33. Chapter 33
AMARIA
The path climbed higher than I'd ever gone in Skal'Varin.
I felt the elevation in the burn of my thighs and the harsh pull of thin air. Past the training grounds, past the council chambers, climbing until the noise of the approaching war faded away. The stone steps narrowed, winding through dark polished rock.
At the top, Dreadscale's home opened before me.
A massive terrace of pale stone jutted over the edge of the world. I walked to the parapet and looked down—the entire stronghold spiraling away beneath me, training rings shrunk to coins, forge fires glowing orange, the valley sweeping out to the horizon. A true dragon's roost.
But when I turned to face the house, the warlord's edge vanished.
Dark storm-weathered granite, heavy enough to shrug off a hurricane, but draped in life.
Gnarled vines crawled up the walls, silver bark woven through mortar, deep green leaves softening hard corners.
The ivy draped over timber window frames and arched over the front door, rooting the building to the earth.
Warm golden light spilled from the windows, cutting through the mountain chill. Standing on the cliff's edge with wind at my back, it didn't look like a fortress. It looked like a sanctuary.
I crossed the terrace, lifted the iron latch, and stepped inside.
I'd come to check on her. The way I'd been checking on her since we were twelve years old and she was too soft for the world and I was too sharp. That was the deal. She kept me from hardening into just a weapon. I kept her alive.
I needed to see where she'd be when we left. Needed to know the walls were thick enough, the guards loyal enough, the escape routes clear.
Because if I didn't come back from the King's fortress, at least I'd know she was safe.
The heavy door clicked shut behind me, cleanly severing the howl of the mountain wind.
Instantly, the biting cold was replaced by a wave of radiant heat—thick with the comforting scent of woodsmoke, old leather, and crushed pine—that sank straight into my aching bones.
I stopped dead on the threshold, my eyes traveling slowly upward as I took in the sheer scale of the room.
Above me, a soaring vaulted ceiling of dark stone and blackened, iron-hard timber arced like the inside of a massive wing, sheltering the space in a protective embrace.
But the walls—the walls were a love letter to the sky.
Floor-to-ceiling panes of thick, mountain-forged glass stretched across the entire eastern face, sweeping open to the clouds and the distant, golden flash of dragon wings catching the afternoon light.
It should have felt terrifyingly high. Exposed. Instead, it felt like the safest place in the world.
The biting wind threw itself against the glass, but the sound was muted, defeated by the masterful craftsmanship. A massive, circular stone hearth dominated the center of the floor, the firelight dancing across sunken seating areas piled deep with rich furs and thick, woven blankets.
I walked further into the room, my boots quiet against the stone. Carved stone shelves lined the interior walls, holding things that surprised me: books with cracked spines, a collection of dragon-bone carvings no bigger than my thumb, a piece of obsidian shaped like a curled wing.
The space was sparse but not cold. Open but not empty. Built by someone who needed to see the horizon in every direction. Who found peace in altitude and space and the knowledge that nothing could creep up unseen.
Serenya sat buried in the middle of it.
She had her knees pulled tightly to her chest, wrapped in a heavy charcoal pelt that made her look impossibly small.
The dog was curled against her hip, nose tucked under its own cape.
The hatchling had claimed the warmest stone beside the hearth, belly pressed to the heat, wings spread in shameless surrender.
She was staring straight into the heart of the flames. The orange light flickered across her face, catching the dark ribbons of her hair, but she was perfectly still—anchored to the earth by the heat of the fire and the sheer, protective weight of the sanctuary around her.
Just beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, Veyra perched on a serrated ledge.
The Mist-Walker's silver eyes tracked Serenya's every movement. A bond that persisted even when Serenya couldn't remember forming it, couldn't remember why this creature followed her like a shadow made of storm and devotion.
I stood in the doorway and let the beauty wash over me.
Then, footsteps echoed from a corridor deeper inside the sanctuary.
"—and then Pyrrath just looked at him." Maxx’s voice drifted out before he did. He rounded the corner carrying two massive tankards of ale, Dreadscale looming quietly behind him with a plate of bread and meat.
Maxx walked straight toward the sunken hearth, entirely focused on the girl in the furs, completely missing me standing by the door. The hatchling lifted its head as he passed, chirped once—ownership confirmed—and went back to sleep.
"Just looked at him with those big ancient eyes, and the warrior—I swear to every gods—he dropped his sword and apologized. To a dragon. Out loud. In front of everyone."
Serenya laughed.
The sound rang through the vaulted space, bright and real. The dog's tail thumped against the furs—it didn't lift its head, just responded to the sound of her, automatic and devoted. She turned from the flames, her face flushed from the hearth heat, eyes crinkled at the corners.
Maxx stopped walking. He just watched her laugh.
His expression shifted—joy quickly became vigilance. Cataloging what she still had. What was still there. His eyes tracked the curve of her smile, the tilt of her head, the way her hands moved when she was happy. Memorizing her. In case this was the last time.
I knew that look. I'd worn it myself a thousand times—hoarding her laugh, her voice, the specific way she tilted her head when she was teasing. Building a fortress of memory against the day I might lose her.
"Amaria!" Serenya spotted me in the doorway. Her smile widened. "Come sit with us. The view is incredible."
I crossed the room. Lowered myself onto the furs beside Maxx. The hatchling cracked one eye, decided I wasn't a threat to Maxx or the bread plate, and dismissed me.
"Amaria?" Her voice was light. Curious. "Where's my room? I keep meaning to go back and get the codex, but I can't remember which corridor it's in."
The knife slid back in. Maxx's smile wavered. Just for a second. Then it was back, bright and steady.
"Down the east corridor," he said easily. "The one with the blue sconces. Third door on the left. I can show you after dinner."
"Oh, good." Serenya nodded. "I knew it was somewhere over there. Just couldn't picture it."
She'd asked him the same question this morning. And yesterday. And the day before that.
He'd do this forever. I saw it in the set of his jaw, the steadiness of his hands. He'd redraw that map every day for the rest of his life if he had to. He'd hold her memories when she couldn't hold them herself.
And Dreadscale had given her a fortress in the sky. And Veyra wouldn't leave her ledge.
Three sentinels. Three protectors. None of them me. But if the prophecy insisted on being dramatic about my eventual death, a fortress, two lethal obsessives, and three-and-a-half dragons—if you count the hatchling currently trying to eat its own wing in the corner—was a decent consolation prize.
Veyra shifted on her ledge. A low croon rumbled from her chest. Serenya reached out without looking, fingers trailing through empty air in the dragon's direction.
The dog lifted its head and watched Serenya's hand move through the air.
Then it crept closer and pressed its nose into her palm instead, filling the space the dragon couldn't reach.
"I like it here," Serenya said softly.
She pulled her knees up to her chest. Wrapped her arms around them. The dog sighed against her knee. The hatchling had migrated to Maxx's boot and was gnawing on the lace with quiet determination.
She watched the clouds drift below us like ships on a slow sea.
"I don't remember coming here," she continued. "But it feels safe."
Dreadscale's voice came from across the room. Quiet. Rough.
"Good."
I sat in the warmth of Dreadscale's sanctuary, surrounded by people who loved her as fiercely as I did, and felt something stir in my chest.
I'd been her shield since we were children. It was the one thing I knew how to do. The one thing I was certain I was good for.
But she didn't need my shield anymore. She had dragons. A fortress. A male who would burn the world for her. And one who would stand in the ashes, silent and immovable, until she was ready to rebuild.
She had a life that would keep going even if I didn't come back.
The thought should have gutted me. Instead, it felt like setting down a weight I hadn't realized I was still carrying.
I could go to the King's fortress. I could fight. I could die, if that's what it took.
And she would be okay.
I sighed. One down. One to go.
I found Caden in the lower training pit.
The space carved into the mountain's belly—raw stone, no windows, lit by braziers that cast everything in shifting orange. The kind of place built for ugly work. The kind of place where you practiced the things you didn't want witnesses for.
The Mirror-Fire crouched at the pit's edge. Obsidian scales caught the firelight, reflecting nothing but darkness back. She watched Caden with abyssal eyes, her massive head tracking his movements with unblinking focus.
He moved through his forms. Fast. Precise. Each strike flowing into the next with mechanical perfection—no humanity left in it. He pivoted, blade sweeping low, then high, then plunging into his imaginary target.
His body remembered things his mind was trying to forget.
I knew that training. Recognized the footwork, the angles, the way his weight distributed for maximum damage with minimum exposure. The King's training. The years of being remade into a weapon, honed until he could kill before conscious thought engaged.
He'd been a tool. A blade in someone else's hand.
Now he was sharpening himself.
His elbow snapped back, driving into empty air where a throat would be. His knee came up—femur-height, crippling. His blade reversed, slicing upward in a disemboweling arc that made my stomach clench.
Too fast. Too precise. Too practiced.
My brother had learned to unmake men the way some people learned to play instruments. And now Caden was choosing it instead of being used by it.
I didn't know if that was victory or surrender.
He stopped, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw to spatter against the stone. He didn’t turn around.
"I know you're there, Amaria."
He used my name. Not "the sister" or "primary asset." My name. Three weeks ago, he couldn't.
I stepped into the light. "How long have you been down here?"
"Since dawn." He wiped his face with his forearm. "Longer maybe. I lose track."
"Caden—"
"Don't." He turned. His eyes held mine—warm for half a second before the hardness slid back. "I know what you see. I'm done cutting it out." The blade swept low, precise. "Tried that. Doesn't work."
He pivoted. Knee strike. Disemboweling arc. Every movement the King had put in him.
"So you're keeping it," I said.
"I'm pointing it." His blade stopped an inch from an invisible throat. "At him."
The Mirror-Fire shifted behind him. Her obsidian scales rippled.
"I can't go back." His hand lifted—hovered near my shoulder. Dropped. He looked at his own fingers like they'd acted without orders. "That version is gone."
"So what now?"
He turned back to the pit. Drew his blade.
"Now I stop wasting it."
The first form flowed out of him—the King's technique, precise and lethal. But he was smiling. A small, vicious thing.
The weapon was choosing its own target.
My brother. My gentle brother who used to bring me wildflowers. Standing in a fire-lit pit, talking about destruction with eyes that didn't soften anymore.
My throat constricted. "Okay," I said. Just that. Because what else was there?
Caden nodded. A small acknowledgement.
He turned back to the center of the pit. Began the forms again—fluid and lethal, a violence that had become language, a weapon that had become self.
I watched for another moment before I decided to leave him to it.
The Mirror-Fire's gaze followed me to the exit. Those obsidian eyes that showed you the truth you were running from.
I didn't look back. I already knew what I'd see.