Chapter 21 Drayke
TWENTY-ONE
DRAYKE
“I’ve found him.”
Zyphon’s voice cuts through the war room, shadows writhing around him with barely contained violence. His violet-cracked scales seem darker than usual, the curse marks on his skin pulsing with an eerie glow.
Every dragon in the room goes still. Auren pauses mid-sentence. Rurik’s knife stops its endless sharpening. And Selene—my Selene—straightens beside me, her hand tightening on mine under the table.
“Veylor?” Her voice is steady, but I catch the undertone. The anticipation. The hunger for justice that’s been building since he drained her blood on a stone altar.
“The mark I left on him during the fortress collapse.” Zyphon’s mouth curves into something that might be a smile on anyone else.
On him, it’s a promise of death. “He’s been running for weeks.
Hiding in caves, abandoned mines, anywhere dark enough to mask his presence. But he stopped running three days ago.”
“Why stop?” Auren leans forward, analytical mind already working. “He knows we’re tracking him. Stopping makes him vulnerable.”
“Because he’s out of options.” Zyphon’s shadows pulse with dark satisfaction. “He’s gathering what forces he can for a final stand.”
“Where?” I’m already on my feet, the dragon roaring to life beneath my skin. Weeks of waiting. Weeks of planning. Weeks of watching Selene train and strategize while the bastard who tortured her walked free.
“Abandoned fortress in the northern mountains. Three days’ flight.
” Zyphon spreads a map across the table, tapping a location I recognize—old territory, claimed by no one for centuries.
“He’s not alone. My shadows count at least twenty rogues, maybe more.
But they’re scattered. Disorganized. Whatever army he was building died with his stronghold. ”
“He’s wounded and desperate.” Auren studies the map with cold calculation. “That makes him dangerous, but also predictable. He’ll make a stand rather than keep running.”
“Good.” Rurik’s grin is sharp, predatory. “I’m tired of chasing. Time to end this.”
Selene rises from her chair, fire flickering at her fingertips. “When do we leave?”
I turn to her, ready to argue, ready to insist she stay where it’s safe—and stop myself. She’s spent weeks proving she can fight. Proving she’s not a liability. And this is her battle as much as mine. Veylor hurt her. She deserves to be there when he falls.
“Dawn,” I say instead. “We fly at dawn.”
Her smile is fierce, proud, and entirely too attractive for a war council. “I’ll be ready.”
“You’d better be.” I pull her against me, press a kiss to her temple. “Because if you get yourself killed, I meant what I said about bringing you back to yell at you.”
“Still romantic.”
“I try.”