unyielding, the capital is streaked with veins of crimson stone that catch the sun like cooling embers.
Smoke coils faintly from the highest spires—not from fire, but from the volcanic vents that run beneath the keep, ancient and alive.
Heat lingers in the stone with a palpable low pulse in the air; there is a feeling that the city itself still remembers the forge that birthed it.
Massive walls ring the outer quarter, dark and jagged, flanked by obsidian watchtowers that burn with ever-lit torches. It is known throughout the realm that these flames have been lit since the end of the Shadow Wars, representing the unification of the clans.
The gates are iron-veined stone, etched with Fire Clan sigils, each mark a history of conquest. Above them, carved into the rock face itself, is the emblem of the Phoenix—wings outstretched, rising from flame.
The city within spreads down in structured terraces, each level descending from the central citadel like steps of a volcano—tight streets, scorched brick, black-tiled roofs.
Lava channels once used for rituals now run as conduits for steam and power.
Everywhere there is the sense of control.
Precision. Fire not left to its natural state of wildness, but tamed instead.
At the heart of it all, Pyre Citadel towers above the city like a flame-crowned spear—its spires ribbed with gold, its windows dark as soot. There are no soft lines here. No curves. Just stone, fire, and the iron will of those who carved it.
We’re almost there. I feel the truth at my side, heavy in my satchel. And the lie we’ve already constructed.
The outer walls are enormous, stretching high into the sky, reinforced with blackened iron, designed to withstand the centuries, and war. The banners of the Fire Warlord’s house snap in the wind—deep crimson and gold, a twin-flamed sword emblazoned across them. Thane’s house.
The streets beyond stretch wide, paved with black stone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, leading toward the heart of the city.
Smoke drifts lazily from towering forges, filling the air with the scent of burning coal and molten metal.
The buildings are carved from dark stone, their towering structures etched with sigils of the ruling houses.
Higher up, toward the heart of the city, the buildings shift, growing larger, more intricate.
Balconies of blackstone curve outward like flame petals, their edges inlaid with slivers of ruby glass that catch the light in sharp, crimson flashes.
Copper latticework frames the windows, etched with clan sigils and phoenix wings, each pane fitted with geometric diamond-cut glass that throws fractured sunlight across the streets.
The founding bloodlines of the Fire Clan were etched in molten gold and ochre.
Frescos of fire-bound legends stretch across the inner walls—warriors rising from ash, dragons forged in flame.
Even the mosaics beneath our feet tell stories: deep crimson tiles, laid in spirals and blades, every curve cut with ruthless precision.
At the city’s center, the Ember Throne rises above all, an obsidian dome shot through with veins of fireglass, glowing faintly from within.
The roof gleams like burnished gold beneath the sun, shaped to echo the rising arc of a phoenix’s wings.
Flanking the dome are four spires standing sentinel, their tips crowned with ever-burning flames held in iron talons.
It isn’t just a building. It’s a declaration.
And at the very peak, overlooking it all, Pyre Keep itself looms, massive and ancient, carved into the cliffs like a fortress built to withstand gods.
It is beautiful.
And terrifying.
It feels as if it is waiting for me.
I’m reminded of how much my life has changed in the span of several months. My world was so small, truly believing I would live my whole life within the confines of the farm and village where I was raised. Now, I’m riding alongside the leader of the realm with my dragon flying overhead.
The clip of hooves is steady beneath me, the comforting rhythm of our company moving as one. Thane slows his horse, falling back to where Lyra and I ride. I glance at him, already suspicious.
“You should ride up front with me for the rest of the way,” he says, glancing at me.
I blink. “Why?” It comes out too fast, too sharp, but I don’t care.
“It’s protocol,” he says quietly, just for me. “The people need to see you.”
His words are as much a statement as they are a command. “They know the Prophecy. And they have undoubtedly heard rumors. Seeing you will give them hope, showing them that you are real. They need to see that.”
A wave of doubt crashes through me as the reality of being the Spiritborn hits me. I’m here, facing this massive city. It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. The weight of my part in all this settles over me.
It must show on my face because Lyra nudges my knee with hers. She leans in, her voice low.
“You can do this. Go.”
I exhale, my pulse thrumming, my nerves tightening.
“Right, okay.” I sigh, before I can talk myself out of it, urging my horse forward.
I follow Thane to the front of the company, my stomach twisting tighter with every step. I feel Thane’s presence beside me, steady as ever.
“This feels real now,” I murmur, the words clawing at my throat as my fingers tighten on the reins.
Thane’s gaze remains locked on the city ahead.
“It is going to keep feeling more real with every step. Keep breathing. And remember, you’re not alone, Amara.”
He tries to soothe me but instead my stomach tightens further.
The gates of Volcaris rise before us. The reinforced dark iron seems to spear the sky. The guards stationed along the high walls shift, their eyes scanning our company, moving past banners, past warriors, and then locking onto me.
I see it in their faces. Recognition. Expectation. Doubt.
My stomach flips.
As we cross the threshold, my senses are assaulted by the sights, sounds, and scents of the city. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, wishing for the quiet of the rolling fields beyond our farm.
A gentle tug in the bond I share with Calryx has me open my eyes and look up.
The shadows of our dragons ripple over the city, massive, shifting, moving with a power that cannot be ignored.
Garrick’s copper-scaled dragon circles high above the Ember Throne.
Jarek’s sleek red beast moves in a lazy arc, as if this is nothing more than a casual patrol.
Rian’s pale blue dragon glides with purpose, his wings stretched wide, catching the morning light.
And then there’s mine. My dragon.
Calryx soars above me, a phantom of pearlescent white against the sky.
Sunlight glances off her scales, a shimmer of ghostly fire, her emerald eyes sharp as they sweep the streets below.
I don’t need to look up to know exactly where she is.
I feel her, always, a steady pulse in the back of my mind, our bond a thread that never frays.
“Virelya.” Calryx’s voice curls into my thoughts, a whisper carried on the wind. “You are too quiet.”
“I’m thinking . . . taking it all in.”
“You think too much.” There’s warmth in her tone, but also amusement. “It makes you brood like your Warlord.”
“I do not brood. And he’s not my Warlord. Not like that.”
“Mmm.” The hum of her mind brushes against mine, all-knowing. “This morning proves otherwise. Remember, I can sense your feelings when the bond is open.”
I wince.
Calryx’s amusement ripples through me, languid and indulgent, like a cat basking in the sun.
I huff, but my chest feels lighter. “What do you see?” I ask, tilting my head slightly.
“Everything.” A pause. A shift of wings. “They are watching you, Virelya.”
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
Her words settle deep into my bones. Not just the warriors in the streets below. Not just the council waiting at the Ember Throne. But the realm itself.
“You are now seen, and they want to know what you will do next.”