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THREE

SERAPHINE

S eraphine walked through the veiled city with her chin high, her whitefire cloak brushing the cobbled path behind her.

Mist coiled around obsidian spires like breath held too long, and the bioluminescent moss underfoot pulsed faintly with each of her steps, as though recognizing the blood in her veins.

People bowed as she passed.

Not only out of respect, but also fear. And she preferred it that way.

The Court of Claws for the Dragonborne convened in the Heartspire, a twisted tower that pierced the clouds above the capital.

Inside, it was less a hall and more a battlefield with chairs.

Every monarch, regent, and heir from the major shifter Houses had a place here, just like in every major shifter castle—every one of them would sell the other for an edge.

Seraphine stepped through the obsidian arch and into the pit of vipers.

The chamber buzzed with low voices, sharp glances.

Murals carved into the walls shifted as she passed—dragons devouring their enemies, wolves howling beneath blood moons, panthers blending into shadows and bats flapping against the darkness.

The scent of ancient magic clung to everything, like old perfume worn long past its charm.

She didn’t falter.

Not when the Umbraclaw delegation gave her cool nods from the shadows. Not when Grimhart’s brute prince Calder gave her a lopsided smile and a subtle fist-to-chest. And certainly not when Vaela Drakar, in all her icy perfection, rose from her seat at the edge of the Drakar circle.

“Cousin,” Vaela said, voice like sweet wine laced with poison. “You’re late.”

Seraphine gave her a thin smile. “You’re always early. I suppose we each have our vices.”

Vaela’s eyes glittered, blue as frozen steel. Her pale silk robes clung to her like mist, and her fingers sparkled with gold-tipped claws she’d sharpened more for show than use. A dozen courtiers hovered behind her, sycophants and softbloods all cut from the same decorative cloth.

Seraphine didn’t bother looking at them. She locked eyes with Vaela and held.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Until the older woman turned with a flourish and resumed her seat.

Torren Blackfang, at her side like a living war banner, murmured low, “You didn’t kill her. I’m proud.”

“She’s not worth the paperwork,” Seraphine muttered, striding toward her seat.

The Emperor’s throne no longer sat empty.

Zareth Drakar loomed from the center of the chamber, cast in shadow and dragonlight, the throne’s spiked back curling around him like the jaws of an ancient beast. He did not rise. His presence alone silenced the room.

His golden eyes swept the gathered rulers like a general surveying terrain. When they landed on Seraphine, they sharpened—not with warmth, but with expectation. She knew the look. It was the same one he gave battlefield maps. Problem. Solution. Piece.

He was a man who had outlived kings, rewritten laws, and broken bloodlines to preserve House Drakar’s legacy.

Even now, he studied his Court like a board full of untrustworthy pieces.

“The Hollow stirs,” he said, voice flat as a blade’s edge. “You’ve all heard the prophecy. You know what it means.”

Murmurs followed. None dared speak over him, but the ripple of unease spread like wildfire.

“Some say it’s myth,” offered Vaela, smooth as glass. She didn’t rise. Her voice carried. “Old stories told to frighten the weak. Whispers to keep us from tearing each other apart.”

Zareth didn’t blink. “And yet, our prophets choke on shadow. Entire scouts vanish without trace. Do myths devour cities now?”

A hush fell over the court. Seraphine felt it in her chest—the weight of inevitability.

“The blade that once sealed the Hollow has shattered,” Zareth continued. “To stop it, the Heartblade must be reforged. And there is only one who can wield its reforged power.”

His gaze locked on her, unflinching.

Seraphine met it head-on. “Then I’ll retrieve it.”

Zareth inclined his head a fraction—approval, maybe. Or expectation fulfilled.

“I will need passage through Skyforged territory and cooperation from House Sablewing,” she added, voice clear.

“You’ll have it,” said Malrik, lounging like a prince of shadows, his fangs just barely visible as he grinned. “Our messengers have seen the Hollow up close. The blood price for inaction is too high.”

Vaela’s lips curved. “How very... civic-minded of you.”

Malrik’s grin widened. “Even bats know when the sky’s about to fall.”

Zareth waved a hand, ending their sniping with a simple gesture. “Save your posturing. Fire doesn’t care who it consumes.” Then his gaze swept across the room again.

“This is not diplomacy. It is survival. And the one standing beside me,” he gestured to Seraphine without looking at her—“has been forged for that singular purpose. She is the blade I place at the Hollow’s heart.”

Seraphine resisted the urge to flinch. Not the wielder. The blade.

Vaela, as always, smelled weakness like blood. “Forgive me, Emperor,” she said, honeyed and slow. “But the rumors surrounding her... guide. They are troubling.”

Zareth’s eyes narrowed, but he allowed it.

“She travels with an outcast,” Vaela continued. “A halfblood mercenary. A man with magic that should not exist.”

Seraphine’s spine stiffened.

“The guide is mine to command,” she said evenly. “His name is Cassian Veyne. He’s fought Hollowborn and survived. That is more than I can say for half your soldiers.”

“A stray,” Vaela hissed. “With corrupted fire.”

“And still breathing,” Seraphine snapped. “Which is more than we can say for your last handpicked scouts.”

The room fell silent.

Zareth let the silence sit until it coiled tight around every throat. Then, slowly, he spoke. “If she fails,” he said, still staring at the room and not her, “the fault will be hers alone. And the price will be... thorough.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

But for now, she had his permission.

Seraphine bowed her head just slightly. “Then I’ll do what you forged me to do.”

Zareth leaned back into his throne. “See that you do.”

Later, in her private chambers in the Heartspire’s eastern wing, Seraphine stood at the window, looking out at Aethermoor’s haunted skyline.

Mist swirled like ghosts. Somewhere far below, a dragon roared—part warning, part lament.

Torren entered, silent as a shadow.

“She pushed too far,” he said.

“She always does.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You’re serious about this Veyne?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out a sigil-stamped scroll. The details of her guide. His record. His past. Or what little of it had survived the purges.

“He’s dangerous,” she said. “But not like Vaela thinks. Not reckless or unstable. Besides, you know I don’t want him. My father chose him, he just chose to leave that part out in there.”

Torren crossed his arms. “Then what would you say he is?”

She turned.

“He’s unclaimed. Untamed. Like a blade never filed down. And if we’re facing the end of everything... I’d rather fight beside someone who never learned how to lose.”

Torren said nothing for a long time. Then, gruffly, “He won’t kneel.”

“He doesn’t have to.” Seraphine looked back out at the city.

Not for the first time, she wondered what her mother—long dead, long buried beneath the Drakar spires—would have thought of this mission. Of this alliance. Of the woman she’d become.

Would she have seen the cracks beneath the armor? Would she have told her it was alright to be afraid?

Probably not.

Drakar women didn’t fear.

They burned.

Seraphine Drakar was about to walk into the darkest fire the world had ever known.