Chapter 9 Rurik
NINE
RURIK
I’m on my feet before my brain catches up, dragon already clawing toward the surface, centuries of battle instinct overriding the haze of sleep. Zyphon’s darkness tears through the fortress corridors—not a warning, but an alarm. The kind that means blood and fire and enemies at the gates.
Aisling.
Her name pounds through my skull with every heartbeat. Her quarters are three corridors away. Too far. Much too far.
I’m moving before I finish the thought, bare feet slapping against cold stone, the shift already rippling beneath my skin. The fortress shudders around me—explosions somewhere to the east, the crash of stone, the unmistakable shriek of dragon fire meeting dragon fire.
Eight rogues. I smell them now—sulfur and rot and the copper tang of hostile magic. Plus something else. Something that makes even my dragon hesitate.
Shadow-creatures. Valdris’s pets.
The corridor opens onto Aisling’s wing, and I don’t slow down. Don’t stop. The shift takes me mid-stride, bones cracking, scales erupting, wings tearing free as I transform from man to monster in the space between heartbeats.
Her door is too small. I go through the wall instead.
Stone explodes inward, raining debris across the room. I register the bed—empty, sheets tangled—and then I find her. Pressed against the far wall, hands raised, fire flickering at her fingertips. Alive. Terrified. But alive.
I place myself between her and the gaping hole where her wall used to be. Spread my wings wide enough to shield her completely. Let the roar tear from my throat—a challenge that shakes dust from the ceiling and rattles the remaining windows in their frames.
MINE. PROTECT. KILL ANYTHING THAT THREATENS.
The dragon’s thoughts blend with my own until I can’t tell where instinct ends and intention begins. I’ve protected people before. Defended territory, guarded allies, fought for causes that mattered. But this—
This is different.
Every scale on my body burns with the need to keep her safe. Every breath carries her scent—wildflowers and fear and the sharp ozone of barely controlled fire. She’s behind me. Safe. Nothing else matters.
A rogue appears in the breach, smaller than me but fast, scales black as pitch and eyes glowing with borrowed power. He sees Aisling. Grins with too many teeth.
I tear his throat out before he can take another step.
The courtyard has become a battlefield.
Drayke’s bronze form dominates the eastern wall, flames pouring from his jaws in controlled bursts that turn rogues to ash mid-flight. His roar carries centuries of authority—commands that even hostile dragons hesitate to disobey.
HOLD THE PERIMETER. PROTECT THE FIRE-brINGERS. NO RETREAT.
Auren coordinates from the northern tower, his gold-white scales catching the pre-dawn light as he directs archer positions with cold precision. Every order calculated. Every movement efficient. The strategist in his element.
Zyphon moves through the shadows like death given form. I catch glimpses of him between the chaos—appearing behind a rogue, shadows wrapping around its throat, then vanishing before the body hits the ground. His curse makes him terrifying in darkness, and dawn hasn’t fully broken yet.
And Selene—
Drayke’s mate stands at his shoulder, fire blazing from her palms. Not hiding behind her dragon. Fighting beside him. Proving that Fire-Bringers aren’t just targets to be protected. They’re warriors in their own right.
I launch from the hole I made in Aisling’s wall, wings catching the smoke-thick air. Two rogues converge on my position—young, stupid, drawn by the Fire-Bringer’s scent like sharks to blood. I meet them with claws and flame, tearing through scales, burning through flesh.
For her. Every kill is for her.
The dragon roars its approval. MATE. PROTECT. DESTROY THREAT.
I don’t argue. Don’t have time to unpack the implications of that word—mate—or what it means that my dragon has claimed her without my permission. A rogue’s tail catches me across the flank, and pain flares bright and hot. I spin, claws raking, and the rogue falls in two pieces.
Another one. Then another. The courtyard runs red with blood that steams in the cold morning air.
MATE. PROTECT. MATE. PROTECT.
The rhythm becomes a heartbeat. A battle hymn. Every flame I breathe, every enemy I destroy—it’s all for her. For the woman with fire in her veins and steel in her spine, who almost smiled at me yesterday when she lit a single candle.
A shadow-creature materializes from the darkness near the eastern wall. Not a dragon—something worse. Formless malevolence given shape, claws of pure darkness, eyes like dying stars. It ignores me. Ignores Drayke. Heads straight for the breach in the wall.
Straight for Aisling.
I wheel mid-flight, wings screaming in protest, and dive. The shadow-creature is fast—faster than any rogue, faster than anything made of flesh and blood. But I’m faster. I have to be faster.
MATE IN DANGER. MOVE. NOW.
I crash into the creature from above, claws tearing through darkness that feels like ice and tastes like despair.
It shrieks—a sound that vibrates in my bones, in my teeth, in the parts of my soul I try not to think about.
My fire pours into the wound, white-hot and desperate, and the creature dissolves into smoke and screams.
But more are coming. Always more.
I land in the courtyard, blocking the path to Aisling’s quarters. Wings spread. Flames licking from every scale. Ready to die before I let anything past.
Come on, then. The challenge burns in my throat. Come and try.
AISLING
Fire, screaming, and the sound of wings.
For one horrible moment, I’m back in captivity. Cold stone beneath me, chains on my wrists, the wet sound of blades and the copper smell of my own blood draining into carved channels. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except curl against the wall and wait for the pain to start again.
Then Rurik’s dragon fills the doorway—massive and red-gold and terrifying—and something shifts.
He came for me.
He crashed through a stone wall because there wasn’t time for doors. He put himself between me and danger, roaring loud enough to shake the foundations, wings spread like a shield made of scales and flame.
He’s fighting for me.
The paralysis shatters. I’m on my feet, heart hammering, fire surging through my veins with desperate intensity. The terror is still there—still pressing against my chest, still trying to drag me back into helplessness—but underneath it, something else is rising.
Fury.
I’m done being the victim. Done cowering while others fight my battles. Done letting fear make my decisions.
Rurik launches from the breach, diving into the chaos outside. The sounds of battle filter through the ruined wall—roars and shrieks and the crack of dragon fire against stone. I should stay hidden. Should wait for the all-clear, let the warriors handle the threat.
A shadow moves in my peripheral vision.
I spin, fire flaring at my fingertips, and find a rogue climbing through the debris. Smaller than Rurik in human form—lean, scarred, scales rippling beneath pale skin as his dragon strains toward the surface. His focus locks onto me with predatory hunger.
“Fire-Bringer.” The word drips from his lips like poison. “The Queen will be so pleased.”
The Queen. Valdris.
My fire roars higher. The room brightens, shadows retreating from the blaze in my palms.
“Get out.”
He laughs. Takes another step toward me.
“Little flame, you don’t understand. You’re valuable.
Precious. Your blood has already woken things that should have stayed sleeping.
” Another step. His claws extend—black, curved, gleaming with something that looks like poison.
“Come quietly, and I’ll make this painless. ”
Something snaps inside me.
Not into fear. Into fury.
The fire erupts.
It pours from my hands in a torrent of white-gold flame—hotter than anything I’ve produced before, brighter than the sun breaking over the mountains. The rogue has half a second to look surprised before the blaze engulfs him completely.
He doesn’t even have time to scream.
When the flames die, nothing remains but ash drifting in the air and the smell of burnt flesh.
I stare at my hands. They’re still glowing, residual heat pulsing beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
I did that.
I did that.
The battle calls me through the breach.
I should stay inside. Should wait for the danger to pass, let the Brotherhood handle the remaining threats. That would be the smart choice. The safe choice.
I climb through the rubble and into the courtyard.
Chaos greets me. Dragons wheeling overhead, fire blazing against the pre-dawn sky, the crash and shriek of combat echoing off stone walls. Rurik’s red-gold form dominates the center of the fighting—a whirlwind of claws and flame, tearing through enemies with savage efficiency.
A rogue spots me. Breaks from the main battle, wings beating hard as it dives toward the vulnerable human standing in the debris.
My fire rises to meet it.
The barrier forms instinctively—a wall of flame that springs up between me and the diving rogue. Not controlled, exactly. Not the precise single candle from yesterday. But intentional. Purposeful. Fire responding to my need instead of my fear.
The rogue crashes into the barrier and recoils, scales smoking. I don’t give it time to recover. Another burst of flame—aimed this time, concentrated—and the rogue’s wing membrane tears, sending it spiraling toward the ground.
Rurik finishes it before it lands. Claws through the throat. Quick. Efficient. He doesn’t even slow down.
But his head turns. Those blazing dragon eyes find mine across the chaos, and something passes between us. Recognition. Approval. Something deeper that I’m not ready to name.
Then another rogue attacks, and we’re moving again.
We fall into a rhythm without discussing it.