Chapter 42
Chapter
Forty-Two
Smoke coiled through the mountain air of Caelvyrn, the acrid stench of battle still clinging to the buildings and the massive, ruined square.
The city’s heart lay in rubble, the buildings charred and blackened, but its people gathered anyway—thousands of them. Even from this height, Ash could see every head lifted, watching them.
Race circled the place, then landed atop a tall, broken building—where one part of the roof still held while smoke rose from the other end—and set her on her feet. A hush fell over the square, but there were no cheers of jubilation.
“Their weariness and dread weigh heavily on them,” she whispered.
Below, Attor stepped onto the makeshift dais in front of the enormous, ruined fountain, still dripping water, where Varkyn and Braxion waited. He held a tall, iron-gray chest in his hands.
Worn faces lowered to him.
“People of Caelvyrn,” Attor called out, raising a hand, and the noise dropped.
His voice rang through the square. “I am Attor Vurnoss, former Hand to the slain King Erycian. And this male…” He lifted a hand toward where Race and she stood on the roof.
“Is no pretender. He is the last of the royal bloodline. And he did not flee, as you were told. I will leave him to explain things to you, but he has returned to you now.”
The silence was deafening.
Race shifted to his human form. Gasps rippled like wind through dry leaves.
“They think you’re another traitor, using smokescreens and mirrors to resemble the ruling family,” Ash murmured.
“Indeed. Millennia of defeat can do that.” A pair of black trousers appeared in his hand. He pulled them on, then straightened, flipping back his silver mane that fell down his back.
Ash blinked. “How is your hair longer?”
“Every shift adds growth.” He scooped her into his arms and leaped down. Ash groaned and clung to him as he landed effortlessly on the dais thirty feet below.
Braxion and Varkyn bowed and flanked him. Koal and several more resistance fighters fell into formation behind them—Rhaedra among them, healed and watchful.
The she-dragon met Ash’s gaze and gave a small, respectful bow. She returned it with a faint smile.
The crowd’s murmurs rolled like a tidal wave, sharpening into disbelieving gasps and jaw drops.
“He looks like them—”
“Impossible! The heirs are dead…”
Bloody Malcarion’s poisoned lies still clung to them.
Race remained silent, waiting with unwavering composure. But she knew him well, could sense the heaviness weighing on him—his ghosts, his pain, the burden of everything he’d lost. And now, the shattered trust of his people.
Hope and fear warred in their eyes.
“There is one way to silence doubt,” Attor’s voice cut through the murmurs. “One truth Malcarion never dared test in front of you all, because he could not.”
From the metal chest, he lifted a crown and held it high.
It gleamed like fire-bronzed metal, the band shaped with interlocking scales, each edge glowing faintly as if forged in living flame. From the circlet rose slender spires, curved like dragons’ horns. At its heart, an emberstone pulsed, slow and steady.
“This is the Ember Crown,” he said. “Only a true blood of the royal line can release it from its mystical perch and wear it.” He turned to Race. “Sire?”
Race knelt and shut his eyes.
Then it struck Ash—that was where he’d gone when he’d vanished earlier. To retrieve this. More, she could read his sorrow in his set jaw.
Attor set the Ember Crown on Race’s head—
The emberstone in the center blazed, spilling molten light over him in waves. Its radiance rippled outward, flooding the square like dawn breaking after endless night.
Gasps turned to cries of wonder, tears streaked soot-stained cheeks.
“The Crown accepts him!”
“The bloodline lives.”
“Pyr’xian wills it—”
A few dropped to one knee. Then more. Within moments, the entire square knelt, their voices ragged at first, then swelled until the ruined square shook with the roar of a people who knew at last their true king had returned.
Ash could only stare, her breath catching in her throat.
This wasn’t just her dragon—the infuriating, impossible, beautiful male who stole her heart. This was the king of an ancient draconic world. Even in his cotton trousers and bare feet, he had never looked more regal…and so bloody powerful.
“The heir and the rightful bloodline to the Ember Crown has returned,” Attor’s voice rang out, and he touched Race’s shoulder. “Long live King Eracier.”
Race rose.
The crowd went wild. Yelling and cheering reverberated across the square, filled with veneration. Voices cried his name, his titles, and words Ash didn’t even understand but ones she felt vibrate in her bones.
When the excitement finally died down, Race stepped forward.
“Lemuria is no longer bound by fear,” he said, his steady voice edged with steel.
“The shadow that darkened these skies has been burned away. Malcarion is no more. Together, we will rebuild what was broken, not as slaves but as a people united. Your young, stolen from you, have been rescued. They will return to you in the coming days.”
Amidst the cheering came the sound of weeping—relief, joy, disbelief—all blending into one living current of emotion.
“There’s more,” Race said, a faint warmth in his tone. “Happy news this time.”
He extended a hand toward Ash. Startled, she met his warm smile as she grasped his fingers. He drew her to his side.
“This is Ashaya, a Storm Summoner,” Race said, his voice ringing clear across the square. “My mate, my heart, and your queen. She has stood with me against fire and darkness through this war to victory. She will stand for you all, and for Lemuria.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd, quickly replaced by cheers that rolled like thunder. As the noise faded, a young, tremulous voice asked, “Queen Ashaya…did the monster hurt you?”
Ash blinked at the little girl clutching her mother’s skirt, a ragged doll dangling from her hand. The child’s wide blue eyes brimmed with wonder—and far too much fear for someone so young.
Ash smiled softly, adjusted her sling, and stepped down from the dais. She knelt before the child, meeting her gaze. “Well, love, I suppose fighting bad dragons does leave one a little bit battered, but I’m quite all right.”
A ripple of laughter rolled through the crowd—light, incredibly therapeutic.
“But don’t worry, the nasty dragon’s gone. See this?” She coaxed lightning over her fingertips.
The little girl gasped, trepidation melting into awe, and she giggled when the sparks danced over Ash’s hand. “I used it as my weapon,” she whispered with a wink.
Ash rose, straightened her wrinkled shirt. All around her, guards shifted, aligning with military precision.
Oo-kay, then. Race wasn’t taking any chances with her safety.
She stepped to the dais when a wall of muscle and heat flashed in front of her. Her stomach lurched. She touched his back. “Race—?”
His answer was a low, guttural snarl. Black scales rippled over his arms, metallic light racing down his skin as he moved, shielding her completely.
A shout rang out—then another. Wings thundered overhead, the downdraft slapping her hair across her face. Dragons swept low, their roars splitting the air. Guards flooded the square, forming ranks around the dais.
“What’s happening?” she gasped, trying to see past his biceps.
Race turned, his expression icy, his eyes a perilous crimson—and in his fist gleamed a deadly, steel-tipped arrow.
Ash’s heart stuttered. “Oh, dear God!”
“You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice low with icy calm.
“It’s not me he was after,” she breathed, staring at the glint of the arrowhead slick with dark residue.
“Tartarus didn’t kill me,” he said, his voice flat. “Neither will he.”
Who?
A shrill bugle split the sky. A massive coppery-gold dragon slammed into the square, its talons cracking the stone. In its claws dangled a man in brown leathers, struggling and spitting curses.
The dragon released him, and he rolled away, yanking at his neck and the black metal collar catching the late afternoon sunlight.
The great beast shimmered, folding in on itself until Braxion stood there, naked and furious. But Ash barely registered him, her gaze locked on the man writhing at his feet.
Ohhh. This bloody windbag again?
Ash could never forget those covetous green-gold eyes. Even shackled, the shifter glared at her as if she caused his downfall—this same bastard who had followed them to the portal basin.
Ash met his gaze, unflinching.
He snarled, fire forming in his throat, but the black manacle there smothered the flames before they could escape—and likely prevented his shifting as well.
“Flaeron,” Attor said, his tone like razors.
“You killed my sire!” Flaeron’s bellow of outrage echoed through the massive square, blood dripping from his split lip.
What now?
“You deserve death!” he shouted at Race, defiant even as the Resistance fighters closed in, their blades drawn.
“Death?” Race’s tone remained deadly calm—the kind of calm that came before fire. He stood there, legs spread, arms folded, his bronze crown catching the sunlight. “For what your sire did for millennia? For trying to free my people from his rot? Or, for your pathetic attempt to harm my mate?”
“My sire wanted good for everyone!” Flaeron thrashed against the guards, trying to break free. “That whore would have made him a perfect gift—”
Attor seized him by the hair, dragging him up until their eyes met. “Never speak of my queen that way. Say it again, and I’ll peel the skin from your flesh one layer at a time. You will wish for death.”
Flaeron sneered, baring his fangs.
“He’s a vile piece of work, isn’t he?” Ash muttered, wanting to fry the twit.
Bloody fascist arses, clinging to their thrones and delusions like dragon ticks.
Race drew her into his arms, her cheek smooshed against his chest. “Calm,” he murmured.
Ugh. She exhaled a frustrated breath.
“Malcarion’s reign is over,” Race said, his voice cold, absolute. “You should have conceded.”
“To a coward who ran and hid for millennia?” Flaeron spat. “I should have killed you last night!”
“What?” Ash jerked back, but Race kept her against him.
He stroked her spine, the motion deceptively unruffled. In his other palm, twin orbs of flame formed, and he rolled them between his fingers like molten marbles.
“For your attempted assassination,” he said, the orbs spinning lazily, “you’ll be drawn and quartered by dragons at dawn.”
“Just behead me, you spineless bastard!” Flaeron spat blood at Race’s feet.
“That’s His Majesty,” one of the guards snapped, slamming a fist into Flaeron’s jaw. He hit the floor hard, crimson streaking his mouth and chin.
Race dropped the fireballs on the platform, and they bounced and rolled toward Flaeron, circling him.
The idiot laughed. One continued to circle him while the other spun toward a blood-stained arch—one Malcarion had apparently used to torture and execute Resistance fighters.
The fiery orb raced up it, and the entire thing glowed—no flares, nothing, just seams of red blazing through the marble before it crumbled to dust.
“By Pyr’xian scales,” someone whispered in the dead silence.
Flaeron’s smirk faltered.
The second fireball zipped past his feet, trailing molten sparks as it darted toward the remaining arches of torture. One by one, the structures ignited in eerie red seams and held for several seconds before collapsing into piles of ashes.
Race didn’t even blink. “Beheading you would be a mercy you don’t deserve. Take him away.”
A ripple tore through the gathered crowd, shock, relief, rage all bleeding together, as the guards dragged the sputtering traitor across the square—
Shouting erupted, a wave of fury rolling outward. “Kill him! End him!”
Ash buried her face into Race’s chest, breathing harshly. “Dear Lord, I truly hope it’s finally over.”
“It is, heart-fire.” His tone softened, but his gaze remained fixed on the crowd. “The Resistance rounded up all the leaders of Malcarion’s army. Just this useless scrap of his line was in hiding.”
“It fits Malcarion being his father.” Ash drew away from Race, straightening her sling. “The apple didn’t just fall close, it took root in the same bloody dirt.”
A smile flickered on his tempting mouth. “What would I do without you?”
Ash huffed. “I dread to think.”
Then Race turned to the crowd again, and a hush fell once more. “Just a few more things before you go off and celebrate. One, I will be leaving in a few days—” He raised a hand as protests erupted.
Their panic strangled Ash, and she couldn’t blame them.
“I will be back, periodically,” he reassured. “In the interim, Wing Commander Braxion will oversee the entire army. Attor will serve as my steward and advisor. He’ll be available for whatever you need since I am committed elsewhere—”
“Where?” someone yelled. “You are our king and needed here.”
“I understand that. But when Lemuria fell and my family was slain, I was captured and held prisoner in Tartarus—”
A hush fell, rife with shock. Yeah, they all had heard of that vile place.
“But I was freed,” Race assured them, leaving out his centuries of endless torture.
“Since I couldn’t return here, I served the ancient goddess, Gaia, and that allegiance is still in place and binding.
So, bear with me. Just know your life will be better from now onward.
” His gaze swept his people once more. “Hear this now, any more rebelling or even talks of a coup, and death will be swift. Now, I must take my leave. My mate still heals.”
He nodded to Attor, then removed the crown and set it in the chest.
Race went motionless, his gaze moving beyond the crowd, searching.
“What?” Ash asked, her wariness back in spades.
He merely grasped her hand, stepped off the dais, and strode through the parting throng. Being so much shorter than these shifters, Ash still couldn’t see what had Race striding with such determination.
The crowd thinned as they left them behind. Then she saw him, at the entrance of a street, leaning against a building, away from everyone—his hair bright against the pale stone, his arms folded across his chest.
Skaldr.