Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
NYXARA
R age is a dangerous thing.
It fuels me, feeds me, coils in my veins like a living thing, demanding violence, destruction, vengeance. And right now, it is all I can see.
I stand in the war chamber, my claws digging into the edge of the stone table, the carved ridges of Varellith pressing into my palms. The pale morning light beams in through he large gothic windows along the wall. The map before me is littered with markers, each one a reminder of how close the human king is creeping into my lands.
The torches flicker violently in their sconces, feeding off my fury.
Then I hear it.
The shifting of shadows, the ripple in the air. The scent of frost and midnight steel.
The Sentinels stir before I see them, their presence a ripple through the chamber’s dim glow, a whisper of movement barely caught by mortal senses. The air shifts, thick with their unseen forms pressing against the edges of the room. A flicker of something more solid emerges—a figure materializing from the shadows beside me, their voice little more than a breath against the cold stone walls.
"Dragon Queen," one murmurs, their tone a hollow echo. "Rhyzan waits beyond the doors. He reeks of blood and iron. He wishes to speak with you."
I inhale sharply, tasting the scent now that it has been spoken into existence—iron, sweat, and something darker.
I straighten, flexing my claws against the stone table. "Let him in."
The Sentinels vanish in an instant, the heavy doors groaning open as they pull them apart from the inside. A cold draft sweeps through the chamber as Rhyzan steps forward, his broad frame cutting through the dim torchlight, the molten gold of his eyes sharp, unreadable. His armor is streaked with blood—some his own, most not. His movements are careful, measured, but I do not miss the tension in his shoulders, nor the exhaustion etched into his face.
He strides toward me, silent but certain, the doors slamming shut behind him.
I brace myself.
This will not be good news.
The Sentinels step aside as he approaches, their forms flickering between solid and incorporeal. Ever watchful. Ever silent.
"They breached the borders," Rhyzan says, his voice rough like gravel.
The fire in my gut roars.
I flex my claws, exhaling slowly, forcing myself to stay calm. Think before you burn.
"How many?" I ask.
His jaw tightens. "Too many. They sent trained hunters, men who knew what they were doing. We killed most of them, but not all. Many of my warriors fell. The ones who survived are gravely wounded."
I close my eyes for half a second, long enough to taste the bitterness of it.
The king sent assassins into my land. Trained men. Killers. They came to slaughter my people, to spill the blood of those who swore their loyalty to me.
And I let it happen. My body tenses with the urge to destroy. Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the room.
"If they need healing," Vaela says smoothly from the doorway, "then we should go to them. I can help them."
I turn, my eyes narrowing.
She stands with her arms crossed, radiating effortless confidence, draped in the same pearl bodice she always wears—lustrous and fitted, the gleaming shells forming delicate curves that frame her body. Chains of gold drape over her shoulders, catching the candlelight, thin strands cascading down her arms like the remnants of a siren's song turned to metal. Small shell accents glisten along the edges, a mark of her realm, of the deep, unknowable power she wields.
Below, the flowing skirt of deep seafoam silk moves like water, split high along her thigh, teasing flashes of smooth, toned skin with every shift of her weight. It should not hold my attention as long as it does, but my gaze lingers, unwilling, tracing the soft sheen of her skin, the way the light reflects off the pearlescent undertones that seem even more pronounced now that her magic has fully returned.
Her silver hair spills freely down her back, thick and glossy, strands twisted and pinned back with tiny, iridescent shells and stones that gleam like opals. There’s a glow about her, something untamed, something deeper than power. Something that makes her seem untouchable. Divine.
But it’s her eyes that hold me captive.
They burn with something I don’t recognize. Something dangerously close to anger. Vaela does not get angry. She taunts, she teases, she manipulates. But this? This is different.
She is furious .
"Take me to them," she says, stepping forward.
"You assume I will allow that," I murmur, my voice dangerously low.
Her lips curve. "You assume you have a choice."
A muscle ticks in my jaw. She knows she’s pushing me. I should refuse. But my people are dying. And as much as I hate to admit it— I need her.
I exhale sharply. "Fine."
Her smile is slow, knowing, victorious.
"But if you betray me," I growl, stepping closer, letting my magic coil around us both, "you will not live long enough to regret it."
She laughs.
And it fucking infuriates me.
T he wind howls as I fly over the forest, the night air crisp with the scent of damp earth and distant rain. Vaela clings to my back, her body warm against my scales, her silver hair whipping behind her as we soar.
Below us, the land stretches wide and endless, silver-barked trees gleaming beneath the moonlight, their iridescent leaves shifting in waves of violet and green.
The moment we land, I smell it.
Blood.
The clearing is littered with bodies—human and not. The air is thick with the remnants of battle, the scent of blood clinging to the damp earth, mixing with the pungent burn of steel and sweat. The ground is soaked in iron and death, darkened soil churned from the chaos.
Rhyzan’s remaining warriors stand guard, their weapons still drawn, their armor splattered with gore. They are weary, battered, but their stance remains rigid, prepared for any lingering threats. Among them, other creatures of my realm have come forward—those who survived, those who could not stand idly by while their land was attacked. A towering centaur kneels beside one of Rhyzan’s men, his thick fingers pressing against the wound on the warrior’s side, muttering something under his breath. Near the edge of the tree line, a dryad weaves strips of glowing vine around a gaping injury in another soldier’s chest, the soft luminescence dimming with each pulse of healing magic.
And then there are the sounds.
The groans of the wounded, the ragged breathing of those barely clinging to life. The hushed, hurried voices of those trying to mend the damage. A guttural cry splits the air as a man writhes on the ground, his leg barely attached, his pain thick enough to taste in the atmosphere.
I stiffen, my claws flexing at my sides. This is not the first time I have seen my people suffer. It is not the first time I have seen them bleed for me, for my realm. But it does not sting any less.
A rustling of silk pulls my attention.
Vaela slides from my back, her bare feet pressing into the earth. She takes one look at the wounded and steps forward without hesitation.
The river nearby stirs as if sensing her presence.
The water darkens, then glows, a faint, eerie bioluminescent blue creeping along its surface, winding through the current, reaching for her like a creature desperate for its master’s touch.
She lifts her hands.
The river answers.
The water surges forward, splitting into delicate tendrils, writhing through the air like living veins of power. It moves toward the injured, curling around them, seeping into wounds, stitching together torn flesh with liquid grace. The wounded gasp, their pain twisting into stunned relief, their bodies shuddering beneath the weight of the magic that now fills them.
I watch her work, my throat tightening, my magic curling at the edges of my skin like a restless storm.
She is power.
A force as ancient as the tides. A goddess among mortals. And yet, she is here. Healing my people. But what’s shocking the most, is she does not hesitate. She does not falter. For the first time, I do not know whether to hate her for it or be grateful.
My people do not fear her.
They revere her.
Even Rhyzan watches her with something unreadable in his molten-gold eyes. Not reverence, not yet but something close. Something that unsettles me.
A whisper in the trees.
My body stiffens, instincts flaring. The scent of sweat and steel—wrong, human—snakes through the air, sharp against the damp, moss-laced scent of the forest.
I hear the rustle before I see the movement.
I turn too late.
A figure bursts from the shadows, sword raised, his form nothing but a blur of tarnished armor and desperation. His eyes lock onto Vaela, wild and alight with something terrible, something triumphant.
I snarl, moving before thought, my body coiling, fire surging at my fingertips—
But Vaela is faster.
She exhales, a whisper of power spilling from her lips, her magic curling toward the soldier, winding around his legs like living chains. Water surges from the river, snapping up his limbs, dragging him back. He thrashes, gasping, the liquid tendrils climbing higher, wrapping around his throat, his fingers clawing at the unyielding grip of the tide.
His sword clatters to the ground, useless.
I breathe deep, watching the river answer her command, watching the fear that bleeds into his eyes as the water begins to pull him under, the depths opening to swallow him whole.
Then a flash of gold at his throat.
I go rigid.
An amulet, pulsing faintly beneath his armor.
The water hesitates.
His lips curl into a smirk.
Vaela falters—just a fraction, just enough—
And then he moves.
A hidden dagger glints in his grip, his body twisting, using the momentum of the water’s pull to hurl himself forward. His blade slices through the air, aimed for her throat.
Rage sears through me, a wildfire igniting in my veins.
I lunge.
My claws tear into him before the dagger can strike true.
His breath leaves him in a choked wheeze, his eyes widening in shock as I slam him to the ground. Blood splatters, hot and thick against my skin, my talons sinking deep into his chest, shredding through flesh and bone as if he were made of parchment.
He sputters, his lips parting, but no sound escapes.
I bare my fangs, twisting my grip, feeling the frantic, fading beat of his heart beneath my claws. “You dare,” I snarl, voice shaking with barely restrained fury, “raise a hand against what is mine?”
His body convulses once then stills.
I let him drop.
The clearing is silent.
Only the ragged pant of my breath remains, the remnants of my rage curling through the air like smoke. My magic surges, begging for more, demanding more, but the battle is already over. The corpses of the humans lie scattered across the clearing, the river still swirling with the last traces of Vaela’s power.
I turn to her, my claws still dripping with blood.
Her eyes are wide, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.
Not with fear.
No.
Something else.
Something that makes my already-burning blood run hotter.
I grab her wrist, my grip tight, possessive, dragging her away from the others, away from the prying eyes of the wounded, away from the lingering ghosts of war.
She doesn’t resist.
Doesn’t speak.
Not until I slam her against a tree, breath ragged, fury burning in every inch of my body.
Her silver hair spills over the bark, her lips curving in something infuriatingly smug.
“Careful, Nyxara,” she purrs, her voice smooth as dark water. “If I didn’t know better”—
I growl, my claws pressing into the rough bark beside her head, caging her in— “I’d think you cared.” She smirks.
Damn her.
I shift, my form stretching, scales rippling over my skin. My wings unfurl , dark as the void, as I lower myself before her, growling.
"Get on."
She smirks but obeys.
And together, we take to the skies.