Chapter 5 Zyphon
FIVE
ZYPHON
She’s not their willing weapon.
I watched them drag her back to Lakhu’s camp—watched her fight every step, kicking and clawing and spitting curses even with enchanted manacles killing her shadow-flame. Watched the prince reveal the predator inside. Watched them lock her in a cell while she screamed that she wasn’t anyone’s tool.
She’s a prisoner. Not a partner. Not an ally. A weapon being forged against her will.
The distinction matters more than I can articulate.
I’ve spent the last day mapping the camp from the shadows, cataloging guard rotations, identifying weak points in defenses built to stop anyone but me.
The wards recognize something kin in my darkness and let me pass without alarm.
The only advantage this existence has given me that I’m actually grateful for.
Now I crouch outside her window in the hour before midnight, close enough to hear her breathing, separated by iron bars and lies. I learned the scope of untruths last night.
In the late hours of the morning, I hovered outside Lakhu’s tent, silk walls doing nothing to muffle the conversation within. His advisor’s voice, clinical and detached: “The Fire-Bringer’s memories are holding. She’s accepted the story about her brother. The hatred is genuine.”
“What about the other memories?” Lakhu had asked. “The ones involving the dragon?”
“Suppressed. She may experience fragments, but nothing coherent. The emotional resonance was too strong to erase entirely, but we’ve channeled it into rage rather than recognition.”
They didn’t just resurrect her. They rewrote her. Took the truth and twisted it until I’m the villain, until her brother is the victim, until the love we shared has been perverted into a weapon aimed at my heart.
I open the telepathic link.
Drayke.
The response comes instantly. Zyphon. Where the hell have you been?
Shadow-territories. I found Nasyra. No point dancing around it. She’s alive. Someone resurrected her.
Silence stretches across the link. I feel Drayke processing, trying to reconcile the impossible with what he knows of me—that I don’t exaggerate, don’t dramatize, don’t make claims I can’t support.
Nasyra. His mental voice carries the weight of recognition. He remembers. They all remember—the century after her death when I barely spoke, barely ate, barely existed. How?
The Shadow Prince—Lakhu. He used one of the Relics to bring her back. Twisted her memories, turned her against us. Against me. She tried to kill me when we met.
Rurik’s voice crashes into the link: Wait—Nasyra? The Nasyra? The woman you’ve been pining over for three centuries? She’s alive and she tried to kill you?
I haven’t been pining.
Brother, you’ve kept her garden alive. You literally talk to her flowers. That’s the definition of pining.
Focus. Drayke cuts in. What’s the tactical situation?
I share what I’ve learned. Forty dragons. Layered wards. Guard rotation gap at midnight. Three possible approaches to her cell. Lakhu’s sleep patterns.
I can handle the extraction, I add. I just need somewhere to take her afterward.
Absolutely not. Drayke’s tone brooks no argument. You’re not going in alone against forty Shadow Clan dragons.
I’ve handled worse odds.
And come back looking like something a cat rejected. Rurik again. I’m already in the air. Be there in a few hours flying at the fastest speed I can.
Rurik—
Don’t bother arguing. Aisling already threatened to set my tail on fire if I didn’t go help you. Something about ‘not letting family do stupid things alone.’ Her words.
She’s a terrifying mate. Auren’s voice joins, cool and measured. I’ll coordinate from here. Keep the link open—if things go wrong, I need to know immediately.
What about Drayke?
Selene’s giving me the look. The Guardian King sounds almost amused. The one that means ‘go help your brother or sleep in the courtyard.’ I’ll catch up with Rurik.
Something loosens in my chest. I hadn’t realized how much I needed them until they offered—these brothers who’ve stood beside me through centuries of darkness, who never stopped believing I was more than the monster the Shadow Clan made me.
Thank you.
Save the gratitude for after we pull this off. Rurik’s mental voice carries a grin I can practically see. If we die, I’m blaming you entirely.
Noted.
They arrive as the moon climbs toward its peak.
Rurik lands first, a blaze of red-gold scales that he dims to ember-glow as he shifts to human form.
Drayke follows—massive bronze, moving with the silent precision of a predator who’s learned to hunt in darkness.
They find me in the rocks overlooking the camp, and for a moment we just stand together, three brothers preparing for war.
“She’s in the eastern structure.” I point toward Nasyra’s cell. “Two guards on the door, enchanted locks, wards on the bars. I can get through all of it, but it’ll take time.”
“Time we can buy.” Drayke studies the camp with tactical precision. “Rurik and I create a distraction on the western perimeter. Draw their attention, make them think it’s a full assault. You slip in during the chaos.”
“A distraction.” Rurik’s grin is sharp in the moonlight. “My favorite kind of mission. How much fire are we talking?”
“Enough to get their attention. Not enough to bring the whole clan down on us.”
“So... medium fire. Got it.” He cracks his knuckles. “What about Lakhu?”
“Avoid him if possible. His shadow magic is—“ I pause, searching for the right word. “Familiar. His father created what’s inside me. Lakhu knows how to use that.”
Drayke’s expression hardens. “Then we don’t give him the chance. In and out, fast and loud. By the time he figures out what’s happening, you and Nasyra are in the air.”
“She might not come willingly.” I need them to understand this. “Her memories are compromised. She thinks I’m the enemy.”
“So convince her.” Rurik shrugs as if it’s simple. “You convinced me to stop setting things on fire for fun, and that took forever. One confused Fire-Bringer should be easy.”
“You still set things on fire for fun.”
“Less frequently. That’s growth.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Go get your woman, brother. We’ll handle the rest.”