Chapter Twenty-Five
RAZE
The portal spits us out onto ground that shouldn’t exist. Crystallized starlight stretches in every direction beneath my boots, the surface solid enough to bear weight but translucent enough to reveal constellations frozen in layers beneath the surface.
The fortress looms ahead, impossibly tall spires carved from moonlight, walls that pulse with captured aurora borealis, architecture that defies every law of physics I’ve learned in three centuries of existence.
The air tastes of winter solstice and old magic, cold enough to burn going down but not cold enough to freeze a dragon who carries ice in his veins alongside fire.
Behind me, my brothers emerge through the portal one by one.
Scar materializes first, vampire speed making him a blur even in transition, red eyes already scanning for threats as his flesh continues to smoke from the iron-laced fae magic that caught him during the siege.
Wreck follows, gaunt frame unfolding from shadow with the hollow-eyed stillness of a wendigo freshly fed, hunger banked but far from gone, and the fortress itself seems to recoil slightly from his presence.
Wreck’s nightmare aura billows outward like smoke given malice, feeding on the ambient fear that permeates this place, growing stronger with each breath.
Coil slithers through in basilisk form, scales gleaming black and bronze against the starlit ground before he shifts upward into something more humanoid, tongue flickering as he tastes enchantments woven through the fabric of this realm.
Maul steps through in full werewolf form, eight feet of corded muscle and dark fur, claws already extended and dripping anticipation.
Thorn emerges covered in thorns and bleeding sap, the forest spirit looking diminished here in a realm so divorced from living earth, but still dangerous in ways that make fae magic hesitate.
Flux shifts through three forms in as many seconds, settling finally on something vaguely humanoid but fundamentally predatory, amber eyes glowing with the kind of hunger that comes from tracking prey across impossible distances.
Ruckus appears, leprechaun magic crackling gold around his fists, luck and mischief weaponized into something that can reshape probability itself.
The prospects follow. Calder’s fox-fire flickers weakly around his hands as he takes in the fortress with wide eyes. Rhett and Bennett emerge side by side, the hellhound and angel both bloodied from battle but still sniping at each other even now.
“Try not to get your wings singed, feathers,” Rhett mutters.
Bennett’s response is immediate. “Try not to trip over your own shadows, mutt.”
Then Ivy, Ash, and Luna step through. The tree nymph’s autumn-leaf hair shifts to winter-bare branches in response to the cold, her connection to living things muted here but not severed.
Ash manifests partial flame wings, phoenix fire burning low but steady as she assesses defensive positions with professional efficiency.
Luna’s selkie eyes reflect the crystallized stars, her water magic already reaching for moisture in air too dry to support it properly, but she adapts, pulling condensation from our breath and the frozen starlight itself.
The portal closes behind us with a sound like breaking glass, and the finality of it settles across my shoulders like a weight.
No retreat.
No second chances.
We get Roxy back, or we die trying.
“Outer defenses ahead,” Scar reports, vampire senses cutting through illusions and enchantments that would blind lesser creatures. “Three layers deep. Fae warriors, probably fifty strong. Magic barriers between each layer.”
I don’t waste time with strategy or speeches. Fire and ice spiral together beneath my skin, no longer fighting for dominance but working in perfect, terrible harmony, and I stride toward the fortress with my brothers falling into formation behind me.
The air resists us.
This realm knows we do not belong here. Moonlight bends wrong around my scales, crystal spires hum with warding magic that prickles against my skin like static, and somewhere above, wings beat once, twice, a warning carried through silver air.
The first layer of fae guards appears from behind pillars of crystallized moonlight, armor gleaming silver and green, weapons already drawn and humming with enchantments designed to kill dragons.
Twenty warriors arrayed in perfect formation, their movements synchronized by magic that connects them into a single lethal organism.
They don’t wait to be hit.
Silver sigils ignite beneath their feet, lines of starlight snapping upward into a lattice that drops toward us like a falling cage. Arrows made of condensed moonfire streak down from unseen heights, whistling past my horns close enough to burn.
Scar hits them before they finish manifesting their defensive barrier.
Centuries of vampire fury condensed into speed that transcends physics, he becomes a blur of pale flesh and crimson eyes that crosses the distance in less time than it takes the fae to register the threat.
His fangs find the throat of the lead warrior with surgical precision, draining blood and magic in synchronized gulps that leave the body a desiccated husk before it hits the ground.
A spear of pure silver light slams into Scar’s shoulder, driving him sideways hard enough to crater crystal beneath him.
He snarls, ripping the weapon free and hurling it back through a fae caster before he’s already moving to the next target, fingers tearing through armor like paper, feeding not just for sustenance but for the raw violence of it, wounded but absolutely furious in ways that make even ancient fae take a step back.
Above us, winged seelie dive.
Not soldiers, nobles, their cloaks trail ribbons of magic that slice through the air like razors, forcing Maul and Coil to scatter as arcs of glowing script carve trenches into the ground.
Wreck unleashes beside him. The wendigo becomes nightmare incarnate, shadows pouring from his gaunt frame in rivers that swallow light and hope in equal measure, and the fae warriors caught in his aura begin to scream.
Not from pain but from terror so profound it rewrites sanity, their minds breaking under visions of starvation and endless hunger.
One fae sorcerer counters, slamming a crystal staff into the ground. Golden music explodes outward, a harmonic pulse meant to anchor emotion and smother fear. For a heartbeat, Wreck’s shadows ripple, contained.
Then he inhales deeper.
The spell fractures like thin glass. Three warriors drop their weapons and flee. Wreck’s hollow laugh follows them into the darkness, feeding on their fear, growing larger and more terrible with each step.
I launch myself at the main formation, scales erupting across my flesh as I shift mid-stride into something between human and dragon, claws that freeze and burn simultaneously, tearing through magical barriers like they’re made of spider silk.
A fae blade catches me across the ribs.
Not a graze, a real hit. Silver burns through scale, heat, and frost, hissing where the enchantment bites deep. Pain flashes bright and vicious, and the warrior behind the strike smiles like he’s just drawn first blood for his prince.
I answer with fire.
Flame pours from my jaws in concentrated streams that reduce armor to slag, ice following in jagged spirals that freeze warriors mid-scream before shattering them into crystalline fragments.
Coil strikes from the flank, serpent form allowing him to slip through gaps in their formation that shouldn’t exist. But the fae adapt quickly. A ring of hovering glyphs ignites around him, compressing inward like a crushing halo.
He twists, fangs snapping through one sigil, venom splattering across another.
The magic falters just long enough for him to strike a shieldbearer’s armor at the junction where magic meets flesh, bypassing enchantments entirely.
Neurotoxin floods the warrior’s system with devastating efficiency, and Coil withdraws smoothly, already targeting the next threat.
Maul crashes into the second defensive layer like a battering ram, given purpose and fury, werewolf strength shattering barriers that were designed to withstand dragon fire.
But the fae meet him head-on this time. Two warriors bind his legs with living vines of silver light, dragging him to one knee before he roars and tears free, ripping the spell apart with brute force before embedding a caster into the fortress wall.
Above us, the sky opens.
A volley of star-forged arrows rains down in synchronized arcs, forcing Ash to flare her phoenix wings wide, flames detonating upward to incinerate the projectiles before they reach us. The explosion sends waves of heat rolling across the battlefield, cracking crystal-like ground.
The fae defensive formation bends but doesn’t break. They counterstep, rotating into new positions, weaving spells that lash like whips of liquid moonlight.
Ivy’s vines erupt from cracks in the crystallized ground, curling tight and rooting into the fractures even in this realm divorced from living earth, strangling fae warriors with thorned creepers that constrict and drain in equal measure.
One seelie noble counters by turning the vines to glass mid-growth, shattering half of Ivy’s reach before she snarls and forces new growth through the fractures.
Ash manifests full phoenix wings, flames burning bright enough to melt through magical barriers, her fire working in tandem with mine to create thermal gradients that crack defensive structures from the inside out.
Luna calls moisture from the air, condensing breath and ambient magic into impossible waves that crash through the second layer with enough force to send warriors tumbling backward.
A fae mage attempts to freeze the water mid-motion, but Luna twists her wrist, and the wave collapses into a crushing spiral that drags him under.