Eternal Fire (Dark Flight #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

TAMSIN

Cold.

That’s the first thing I register as consciousness flickers back—icy arms wrapped around me, a frozen chest pressed against my cheek, winter everywhere except the fading warmth of my own failing body.

I’m being carried. The realization filters through the fog in my mind slowly, like light through murky water. Someone is carrying me, and my legs dangle uselessly, and my head lolls against a shoulder that feels like frost wrapped in expensive fabric.

Auren.

The dragon who has every reason to let me die caught me when I fell. Is carrying me now, his stride steady and sure despite the dead weight in his arms.

Voices filter through the haze.

“—can’t just bring her inside.” Male. Angry. “She’s a witch, Drayke. A Valdorian witch. You know what that bloodline did to—”

“I know exactly what her bloodline did.” Another voice, deeper, carrying the unmistakable weight of command. “I also know she just collapsed at our gate, carrying the final Relic. Whatever we decide about her, she’s no good to anyone dead.”

“She could be a trap.” The first voice again—Auren’s, I realize with a start. He’s arguing against helping me while simultaneously carrying me to safety. The contradiction makes my head spin worse than the blood loss. “Morrigan could have sent her. The whole desperate princess act could be—”

“Then we’ll find out.” A woman’s voice now, warm and firm. “But first, we get her to the infirmary before she bleeds out on our floor. Unless you want to explain to the other Fire-Bringers why we let one of our own die on the doorstep.”

A beat of quiet. Then Auren’s arms tighten around me—just slightly, just enough that I notice—and his pace quickens.

I try to speak. Try to tell them about the Crown, about Ulrik, about everything riding on them believing me. But my tongue refuses to cooperate. My eyelids are too heavy. The pull of unconsciousness drags at me, and I don’t have the strength to fight it.

The last thing I feel is his heartbeat against my cheek. Steady. Strong. Unyielding as stone.

Not letting me fall.

The thought follows me into oblivion.

I dream of fire and shadow.

Valdoria’s walls crumbling under shadow fire. My mother’s face as she threw herself between me and the dark magic pouring through the throne room doors. The sound of my father’s voice cracking as he sealed us in, as he told me to run.

Run, Tamsin. Live. Protect the Crown.

I run in the dream. Run through corridors that twist and change, through rooms that burn and reform, through memories that cut deeper than any blade.

Morrigan’s face flickers past—not the monster she’s become but the sister she used to be.

Braiding my hair. Teaching me card games.

Smiling at me like I was something precious.

When did that smile turn to hatred? When did the sister who defended me become the woman who would drain my blood to steal my power?

The shadow fire catches me. Wraps around my ankles, drags me down into a void that tastes like Morrigan’s magic—

I jerk awake with a gasp.

Hands press me back down. Multiple hands, warm and firm, accompanied by voices that blur together in my panic.

“Easy. Easy. You’re safe.”

“Her magic’s flaring—someone get Auren—”

“I’ve got it. Hold her still.”

Fire erupts from my hands.

Not controlled. Not intentional. Pure instinct, pure terror, the white flame that’s lived inside me since I was seven bursting free without permission. It spirals upward from my palms, hot and bright and absolutely devastating.

Someone cries out.

No. Not cries—gasps. Multiple gasps of shock, and beneath them the crackle of defensive magic snapping into place.

Three women surround my bed. One has chestnut hair and storm-gray eyes—Selene, I remember her from the gate.

The second is a redhead with sharp green eyes that widen as my fire blazes.

The third has dark hair and mismatched eyes—one purple, one pale pink—and her hands are raised in a warding gesture that makes shadows dance at her fingertips.

Fire-Bringers. All three of them. I can sense their flames now, burning signatures beneath their skin that resonate with mine.

But my fire burns brighter. Hotter. White where theirs would be gold and orange and shadow-touched dark.

“Control it.” Selene’s voice cuts through my panic. “You need to pull it back.”

“I—” The word comes out cracked. I’m shaking. The fire responds to my fear, climbing higher, threatening to consume—

Frost wraps around my wrists.

Not physical frost. Magical. It seeps into my skin, threads through my veins, meets my fire and doesn’t try to extinguish it—just contains it. Holds it. Creates a boundary that lets me remember how to breathe.

I look up.

Auren Valek stands at the foot of my bed. His hands are extended toward me, ice crackling across his palms, gold eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that steals what’s left of my breath.

“Control it,” he says. Not gentle. Not kind. A command, glacial and absolute. “Or I’ll control it for you.”

Something in his voice anchors me. The authority of it. The certainty. He’s not afraid of my fire—he’s already prepared to contain it if I can’t.

I grab onto that certainty like a lifeline and pull the flames back inside.

It hurts. My depleted reserves scream in protest as I wrestle the fire under control, forcing it back into the core where it lives.

But I do it. Second by agonizing second, I pull the white flames back until they’re nothing but a flicker, nothing but an ember, nothing but the warmth in my chest that never fully goes away.

The frost withdraws from my wrists.

Auren lowers his hands, but he doesn’t look away from me. Doesn’t blink. Just watches with those calculating gold eyes, cataloguing everything he’s seen.

“That fire.” Selene’s voice is hushed. “The color—I’ve seen something about this. My grandmother’s journals mentioned...” She trails off, brow furrowing as she tries to recall.

“White flame.” The dark-haired woman—Nasyra—steps closer, her mismatched eyes intent on my face.

Unlike the others, she doesn’t look shocked.

She looks like she’s confirming something she already suspected.

“Pure white. The mark of a royal line that carries both witch blood and Fire-Bringer heritage in equal measure.” Her head tilts.

“I’ve only heard of it in the old stories.

The ones from before the bloodlines began to dilute. ”

Selene’s expression clears. “That’s it. Gran wrote about the Valdorian royals—how they bred specifically to maintain both gifts. She said if the bloodlines ever combined at full strength...”

“You’d get this.” Nasyra’s gaze hasn’t left mine. “Power that amplifies itself. Witch magic feeding Fire-Bringer flame, Fire-Bringer flame strengthening witch magic. A cycle without end.” Something flickers in those strange eyes—recognition, maybe. Understanding.

“What does that mean?” The redhead—Aisling—sounds clinical despite her obvious unease. “In practical terms?”

“It means she’s more powerful than all of us.” Nasyra’s voice is matter-of-fact. “Combined. Possibly more powerful than anyone alive.”

The words hang in the air, heavy as stones.

I should say something. Should explain, apologize, promise I’m not a threat. But weariness crashes over me in a wave, and all I can do is lie there, trembling, trying to remember how to exist in a body that’s running on nothing but desperation.

“Out.”

Auren’s voice cuts through the tension. The women turn to look at him, surprise flickering across their features.

“She needs rest, not an audience.” His tone brooks no argument. “I’ll stay and ensure she doesn’t burn the infirmary down. Go.”

Selene’s brow furrows. “Auren—”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Something passes between them—a silent conversation I’m too drained to interpret. Then Selene nods, gestures to the others, and leads them toward the exit. The door closes behind them with a soft click.

I’m alone with the dragon who has every reason to hate me.

He doesn’t speak. Just moves to the chair beside my bed and sits, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. The quiet stretches between us, thick with everything neither of us is saying.

“The Crown.” My voice comes out as a rasp. “Where—”

“Selene has it. Locked in warded storage until we decide what to do with you.” His tone is flat. Clinical. “It responded to her Fire-Bringer signature, but she couldn’t open it. Couldn’t even sense most of its power. She said it felt... waiting.”

“Waiting for me.” I close my eyes. “It only fully responds to someone with both bloodlines. Witch magic to seal it. Fire-Bringer flame to open it. Both to wield it.”

“And you have both.”

“Yes.”

“Convenient.”

I open my eyes and find him watching me. Not with the blazing hatred from before—something colder. More controlled. More dangerous.

“You don’t trust me.” Not a question.

“Should I?” He leans forward slightly, and the temperature in the room drops.

“Your sister murdered mine. Your bloodline allied with the Shadow Clan. And now you arrive at our gates, conveniently carrying the most dangerous Relic in existence, claiming to be the only one who can stop the very enemies your family empowered.” His lips curve into something that isn’t a smile.

“If this is a trap, it’s an elegant one. ”

“If this is a trap, I’m the bait.” I hold his gaze even as my body screams for rest. “And the trap already closed on me. Valdoria is gone. My family is dead. I have nothing left except this—” I press a hand to my chest where the Crown’s echo still pulses.

“—and the power to make sure Morrigan and Ulrik don’t win. ”

“Pretty words.” He echoes what he said at the gate. “But words are easy. Your sister was good with words too.”

Something snaps inside me.

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp despite my weariness. “Don’t compare me to her. I am not Morrigan.”

“You share her blood.”