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Two figures dart through the shadows at the edges of the battle, too graceful to be human.

One emerges into a shaft of moonlight from the shattered skylight above: Lirienne, a female fae with obsidian skin, her eyes glowing with an ethereal violet light.

With a flick of her wrists, she summons thorny vines that burst from the stone floor, entangling three clearblood guards.

A second fae with hair the color of autumn leaves, Laken, arrives at her side, assisting her.

Three more vampires emerge from a side corridor, launching into the fray to assist Isander.

“There!” Riona points toward a gap in the clearblood line. “We can break through there!”

Before I can answer, Corvin turns, spotting me through the chaos. His expression shifts, eyes widening in a mixture of relief and something else—alarm? He gestures frantically toward me, shouting something I can’t hear over the chaos of battle.

“Esme!” His voice finally breaks through, powerful enough to carry across the atrium. “Isander! Extract Esme now! All units retreat to extraction points! Fall back to Darkbirch!”

Isander’s head snaps in my direction, his wings already unfurling to their full span. He launches himself over the battle, dodging energy bolts with grace, his trajectory aimed directly at me.

Operatives begin disengaging, laying down cover fire as they back toward the exits. It’s a coordinated withdrawal, clearly planned in advance. They came here with explicit orders—get me out, then leave immediately.

Isander lands before me in a powerful rush of air and flashes me a grin.

“Time to go.” He’s already moving, arms wrapping around my waist as his wings snap open.

Then we’re airborne, his powerful wings propelling us upward toward the shattered skylight.

The battle recedes below us, growing smaller with alarming speed.

We burst through into the night air, the cool breeze a shock against my skin.

Below, Heathborne is in chaos—magical alarms blaring, lights flashing, figures rushing through the courtyard.

I glimpse our team executing a perfect fighting retreat, covering each other as they make for the extraction points at the perimeter.

Wind whips my hair across my face as we ascend, the castle shrinking beneath us. But even as we gain altitude, my mind races. Dayn’s words echo uncomfortably in my thoughts.

Your grandmother wanted you transformed. More powerful. More valuable to your coven.

I can’t argue that this was an unusually resource-intensive extraction. If I’m honest with myself, I’m certain this many agents wouldn’t have been deployed for me if I were not suddenly… more valuable—my ancient bloodline be damned.

I flex my fingers, watching shadows dance between them effortlessly.

The power coursing through my veins feels different from anything I’ve ever known—darker, more primal, yet strangely harmonious with my darkblood essence.

What if Dayn wasn’t entirely wrong? What if this transformation was exactly what my grandmother intended?

The thought should disturb me more than it does. Being manipulated, used as a pawn in some greater scheme—it’s everything I’ve fought against at Heathborne. And yet...

I summon a tendril of shadow to my palm, watching it coil and twist with perfect responsiveness.

The sensation is exhilarating, like discovering a limb I never knew I had.

I can feel every shadow below us, sense the darkness between stars above.

My awareness extends outward in all directions, and I feel as if I could map the world, in ways I never imagined possible.

Is this really so terrible? This power thrumming through me feels like liberation. Like potential. Like I could reshape the world if I wanted to.

“You’re different,” Isander observes, his voice carrying over the rush of wind. “Something in you has changed.”

I don’t answer, too caught in the intoxicating rush of energy surging through my system. I feel invincible, unstoppable, like I could take on Heathborne’s entire army single-handedly and emerge victorious. Is this what Dayn feels all the time? No wonder he carries himself with such arrogance.

A deafening crack splits the night, so powerful it reverberates through my bones. Isander falters mid-flight, his wings missing a beat as we both turn toward the sound.

Below us, Heathborne’s north-east wing is splitting apart, stone walls crumbling as something massive forces its way through from within. The castle’s architecture groans and gives way, centuries-old masonry collapsing like paper as an enormous form emerges from the rubble .

First comes a massive clawed hand, obsidian scales gleaming like polished onyx in the moonlight, each talon at least five feet.

Then a serpentine neck, powerful and sinuous, supporting a head that could swallow a carriage whole.

Wings unfurl next, vast membranes that blot out the stars as they spread to their full, impossible span.

Isander gasps, his arms tightening around me as he hovers in place, transfixed by the sight below.

The dragon shakes debris from its scales, golden flecks shimmering across its massive obsidian body, its eyes burning with ancient intelligence as it surveys the destruction around it.

The beast turns its massive head skyward, nostrils flaring as it draws in the night air.

Those eyes—molten gold with vertical pupils—lock onto us with terrifying precision.