Chapter 35 Kess
Kess
The castle shakes.
Dust rains from the ceiling. Somewhere above us, dragons are tearing each other apart—I can hear the roars, the crash of bodies through stone, the screams of men dying. Rhystan is up there fighting his father while I stand in a silver circle and try to remember how to breathe.
"Focus." The mystic's voice cuts through the chaos. "The battle is his. The ritual is yours."
She's right. I know she's right. But every instinct I have is screaming to go up there, to fight beside him, to do something other than stand here while he bleeds for me.
The twins kick sharply. Both of them—our son aggressive and violent, our daughter fluttering in response.
The curse is stirring in my son's blood.
I can feel it through the bond, through whatever connection links mother to child.
He's agitated. Dangerous. The divine rage that's been building for months is reaching critical mass.
We're out of time.
"We start now," I tell the mystic. "Whether Rhystan's here or not."
She nods. Hands me the ritual knife—dragon-forged steel, blessed by the mystic herself, sharp enough to cut through scales. The blade gleams in the candlelight, waiting.
I step into the center of the silver circle.
The herb smoke is thick now, filling my lungs with every breath. It tastes like ash and something sweeter underneath—flowers, maybe, or honey. The mystic said it would help my body accept the transfer. I hope she's right.
Above us, something crashes through stone. The whole castle groans.
I raise the knife.
"Blood of the vessel," the mystic intones. "Freely given."
I draw the blade across my palm. Deep—deeper than I intended, the knife so sharp I barely feel it until blood wells up hot and red, spilling over my fingers, dripping onto the silver lines beneath my feet.
"Blood of the cursed." The mystic looks toward the ceiling. "Freely given."
That's supposed to be Rhystan. He's supposed to be here, cutting his own palm, mingling his blood with mine. But he's not here. He's fighting for his life—for our lives—somewhere above us.
The castle shakes again. Harder this time.
And then the ceiling explodes.
Stone and timber rain down. I throw my arms up to protect my face, feel debris bounce off the scales that have been spreading across my skin for months.
Through the dust and chaos I see him—Rhystan in dragon form, massive and bleeding from a dozen wounds, crashing through the roof with his father's jaws locked around his throat.
They hit the floor ten feet from my circle. Stone cracks beneath their combined weight. Rhystan tears free, shifts to human form mid-motion, and stumbles toward me with blood streaming down his chest.
"The knife." He's gasping, barely standing. "Give me the knife."
I hand it to him. He slashes his palm without hesitation—deep, vicious, matching the wound on my hand. Then he's stepping into the circle with me, pressing his bloody palm against mine, our fingers interlacing.
"Speak the words." His gold eyes bore into mine. "Whatever happens, don't stop."
Behind him, his father is shifting. Rising. Human form now, naked and blood-covered, reaching for a blessed blade that lies in the rubble.
I start speaking.
The words pour out of me—harsh consonants and guttural stops, the old tongue I've been practicing for weeks. Each syllable resonates with power that vibrates in my bones. The silver circle flares beneath us, bright enough to hurt.
"No." Valdris has the blade now. He's staggering toward us, holy fire dancing along the edge. "I won't let you destroy everything—"
Rhystan moves to intercept. But he's too slow, too wounded, and his father is driven by three hundred years of conviction.
I keep speaking.
The words are the only thing that matters. The ritual is the only thing that matters. Whatever happens outside this circle, whatever violence unfolds around me, I have to finish.
The curse responds.
I feel it like a hook in my chest—something vast and ancient and furious, pulling at the blood connection between Rhystan and me. Three centuries of divine punishment, coiled in his bones, suddenly unspooling.
And pouring into me.
The agony is absolute.
It's not pain the way I understand pain—not injury, not damage, not anything physical. It's wrongness. Divine rage flooding into a vessel that was never meant to hold it, forcing itself into spaces that don't exist, remaking me cell by cell.
I'm screaming. I know I'm screaming because I can feel my throat tearing with it. But I can't stop speaking the words. Can't stop the ritual now that it's started. The curse is a river and I've opened the dam and there's nothing to do but let it pour through.
Images flash through my mind—not mine. Rhystan's. Three hundred years of memories carried on the current of the curse. I see omegas dying in his arms. See his mother's blood on his claws. See decades of isolation, guilt, desperation, the slow erosion of hope until nothing remained but endurance.
I see him wanting to die. Over and over. Climbing cliffs to throw himself off, letting enemies get too close, refusing food for weeks at a time. The curse wouldn't let him go. Kept him alive for this—for the chance that someday, someone might be strong enough to take it from him.
I'm strong enough, I think at the curse, at the divine punishment, at whatever War God created this horror. I'm warrior omega. This is what my bloodline was made for.
The curse doesn't care.
It just keeps coming.
My body is changing.
I can feel it happening even through the agony—scales erupting across my skin, not gradually like before but all at once. My nails darkening into claws. My teeth sharpening. My eyes burning as they shift from human brown to draconic gold.
The transformation the mystic warned me about. Forced. Accelerated. Minutes instead of months.
Most hosts die, the texts said. The curse is too much for mortal vessels to contain.
I am not most hosts.
I am the last of the warrior omegas. The wild bloodline that was supposed to be extinct. My ancestors metabolized divine power while dragons were still learning to fly.
I can do this.
I will do this.
The last word of the ritual tears from my throat—more roar than speech, more dragon than human. The silver circle blazes white-hot. The curse slams into me like a fist, like a mountain, like three centuries of compressed rage finally finding its target.
And I hold.
I hold because my daughter's life depends on it. Because my son deserves to be free. Because Rhystan has been carrying this alone for three hundred years and it's my turn now.
I hold until the transfer is complete.
Until the curse settles into my bones like molten iron, burning and changing and finally, finally going still.
Then I collapse.
I'm on my knees in the silver circle.
The ritual is done—I can feel it, the magic complete, the curse transferred. My body is wracked with aftershocks, tremors rolling through me as the divine rage finds its new home. Everything hurts. Everything is different.
But I'm alive.
I'm alive, and—
I reach for the twins through the bond. Through whatever connection links mother to children.
Our son is quiet. Calm. The curse that rode his blood is gone—I can feel its absence like a missing tooth, the space where violence used to coil now empty and peaceful.
Our daughter is there too. Strong. Kicking. No longer hiding from a brother who wanted to destroy her.
They're safe.
I saved them.
A sob tears from my transformed throat. Or maybe a laugh—I can't tell anymore, can't separate relief from agony from the overwhelming strangeness of what I've become.
"Kess." Rhystan's voice, rough with fear. He's on his knees beside me, bloody hands framing my face. "Kess, look at me. Are you—"
Movement behind him.
Valdris. Still standing. Still holding the blessed blade. Blood streaming from wounds Rhystan gave him, but driven by something beyond pain. Beyond reason.
He's looking at me like I'm an abomination.
And he's raising the blade.
"Rhystan—" I try to warn him, but my voice comes out wrong, guttural and strange.
He turns.
His father lunges.
And everything happens at once.