Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
VAELA
I wake to fire.
Not the searing kind that devours, but the kind that lingers—smoldering, possessive, inescapable.
To the weight of Nyxara draped over me, her arm slung around my waist, her claws twitching lightly against my hip, as if even in sleep, she refuses to let me go.
To the scent of embers and something distinctly hers curling in the air, sinking into my skin, wrapping around me like an unspoken claim.
For the first time since this dangerous, sharp-edged war between us began, there is no battle of wills, no biting remarks meant to wound, no fight for control.
Just heat.
Just her.
The Dragon Queen sleeps. A rare thing, I imagine. A forbidden thing. Yet here she is—her features relaxed, her breathing even, as if, for just this moment, she has let go of the ever-present war burning in her blood.
And I should let her sleep.
I should stay in this moment, revel in it, drown in it, pretend that for once, the world beyond these walls does not exist.
But illusions do not last.
A soft pulse ripples through the water, a gentle but urgent nudge against my consciousness.
I blink, my body tensing beneath Nyxara’s warmth as a familiar glow flickers at the edge of the chamber. Lumis and the others have come—my jellyfish, my silent messengers of the deep. They hover just beyond the threshold, their tendrils pulsing with agitation, shifting from their usual soft blue to a sharp, uneasy violet.
Something has happened.
They would not wake me unless it was urgent. And if they’ve come all this way—if they can sense the weight of something wrong even from the depths of my realm—then I already know.
It isn’t good.
I exhale sharply, my mind already racing ahead, already reaching for what needs to be done. But first…
I shift beneath Nyxara’s hold, fingers trailing up her spine, pressing just beneath the sharp ridge of her shoulder blade. Her breath hitches, and in an instant, those glowing emerald eyes snap open, locking onto mine.
I don’t give her time to speak, to question, to snarl at being woken.
“We have to go,” I murmur, my voice steady despite the unease curling in my gut. “Something’s wrong.”
Nyxara studies me for the briefest moment, the remnants of sleep fading swiftly as she takes in the glow of my jellyfish in the doorway, the way they pulse with warning. Her expression hardens.
She doesn’t argue.
In a single fluid movement, she pushes up from the bed, reaching for her discarded gown, and I do the same, summoning my bodice from where it had been carelessly tossed the night before. The moment the clasps click into place, I lift my hands, calling to the waters.
The portal forms before us in an instant, spinning into a dark, shimmering arch, the current bending at my will.
Nyxara steps beside me, her expression unreadable, her jaw set, her fingers flexing at her sides. Neither of us speak. We don’t need to. Together, we step through the portal. And when we emerge, we are not greeted by victory.
We are met with carnage.
M orrin is waiting.
Not perched casually like usual, not watching with that ever-present amusement, not ready with a sharp remark laced in dry humor.
No.
He stands rigid, his wings drawn tight, his talons scraping deep against the marble floor with barely restrained fury. His beady black eyes burn, but it is not just anger that twists through him. It is something far sharper. Something bitter. Something jagged.
And it is directed solely at Nyxara.
"You were gone," he snarls, stepping forward, his wings flaring. "And while you were gone, the king marched into your lands."
The words shouldn’t make the very castle feel like it's sinking beneath us, but the weight of them is unbearable.
I go still.
Nyxara’s body tenses beside me, the only outward sign that the words have struck. She exhales slowly, measured, controlled, but I can feel the heat rising beneath her skin, the pressure of her magic pressing against the air.
"How much ground did they gain?" Her voice is eerily calm.
Morrin's wings snap open. "You do not get to ask that."
His beady black eyes shift to me, and the barely contained fury within them boils over, scorching, livid.
"This is because of her."
A cold silence fills the air, thick with something dangerous, something that trembles on the edge of ruin.
Nyxara’s claws twitch at her sides, but she does not argue. She does not deny it. Instead, she steps forward, her voice a blade sharpened on fire and grief.
"How many human filth slithered their way into my lands, Morrin?"
Her words are like steel, but her body betrays her. Her claws twitch at her sides, her shoulders drawn so tight that I can practically hear the tension crackling in her bones. But her face—her face is pure, deadly calm.
Morrin's feathers ruffle, his beak clenching as his talons scrape against the stone floor. "Too many."
Nyxara inhales sharply, but it isn’t a breath of restraint. It is a slow, burning pull of air through her lungs, as if she is trying to keep from roaring, from letting her rage shatter the very foundation beneath us.
Morrin steps closer, his talons clicking sharply against the stone. "The borders were overrun. The king’s men came in, stronger, faster, trained for slaughter. We thought they were only testing our defenses but they came with fire. They came in numbers." His voice lowers, bitter, full of accusation. "And our warriors were not prepared."
I don’t have to hear the rest. I already know what he’s going to say.
"They didn’t stand a chance."
Nyxara doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
But the air around her shifts, thickening with the scent of burning embers, with the telltale warning of a storm about to ignite. Her magic is curling at the edges of the room, pressing against the walls, slithering into the cracks of the floor. Heat licks at my skin, a silent scream of fury restrained behind clenched teeth.
Morrin's gaze sharpens, his voice lowering into something venomous. "You let her distract you," he hisses. "You let her pull you away from your duty, and now your people have paid the price."
I expect Nyxara to lash out. To bare her fangs. To remind him exactly who he is speaking to.
But she doesn’t.
Instead she turns. Slowly. Her glowing green eyes land on me.
It is not just rage. Not just fury.
It is something deeper. Something that coils in her gut like a sickness. A grief so raw it has become something monstrous.
And I know before she even says it. I know what she’s about to do.
"You," she murmurs, stepping toward me, her claws flexing, her breath even, but her voice crackling with quiet destruction, "are going back to the cell."
I scoff, my temper igniting instantly, the ocean inside me crashing violently against my ribs. "You cannot be serious."
Her expression does not waver.
"You will be locked away, where you should have been from the start."
I take a step forward, my chest brushing hers, the heat of her fury clashing against the cool pull of my magic. "You're blaming me for this?" My voice is sharp, clipped, biting. "I did nothing but—"
"You made me weak."
The words shouldn't sting.
And yet.
And yet, something sharp lances through my ribs, deeper than I expect.
I let out a slow breath, my magic curling around my fingers, the ocean in my veins demanding release, demanding I fight back. "You think locking me away is going to fix your mistakes, Dragon Queen?"
A muscle in her jaw ticks.
Her breathing is still controlled, but I see the truth in the way her claws tighten at her sides, the way her nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way she has to force herself to stay still.
"You do not get to speak of my mistakes," she says, voice so cold, so final, that it feels like a blade to the throat.
She lifts a clawed hand, her movements slow, deliberate—a silent command. The guards step forward, shadows moving in the dim light.
I tense, magic curling tighter, gathering in my palms. “I will not let you do this,” I growl, my power humming, waiting, aching to be unleashed.
Nyxara doesn’t even blink.
"You do not have a choice."
The guards move.
I fight them, of course.
But I let them take me.
Because I have my own plans.
T he moment the heavy iron doors slam shut, the moment I am alone in the cold, dark cell—I smile.
Not a soft, wistful smile. No, this is sharper, edged with something wicked. Something deadly.
Nyxara may have forgotten one thing.
She may have locked me away.
But she did not take the one thing I needed.
I lift my hand, fingers brushing over the cool weight of the sea-water pendant that rests at my throat. The small, delicate jewel glows faintly, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. To anyone else, it looks like nothing more than a trinket, an ornament hanging from a thin chain.
But it is so much more.
The power contained within it hums against my skin, alive and waiting.
Nyxara underestimated me.
She thought I would stay here, obedient, caged.
She thought wrong.
I exhale, closing my eyes, and let the ancient language of the sea slip from my lips, low and steady, curling like mist through the cell. It is a sound older than the tides themselves, a whisper in the dark that only the ocean answers.
And the ocean always answers.
The air shifts.
The pendant warms beneath my fingers, and then the water shivers.
A single droplet beads at my fingertip, shimmering in the dim light before sliding down my palm, coiling around my wrist, spreading.
It slithers through the cracks in the stone beneath me, twisting like a serpent, wrapping itself around the iron bars of the cell. I drag my fingers through the air, feeling the magic pulse through my veins, feeling the water obey.
A creaking groan splits through the silence as the moisture seeps into the metal hinges.
The locks swell.
The iron warps.
And then—snap.
The heavy door swings open.
Too easy .
I step forward, barefoot against the cold stone, stretching my arms as if shaking off invisible shackles. My magic hums beneath my skin, stronger now, filling the space where frustration and rage had curled.
Nyxara made a mistake.
She thinks I will wait here, sulking, useless, a liability she can cast aside when it suits her.
She is wrong.
Because if she will not listen to me, if she will not trust me… then I will do what I should have done from the start—I will win this war for her.
Even if I have to lie, deceive, and risk everything to do it.
I move through the darkened corridors like a shadow, silent as the deep, unseen as the tide. Every step is calculated, precise. The castle is still, wrapped in an uneasy hush, the lingering presence of loss pressing against the walls like a ghost.
They think I am still locked away. They think I have yielded.
Fools.
The moment I reach the outer courtyard, the night air brushes against my skin, carrying with it the distant scent of burning wood, of steel and blood. The stench of war.
The human king is closer than I expected. And that only makes my next move easier.
I slip past the last set of guards, their post only half-heartedly patrolled. The fear of what lurks beyond the castle walls is far greater than the concern for what remains inside.
A fatal mistake.
For them.
The terrain shifts beneath me as I move past the castle’s outer wards and into the thick darkness of the forest. The twisted branches of ancient trees loom above, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. The damp scent of moss and earth mingles with the salt lingering in my hair, the ocean a distant song in my blood.
My pulse thrums in time with the crashing waves.
Faster.
Faster.
I move like the current, swift and unrelenting, cutting through the dense underbrush, following the pull of something more potent than instinct—purpose.
It isn’t long before I see it.
The human king’s encampment sprawls just beyond the valley, a sea of torches flickering in the dark, illuminating rows upon rows of soldiers.
A temporary city of war.
I slow my steps, crouching low against the cover of the trees, observing.
The men move with precision—trained, organized—not the rabble Nyxara’s forces had been slaughtering in small skirmishes. These were the real fighters.
The ones meant to conquer.
The ones meant to win.
And leading them?
A warlord draped in human skin.
I can already hear the king’s voice in my mind—smooth, silken, coaxing. The kind of voice that has lured countless fools to ruin. A liar’s voice.
But I know how to play this game better than he does.
I let a smirk curl along my lips as I rise from the shadows, the moonlight casting a ghostly glow over my skin. My magic hums at my fingertips, whispering against my pulse, ready, waiting.
This is it.
The moment.
Nyxara believes she has cast me aside. That she has removed me from the board. But the game has only just begun.
I step out into the open, into the lion’s den, and let my voice carry through the cold night air, smooth as silk, curling like smoke.
“Time to play, Your Majesty.”
And then I walk straight into the war I intend to win.