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ONE

SERAPHINE

T he training court reeked of old smoke and fresh blood.

Seraphine’s boots ground against scorched obsidian as she pivoted sharply, ducking beneath the swing of a war axe and driving her elbow into the ribs of her opponent.

The crunch was satisfying. A grunt echoed from the armored bastard as he stumbled back, clutching his side.

She didn’t wait for him to recover. House Drakar didn’t breed patience into their heirs.

She spun, whitefire licking at her fingertips, and landed a sharp uppercut beneath his jaw. The blast sent him flying.

Silence rang out across the blackened court.

Torren Blackfang, her combat instructor and lifelong tormentor—grunted from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. His jagged dragonbone pauldron caught the afternoon sun and gleamed like a warning.

“Sloppy footwork on your third pivot,” he said, not bothering to look up from his sharpening stone. “You almost tripped on your own pride.”

Seraphine wiped the sweat from her brow, straightened, and turned to him with a smirk. “Still flattened your best man.”

“He’s not my best.” Torren finally glanced up. “Just the only one dumb enough to bet he could land a hit.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Her chest heaved with exertion. Beneath her scales—subtle and shimmering in the right light—her skin ached from bruises yet to bloom. But it was a good ache. A familiar one. Pain had been her companion long before power ever deigned to notice her.

“You done admiring yourself, Icefire?” Torren asked, tossing her a waterskin.

Seraphine caught it and drank deep. The nickname meant to mock the cold detachment she wielded as skillfully as her fire—no longer stung. She wore it like armor. Better that than show them how much she burned underneath.

“I’m not here to admire anything,” she said, voice flat. “I’m here to be ready.”

Torren nodded once. Approval, in his language. It was the closest she’d get to praise today. “Then you’ll want to wash up. Your father’s summoned you.”

She stiffened.

The Emperor did not “summon.” He commanded. And if he was calling her, it wasn’t for idle talk.

She turned toward the towering gates of the Drakar Citadel without another word. As she walked, the wind kicked up the ever-present scent of sulfur and scorched metal. The mountains surrounding the citadel wept slow rivers of molten gold—House Drakar’s inheritance, its curse, its pride.

She was its heir.

The throne room was carved from volcanic glass and old bones. Massive dragon skulls lined the walls, their hollow sockets forever watching, judging. The light here was wrong—more shadow than flame, more memory than presence.

Her father sat atop the bone-sculpted throne like he’d grown from it. Zareth Drakar, Emperor of Fire, Wielder of Goldflame, Last of the Crowned Flameborn. He was a statue given breath. Ageless, inhuman, terrifying in his stillness.

“Seraphine,” he said, not rising, not smiling.

She bowed low, as tradition demanded, but her gaze never left his.

“You called for me.”

“Prophecy stirs,” he said, voice like a forge bellows. “And I am not fond of surprises.”

She waited.

He gestured, and a robed figure stepped forward from the shadows. Her stomach clenched. The Seers of the Ashen Flame were rarely summoned—never for good tidings.

The Seer’s eyes glowed white, her mouth unmoving as a voice—not hers—spoke through her.

“The Hollow wakes. Beneath fire and bone, it stirs. Hungers. The blade that sealed it lies broken. The heir must rise, or all shall fall.”

The room chilled despite the fire that danced in its walls. Seraphine blinked. “The Hollow is a myth.”

Zareth’s golden eyes narrowed. “And dragons were once myths to men. That did not save them when we razed their cities.”

She held back her instinct to argue. Arguing with Zareth was like throwing water on magma. It only made the explosion worse.

“So what is it?” she asked. “This Hollow?”

“A void,” the Seer whispered. “Magic-eater. Soul-thief. It was sealed before your line ever drew breath.”

Zareth’s gaze sliced through her. “And now it rises again. My line must seal it—your line.”

“Alone?”

A cruel smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Hardly. You’ll take a team. Recover the Heartblade fragments. And destroy the Hollow before it spreads.”

Seraphine swallowed hard. “Why me?”

“You are my heir,” he said simply. “And because your fire burns through fate itself. Whitefire can unmake what even time forgot.”

Her stomach flipped. She’d been trained her whole life to fight, to command, to lead. But this—this wasn’t war.

This was legacy.

Legacy always came with a price.

“Where do I start?” she asked.

Zareth turned his gaze toward the ancient map scorched into the floor. It depicted the Veil Dominion, outlined in ember lines and flickering sigils. He tapped a clawed finger on the southeastern quadrant. The Skyforged Ruins.

“You begin there. We lost contact with a scouting party two days ago.”

A flicker of unease passed through her. The Skyforged were cursed. Haunted. Even Torren avoided them.

“I want two of my own,” she said.

Zareth’s eyes narrowed. “You want conditions?”

“I want control. If I’m meant to face prophecy, I don’t do it half-blind.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Then, surprisingly, he nodded.

“Very well,” he said. “But if they fall, you keep moving. The Hollow will not wait for your grief.”

It never does, she thought.

Hours later, Seraphine stood in her chambers, peeling off layers of ceremonial armor. Gold-plated scales clattered onto the stone floor. Her body ached again. But this time, it wasn’t from sparring. It was from the weight of destiny.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Hair the color of embers braided tightly back. Skin bronze and marbled with the faint shimmer of draconic scales. Gold eyes, ringed with flickers of white flame.

Everyone saw the heir. The weapon. The prophecy-bearer.

No one saw the girl beneath it all.

Duty before everything. That was the creed. It had kept her alive—but alone.

Now she was being sent into haunted ruins, chasing after myths with nothing but fire and fate.

She exhaled sharply.

“Fuck.”

The curse slipped out, low and sharp. She hadn’t meant it. But it felt good. Real.

A knock at her door pulled her from the moment.

It was Torren, holding a scroll.

“Your detail’s been selected,” he said. “And your guide.”

She arched a brow. “Guide?”

Torren hesitated. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“Try me.”

He handed over the scroll. She unrolled it and froze.

The name at the top was unfamiliar, but the bloodline wasn’t. Not entirely.

Cassian Veyne. Mercenary. Dragonblooded. Outcast. Rogue fire.

Unregistered, unsanctioned, impure.

Seraphine’s pulse jumped.

“What the hell is this?”

“The Emperor’s order.”

She glared. “He’s a half blooded mercenary with outlawed flame. He’s a disgrace! My father actually wants him leading?”

“He wants you paired with someone... adaptable. Someone who won’t flinch in the Wyrdlands. And the only bastard who’s come back from the Hollow’s edge intact.”

Silence stretched.

She folded the scroll and tucked it into her belt. “Fine. I’ll meet him at dawn.”

Torren nodded and turned to leave, but paused at the door.

“You’re stronger than him,” he said. “Just don’t underestimate what he’s willing to burn.”

When the door shut, Seraphine looked back at the mirror.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t just see the heir. She saw a woman standing at the edge of something vast, dark, and terrifying.

Her fire didn’t flicker.

It surged.