Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
VAELA
T he sea is my weapon, and I wield it well.
The tide surges at my command, ravenous, unrelenting, alive. It reaches up the shore, curling around the battlefield like a serpent, dragging Aldric’s soldiers into the deep, where they will never be seen again. They thrash, screaming, clutching at the ground, at each other, at anything—but it doesn’t matter.
The sirens are waiting.
They slip from the tide like shadows, their smiles too wide, their eyes too dark, their laughter a haunting melody that dances between the war cries. They drag the men down, nails raking through steel, fingers pressing against thrashing limbs, whispers like silk against their ears.
Come deeper, love.
Come drown for me.
I do not watch them struggle. There is no need.
I know how this ends.
Instead, I turn my gaze to the battlefield, where fire and shadow carve a path through the foolish remnants of Aldric’s army.
The forest burns with Nyxara’s rage, the trees twisted in agony as viridian fire races through their roots. Creatures of the wild tear through the lines of men, fangs sinking into flesh, talons ripping through armor like parchment. The Sentinels move like gods among mortals, their weapons dripping with the blood of invaders who should have known better.
And above it all, she flies.
Nyxara.
Her onyx wings split the sky, her body a leviathan of fire and fury, raining down destruction in streaks of burning green. She is beautiful. Terrible. Untouchable.
And Aldric was supposed to kill her.
That was the deal.
He was supposed to take Varellith before dawn and rip the heart from this realm and place it at my feet. Instead, the sun is cresting the mountains, gilding the battlefield in a golden haze, signaling what I have known all along.
Aldric has lost.
And I?
I have already won.
The great King of Solmar stands among the wreckage of his ambition, soaked in blood, sweat, and failure.
His golden armor is ruined, tarnished black with soot, splattered with gore. His once-pristine royal cloak—a symbol of his dominion, of his supposed right to conquer—is torn, singed, dragging in the mud behind him.
Aldric is out of time, out of men, out of options, and he knows it.
Still, he refuses to fall.
I’ll give him that—the man is stubborn.
He pants through gritted teeth, his chest heaving, fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of his sword. There is no army at his back anymore. No war machines. Only the bodies of those who followed him here, who died for nothing.
He lifts his head and finds me.
And oh, how he loathes me. That fury in his eyes? That betrayal? That is what I live for.
"You," he snarls, voice hoarse, broken.
I smirk. "Me," I echo, letting the word roll off my tongue like a purr.
His hand tightens around his sword, but we both know the truth. Steel won’t save him now.
“We had a deal,” he grits out.
I sigh, feigning boredom, dragging a hand through my silver hair, still damp with sea mist.
“Did we?” I hum.
His jaw locks. “You gave me your power,” he growls. “You swore it was mine to wield.”
“And it was,” I admit with a mocking tilt of my head. “But you didn’t do your part, did you?” I gesture toward Nyxara, still burning bright in the sky, still very much alive. “You were supposed to kill the Dragon Queen before sunrise.”
I glance toward the horizon, where the first slivers of sunlight are creeping over the mountaintops, gilding the battlefield in a soft, golden glow.
Aldric follows my gaze—and there it is.
The horror.
The weight of his failure.
His teeth grind so hard I swear I hear them crack. “I should have slit your throat the moment I met you,” he hisses.
I laugh, light and easy. “Oh, darling, you should have done a lot of things.”
His breath shudders, his body trembling with rage, with exhaustion, with the slow realization that this is the end. And still, he lunges.
Predictable.
I do not move.
Because before his blade can reach me—Nyxara’s fire descends.
The flames engulf him, turning steel to molten slag, melting the flesh from his bones. His screams tear through the battlefield, raw and jagged, his fingers clawing at his chest as if he can rip the agony away.
Fool.
He collapses, his crown slipping from his head, lost in the dirt, in the blood, in the ashes of what he once was.
And still, he does not die.
Because I won’t let him.
I kneel beside him, placing a delicate hand against his charred chest. “A deal,” I whisper, “is only binding if both parties uphold their end.”
His burned lips part—to beg, to curse, to plead, but I don’t let him. I press my palm harder and I pull.
His soul rips free from its mortal cage, thrashing, resisting, desperate. It is gold and ash, tattered and broken, the remnants of a king who thought himself a god. The big pearl on my bodice pulses, hungry. The moment his soul touches it, it is swallowed whole.
Aldric collapses.
Empty. Lifeless.
A useless husk.
I hum, tapping a finger against my lips. “Well. That was dramatic.” But I am not done. A king’s soul should not be wasted. I pluck the pearl from my bodice, feeling the tremor of his trapped essence. Then, I reach down and claim a jagged shard of obsidian, prying it from the fingers of a fallen Sentinel. The blade is slick with blood, dark as the deep. From the ocean, a piece of coral rises, twisting and smooth, its veins pulsing with the magic of the tide.
And at last, the tree.
The one still burning with Nyxara’s Viridian Wrath, its bark cracked with fire, its roots pulsing with the life of this land. I press my hand to the scorched wood, whispering words of salt and sea, of power and promise. The fire does not consume me—it bends, listens, obeys.
The obsidian fuses to the coral. The pearl settles at the peak, glowing, alive. The magic thrums, sealing it all together in a single, terrible thing.
A staff.
A weapon.
A king who sought to own what was never his, now reduced to something useful for his enemy. I turn and see Nyxara is waiting. She lands, her massive form shifting, scales shrinking, fire dimming, until she stands before me in her human form, emerald eyes both confused and wary.
"Thought you might want this," I say, twirling the staff between my fingers, letting the pearl at its peak pulse with the remnants of Aldric's soul.
Nyxara doesn’t take it.
Not yet.
Her emerald eyes flick from the weapon to me, dark and unreadable, her lips pressed into something that is not quite a frown but not quite amusement, either.
"You could have told me," she says at last, her voice low, slow, carrying the weight of something unspoken beneath it. "I don’t like things being hidden from me."
There’s something dangerous in the way she says it, a razor-edge beneath each syllable, a warning wrapped in velvet.
And gods, it makes my pulse race.
I smirk, letting my fingers trail lazily along the length of the staff before offering it to her once more. "Where would the fun in that be?"
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t take it. She just watches me.
Waiting.
I sigh dramatically, shifting my weight to one hip. "You had a whole war to win, my love. I couldn’t have you worrying about me when your realm was in danger." I flash her a slow, knowing smile. "Besides, this way, you never had to doubt the outcome. Even with my power on his side, I made sure Aldric never stood a chance."
Her jaw clenches slightly.
"Is that what you think?" she murmurs, stepping closer now, slow and deliberate, her fire-bright gaze holding mine hostage. I don’t step back. I don’t even breathe.
I can feel the heat of her magic, the weight of her presence wrapping around me, something dark and possessive curling in the space between us.
"And I am supposed to just believe you didn’t let him touch you," she says softly. "That you didn’t whisper your siren song in his ear and let him think you were his."
Ah.
So that’s what this is.
I let my smile sharpen, lifting my chin as she closes the distance, until her breath is warm against my cheek. "Believe what you want, Dragon Queen," I purr, tilting my head, letting my lips brush the air just beside hers. "But the king is dead, and here I am, handing you his soul wrapped up in a pretty little weapon. Would you rather I had let him win?"
Her eyes darken, Viridian Wrath glowing.
"I would rather," she murmurs, her fingers finally curling around the staff, "you remember exactly who you belong to."
A thrill runs through me, electric and sharp, but I mask it with a lazy grin.
"Oh, my queen," I whisper, stepping back just enough to let my gaze roam over her, slow and deliberate. "I never forget."
She holds my stare a moment longer, then lifts the staff between us, her fingers tightening around it. The pearl at its peak glows, pulsing in time with the soul trapped inside.
Aldric’s soul.
Hers to break. And just like that—The war is over.