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FIFTY-SIX

T he Founding Pyre chamber seemed smaller in the blood moon’s influence, the ancient stones pressing closer like sentient observers. Zina descended the hidden staircase behind Xai, her hand trailing along the cool wall for balance. The air grew thicker with each step, heavy with magic and untold centuries of power.

At the chamber’s heart, the triangular flame pulsed erratically. No longer the steady, harmonious glow they’d first discovered, now the tri-colored fire fractured into separate tendrils—gold, purple, and red reaching outward as if seeking escape from their eternal convergence.

“Something’s wrong,” Zina whispered, though the observation seemed painfully obvious. “The flames shouldn’t move like this.”

“The blood moon disrupts the balance.” Xai circled the platform, maintaining a cautious distance.

“This is so not good,” she murmured. “We need to prepare. Eighteen hours isn’t much time to save the world.”

His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb tracing the curve of her bottom lip. “I’ve accomplished quite a lot in less.”

“Arrogant dragon,” she teased, leaning into his touch, nonetheless.

“Confident,” he corrected, bending to brush his lips across hers. “Long life teaches one to appreciate the value of time.”

The kiss remained light, a promise rather than a demand. They both understood the danger looming ahead—the luxury of distraction would come later. If they survived.