Chapter 13 Zyphon
THIRTEEN
ZYPHON
The screaming wakes me.
I’m out of bed before I’m fully conscious, shadows coiling around me as I tear through my door and down the hallway.
Three doors. That’s all that separates my quarters from hers.
Three doors that feel like miles when I can hear her voice—raw, terrified, the sound of someone fighting nightmares that won’t let go.
Fire greets me when I reach her room.
Not normal fire. Shadow-flame—dark at its core, edged with purple and black, crawling up the walls and across the ceiling in patterns that have nothing to do with natural combustion.
The bed is engulfed. The curtains are ash.
And in the center of it all, Nasyra kneels on the floor with her hands pressed to her head, screaming words I can’t understand.
My shadows surge forward without conscious direction, wrapping around the flames, smothering them.
The darkness inside me recognizes the fire—same origin, same magic, two halves of the same broken whole.
It takes effort to control it. More effort than it should.
Her power fights mine even as it reaches for it.
The fire dies. The room goes dark except for the faint glow of my shadows and the embers still smoldering in the ruined fabric.
Nasyra looks up. Her face is streaked with tears, her mismatched eyes wild with terror and confusion. For a moment, she doesn’t seem to know where she is. Doesn’t seem to recognize me.
Then awareness returns, and with it, the walls.
“Get out.” Her voice is hoarse from screaming. “Get out of my room.”
“You were on fire.”
“I’m aware.” She pushes herself to her feet, swaying slightly. “I don’t need your help.”
“The bed would disagree.”
She looks at the charred remains of her mattress. Something flickers in her expression—embarrassment, maybe. Fear. The knowledge that her power is slipping beyond her control.
Footsteps in the hallway. Drayke appears in the doorway, Selene behind him. He takes in the destruction with a single sweep of his gaze—the scorched walls, the ash-covered floor, Nasyra standing in the wreckage with shadow-flame still flickering at her fingertips.
“We need to talk,” he says.
The war room is cold at this hour. Dawn hasn’t broken yet; the torches cast long shadows across the map table where we’ve gathered.
Nasyra sits on one side, wrapped in a borrowed robe, her jaw set in a stubborn line. She hasn’t looked at me since we left her ruined quarters. Selene hovers nearby, radiating protective concern.
“This can’t continue,” Drayke says. No preamble. No softening of the blow. “Your power is unstable. If you’d been anywhere else in the fortress—near the armory, the library, the other sleeping quarters—“
“I know.” Nasyra’s voice is flat. “You don’t need to list the ways I could have killed someone.”
“Then you understand why we need to address this.”
“I understand that my fire isn’t right anymore. That it responds to things I can’t control.” She lifts her chin, defiant even in exhaustion. “What I don’t understand is what you expect me to do about it.”
“Train.” Drayke’s gaze shifts to me. “With the only person who understands what’s happening to you.”
Nasyra goes rigid. “No.”
“Your shadow-flame and Zyphon’s darkness share an origin. The same ritual, the same magic. He’s the only one who can help you control it without triggering whatever failsafes Lakhu built into your resurrection.”
“I don’t care. Find another way.”
“There isn’t one.” Drayke’s voice holds no room for argument.
“Fire-Bringer training won’t work—your power isn’t pure fire anymore.
Dragon training won’t work—you’re not a dragon.
But Zyphon has spent three centuries learning to control something that shouldn’t be controllable. If anyone can teach you, it’s him.”
Nasyra’s hands clench in her lap. The borrowed robe does nothing to hide the tension in her shoulders, the way her whole body has gone tight with resistance.
“I’ll do it.”
Everyone looks at me. I keep my attention on Nasyra, watching the battle play out in her expression—pride warring with practicality, hatred warring with need.
“I’m not asking for your forgiveness,” I continue. “Not asking for your trust. But I can help you control this. And if you burn down the fortress in your sleep, you’ll kill people who don’t deserve to die.”
It’s a low blow. Calculated. The one argument I know she won’t be able to dismiss.
Her jaw tightens. “Fine. But if you try anything—“
“You’ll kill me. I remember.” I allow myself the ghost of a smile. “Training starts at dawn. Get some sleep.”
“My bed is on ash.”
“There are other rooms.”
She stalks out without another word, Selene following. I watch her go, cataloging the rigid set of her spine, the faint tremor in her hands she’s trying to hide.
She’s terrified. Not of me—or not only of me. She’s terrified of herself. Of what she’s becoming. Of the power that’s slipping beyond her grasp.
“That went well,” Drayke says dryly.
“It went as expected.”
“Can you actually help her?”
I consider the question. The shadows inside me stir, reaching toward the place where her fire burned moments ago. Recognition. Hunger. Something that wants to be whole.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’m the only option she has.”
She arrives at the training yard exactly at dawn, dressed in borrowed clothes that fit better than the ones she wore yesterday. Her hair is pulled back from her face in a severe braid. Her expression could cut glass.
“Let’s get this over with.”
“Good morning to you too.”
She doesn’t rise to the bait. Just crosses her arms and waits, radiating hostility so intense, I’m surprised the air doesn’t crackle with it.
I circle her slowly, studying the way she holds herself. Tense. Defensive. Ready to fight or flee at the slightest provocation. She tracks my movement with wary attention, turning to keep me in sight.
“Your fire isn’t fire anymore,” I begin. “Not entirely. The ritual that resurrected you changed it—gave it properties it shouldn’t have. It responds to emotion now. Fear. Anger. Grief. Anything strong enough to crack your control.”
“I noticed.”
“The darkness inside me works the same way. It’s not natural—it’s a reaction. To threats, to stress, to anything that triggers the survival instincts. Learning to control it means learning to control yourself.”
“And you’re going to teach me that?” Skepticism drips from every word. “The dragon who can’t even sit through dinner with his own brothers?”
The observation stings more than it should. “I choose not to sit through dinner. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
I let the question hang. She’s not wrong—not entirely. The shadows make crowded spaces difficult. But difficult isn’t impossible. I’ve simply found it easier to be alone.
“Show me your fire.”
She hesitates. Then she extends her hand, palm up, and calls the shadow-flame.
It comes in a rush—dark fire blooming in her palm, edges licked with purple and black. Beautiful and wrong. The flames writhe and twist, responding to something I can’t see. Her heartbeat, maybe. Her breathing. The fear she’s trying to hide.
“You’re holding it too tight.” I move closer, watching the way the fire responds to my presence. It reaches toward me—strains toward the shadows inside me, hungry for something it recognizes. “Trying to contain it instead of direct it.”
“If I don’t contain it, it spreads.”
“Because you’re fighting it. Treating it like an enemy instead of an extension of yourself.” I stop just outside arm’s reach, close enough to feel the heat of her fire, the pull of the darkness that wants to meet it. “May I?”
She stiffens. “May you what?”
“Adjust your stance. It’ll be easier to show you than explain.”
For a long moment, she doesn’t move. The shadow-flame flickers wildly in her palm, responding to whatever internal battle she’s fighting. Then, slowly, she nods.
I step behind her. My hands find her shoulders—light, careful, ready to pull back at the first sign of discomfort. She’s rigid beneath my touch, every muscle locked tight.
“Relax your shoulders.” My voice is low, pitched to carry no further than her ears. “You’re holding tension here. It’s feeding into the fire, making it harder to control.”
“Hard to relax with a dragon at my back.”
“I know. Try anyway.”
A breath. Two. Slowly, incrementally, some of the tension leaves her shoulders. The shadow-flame in her palm steadies, its wild flickering settling into something more controlled.
“Better.” I adjust my grip, guiding her arm to a slightly different angle. “The fire wants to flow outward. You’re trying to force it into a shape. Instead of fighting that instinct, work with it. Let it move, but give it boundaries.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It will.” I release her and step back, putting distance between us before she can feel trapped. “Again. This time, don’t try to contain it. Just... guide it.”