Chapter 27 Zyphon
TWENTY-SEVEN
ZYPHON
Lakhu runs.
Not the desperate flight of a coward, but the calculated retreat of a strategist. He moves through his stronghold with purpose, shadow magic swirling around him, leading me deeper into the mountain’s heart.
I follow. The taste of Nasyra’s kiss still burns on my lips, and it fuels something fierce in my chest. She told me not to die. She told me we have years to make up for. And I intend to collect on that promise.
She’s safe—or as safe as she can be with Selene to rescue and a Relic to contain. Rurik and Aisling will protect her. The Fire-Bringers will handle the Dominion Heart. And I have a prince to kill.
The corridors twist and turn, descending into darkness that feels alive, hungry. Shadow-constructs lunge from the walls, trying to slow me down, but my curse devours them before they can strike. Same source recognizes same source—the darkness in me consuming the darkness Lakhu commands.
Each construct I destroy feeds the curse, makes it stronger, pushes its consumption faster. I don’t care. I’ve been dying by inches for three centuries. What’s a few more inches in exchange for ending the man who tried to use her?
I’ve carried the curse his father created, of living with shadows that eat me from the inside. Lakhu didn’t create my suffering, but he tried to use it. Tried to use her.
That alone is enough to earn his death.
The prince disappears through a doorway carved with symbols I recognize—old magic, blood magic, the kind of power that predates even the Shadow Clan. I pause for half a heartbeat, assessing the wards, then push through.
And stop.
The chamber radiates power.
Ritual circles cover the floor—concentric rings of carved stone, channels for blood, runes that pulse with dormant energy.
The walls are lined with focusing crystals, each one humming at frequencies just below hearing.
This isn’t a room. It’s a weapon. A massive ritual array designed for something far more ambitious than anything I’ve seen before.
And at the center, suspended in a column of shadow-glass—
Queen Brinja.
She looks exactly as she did three centuries ago. Pale skin, silver hair, features carved with the same aristocratic beauty that marks her son. Her eyes are closed, her hands folded across her chest, her expression peaceful. As if she’s merely sleeping.
As if I didn’t tear through her on my way to kill the men who murdered Nasyra.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Lakhu stands on the far side of the chamber, shadow magic curling around his hands. His beautiful face is twisted with grief and hatred and something that might be hope.
“For centuries, I’ve kept her preserved.
Centuries of planning, researching, waiting for the right combination of power to bring her back.
” His voice cracks on the last word. “And then I found it. A Fire-Bringer with both blood and innate magic. The only thing in this world capable of fueling a resurrection of this magnitude.”
“Nasyra.” The name comes out rough.
“Nasyra.” He savors the word. “I brought her back from death to bring my mother back from death. Poetic, don’t you think? The woman you failed to save, dying again to restore the woman you murdered.”
The truth hits me like a physical blow.
This was never about the Brotherhood. Never about weapons or revenge against dragons who claimed Fire-Bringers. This was about one thing: a son trying to undo his mother’s death.
“You killed her.” Lakhu’s voice shakes with rage and grief intertwined.
“My mother. The only person in the Shadow Clan who ever loved me for myself rather than my bloodline. She read to me when I was young. Taught me magic. Made me believe I could be more than my father’s heir.
” His hands clench. “And you tore through her like she was nothing.”
“She stood between me and the men who killed Nasyra.” I don’t feel guilt. Not for Brinja. Not for anyone who tried to stop me that night. “I would have torn through an army to reach that altar. Anyone in my path—“
“Died.” Lakhu’s smile is poison. “Yes. She did. Collateral damage in your little rampage. My father created your curse as punishment, but he was content to let you suffer slowly. He didn’t care about using the power he’d bound to your soul.
” He spreads his arms wide. “I’m the one who found a purpose for it.
I’m the one who realized that the curse could be channeled, directed, used to power a resurrection ritual if the right catalyst was applied. ”
“Nasyra’s blood.”
“Her blood. Her magic. Her life.” Lakhu’s eyes gleam. “Draining a normal Fire-Bringer can fuel the Dominion Heart’s awakening, but only someone with her specific abilities—Fire-Bringer blood combined with genuine magical talent—could power what I need. She was the key to bringing my mother back.”
“Was.” I let the word hang between us. “She broke free of your control. Your weapon turned in your hand.”
“A temporary setback.” But his jaw tightens, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. “The ritual can still be completed. The Dominion Heart is awake. Your precious Fire-Bringer will be recaptured, and my mother will rise, and you’ll have nothing.” His voice drops to something cold and deadly. “Again.”
Lakhu attacks.
Shadow magic erupts from his hands—not the wild, undirected darkness of lesser practitioners, but precise lances of power aimed at specific points. My curse. He’s targeting my curse, trying to trigger the pain responses his father built into its structure.
It works.
Agony explodes through my chest. The shadows inside me writhe and twist, responding to commands I’m not giving, trying to tear their way out of my body. I drop to one knee, gasping, as Lakhu’s magic claws at the foundations of my power.
“My father created that curse to punish you for loving a Fire-Bringer.” Lakhu circles me, maintaining his assault, his voice almost conversational. “But he was always content with slow torment. I’ve spent centuries studying his work, finding the weaknesses, learning how to make it do what I want.”
Another lance of power strikes my curse, and I scream. The shadows surge outward, nearly breaking free of my control, and for a moment, I see what Lakhu wants—my own darkness consuming me, destroying me from within while he watches.
I force myself to my feet. Force the curse back under control, though it costs me more than I can afford. “You’ve been preparing for this fight your whole life.”
“Since I was old enough to understand what you took from me.” Lakhu’s attacks don’t pause. “Every spell I learned, every technique I mastered, every secret I uncovered—all of it building toward this moment. The moment I finally destroy the dragon who murdered my mother.”
I lunge at him, shadows extending into blades. He deflects, counters, his movements fluid and practiced. He’s good—better than I expected. Centuries of training focused on a single goal has made him dangerous.
But I’ve been fighting for centuries too. And I have something he doesn’t—something worth living for.
The thought of Nasyra steadies me. Her fire warming my shadows. Her voice telling me not to die. Her lips against mine, fierce and desperate and full of promise.
I press the attack, driving Lakhu back across the ritual chamber. Shadow meets shadow, curse battling control, centuries of hatred clashing in the space between heartbeats.
I’m losing.
Lakhu’s attacks are too precise, too knowing.
He understands my curse better than I do—knows exactly where to strike to make it turn against me, exactly how to exploit the weaknesses his father built into its design.
Every exchange costs me more than it costs him.
Every clash leaves my shadows writhing closer to the edge of control.
Blood runs from a gash on my side where his magic slipped through my defenses. Another wound on my shoulder. A third across my chest, deep enough that I feel the heat of my own blood soaking my shirt. I’m slowing down, and he knows it.
“This is what you deserve.” Lakhu’s voice is almost gentle, almost pitying. “Centuries of suffering, and still it wasn’t enough. You took everything from me. Now I’m going to take everything from you.”
He strikes at my curse again, and this time I can’t hold it. The shadows explode outward, screaming for release, tearing at my control with hunger that’s been building for years. My vision blurs. My legs buckle. I hit the stone floor hard, the impact jarring through my wounded body.
This is how it ends. After everything—after losing her the first time, after carrying the guilt, after getting her back only to fail her again.
I’m going to die on the floor of Lakhu’s ritual chamber, surrounded by the symbols of his obsession, while Nasyra fights to save Selene without knowing I’ve already lost.
“First, I’ll kill you.” Lakhu advances, shadow magic building for a killing blow. “Then I’ll recapture your Fire-Bringer. She’ll die on the altar, her blood fueling my mother’s resurrection, and the last thing she’ll remember is that you failed her. Again.”
I try to rise. Try to force my body to obey, my curse to stabilize, my power to respond. But the shadows are slipping through my fingers, consuming me from within, and Lakhu is right—I’m going to fail her again.
Just like before.
Just like the altar.
Just like three centuries ago, when I was too slow and too late and she died because I couldn’t reach her in time—
Fire wraps around my darkness.