Page 46 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)

From all sides of the valley, our forces moved.

Shifters in their dragon forms flew ahead like a tidal wave of wings and fury.

The fae, their eyes glowing with glamour and vengeance, loosed their arrows enchanted with blight and confusion.

And from the eastern ridgeline, part of the Nightwing army swept down like a storm with Jacob at their head, his sword alight with runes.

The ground trembled beneath the weight of power and vengeance.

As I led the central charge, my body moved on instinct. I dodged a bolt of fire and rolled under the swing of a warhammer before burying my blade into the chest of a soldier clad in red. Blood sprayed across my face. I didn’t flinch.

To my left, Garrick was casting, sigils burning across the air with every flick of his hand. Lightning arced from his fingertips, blasting enemies off their feet. “Don’t slow down now, Prince!” he called over the chaos. “They’re expecting you to fall back.”

“Not today,” I growled, ducking a blast of dragon fire.

The sky darkened as Thorne's winged guards took flight, their armor glinting in the morning sun. But Klaus and his fae warriors rose to meet them, taking to the air with wings made of shimmering glamour, like living illusions.

I could barely see Cat’s cloth as it flapped around my wrist, stained now with blood and soot. My heart pulsed in my ears.

Every breath. Every strike. Every step.

All of it was for her.

Hold on, Cat . I'm coming.

The scent of ash filled my lungs.

Smoke curled through the air in serpentine tendrils, clinging to my skin, my cloak, my hair. All around me, the Southern Gate of Dragon Valley burned. Screams and steel rang out in a chaotic symphony. The battle was a storm, and I was at its eye.

My blade cut down a soldier in imperial crimson—Thorne’s colors—just as a gust of flame soared overhead. One of ours. A dragon.

“Damien!” Uncle Bai’s voice snapped me out of my trance. He charged toward me through the smoke now in his human form, his curved blade bloodied and his eyes keen.

“The eastern wall has been breached!” he shouted. “Lord Mercer’s men made it inside. But we’re taking heavy casualties!”

I nodded. “We press forward. Thorne will be in the palace. That’s where we end this.”

Another explosion rocked the cobbled streets. I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t afford to.

Klaus emerged beside me in a flicker of glamour, looking far too composed for someone in the middle of a war. His lavender eyes sparkled with mischief and bloodlust. “You humans and dragons do have a flair for drama,” he drawled.

I momentarily sheathed my blade and glanced at him. “Just keep your word, Fae. We bleed together tonight.”

He offered a half-bow. “Of course, Your Shadowiness.” Then he vanished again, nothing more than a shimmer of light in the smoky chaos.

Behind me, the Nightwing army advanced like a tide of obsidian armor. Lord Mercer led them—tall and broad, with his signature black-plumed helmet gleaming in the firelight.

He caught my stare and nodded curtly. This was just the beginning.

We reached the palace gates just after moonrise.

What was left of them.

The barricade had been blown apart by Garrick’s warlocks, and smoke bellowed from its shattered arch. Bodies littered the steps. Blood soaked the marble.

The palace loomed above us like a sleeping beast, its towers scorched, its banners torn and flapping.

I didn’t hesitate.

Sword in hand, I stormed across the threshold with Uncle Bai and Lord Mercer behind me.

The grand hall had turned into a warzone. Servants, guards, even nobles—everyone had picked a side. And no one was safe.

Klaus’s glamour illusions flickered over the battlefield, creating doubles and shadows that confused the enemy long enough for us to strike.

We moved with a singular goal: To find Thorne.

And then—I felt it.

The pull.

My heart burned. My mark ignited.

She was near.

“Cat.”

I followed the sensation like a hound on a scent, pushing past hallways soaked in blood until I found her in a ruined parlor filled with cracked mirrors and torn tapestries, standing over Maeve’s body.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t need to.

The fury in her eyes was louder than any scream.

I crossed the room and caught her just before she collapsed.

“You're late,” she whispered, barely standing.

“You're alive,” I murmured, holding her against me.

Her fingers curled around the front of my armor. “Thorne—killed her… last night.”

I looked down at Maeve’s still body. Though my throat tightened, we didn’t have time for grief.

“He’ll pay.”

Cat looked up at me with golden eyes burning with a vengeance that mirrored my own.

“Then let’s finish this.”

Thorne was waiting for us in the throne room.

Of course he was.

He sat upon the golden throne like it had been forged for his ruin, the scales of his armor glinting. “Brother,” he greeted. “You’ve brought the circus.”

I stepped forward. “This ends now.”

He rose, and the room darkened.

His eyes glowed with fury. The shadows behind him twisted. He wasn't simply wearing my heart scale—he was using it. Drawing power from it.

I turned to Cat and my uncle. “Don’t interfere.”

“Damien—”

“I have to do this.”

My uncle grabbed Cat’s arm and shook his head, stopping her. He knew very well that this final battle had to be between Thorne and me. And whoever was standing at the end… well, they would be the victor.

She bit her lip, then nodded.

Thorne drew his sword.

So did I.

The final battle would be one of blood, flame, and prophecy, and only one of us would walk away as king.

The throne room pulsed with the kind of electric silence that came before the storm.

Thorne stood opposite me, bathed in flickering firelight, his armor scorched and splattered with blood not his own. Crimson threads ran down his cheek from a shallow cut, but otherwise, he looked unscathed—arrogant and untouchable.

“You should’ve stayed gone,” he sneered. “You never had what it takes.”

I rolled my shoulders and stepped forward. The echo of my boots struck the marble like war drums. “You’re right,” I said evenly. “I didn’t. But then you took what wasn’t yours.”

His eyes flickered and he tapped his chest with a clawed finger, right over his heart. “You mean this ? Funny how something so small can turn a boy into a prince.”

I lunged.

Steel clashed. Sparks flew.

The force of his parry sent vibrations up my arms. He was strong—unnaturally strong—and faster than I remembered. The twin heart scales inside him pulsed with power. I felt them in the air, like the rumble of thunder before lightning.

We fought like only brothers could: with hatred sharp as daggers and a history too old to forget.

His blade sang through the air, nearly taking off my arm. I ducked, kicked him hard in the gut, and sent him staggering back. But he caught himself and came up laughing.

“You're slowing down, little brother.”

“I’m still fast enough to kill you,” I snarled.

We danced across the throne room. Firelight painted the scene in undulating golds and reds. Tapestries burned. Smoke charred the ceiling. Cat and my uncle stayed back, watching and waiting.

Thorne slashed. I blocked.

I swung. He ducked.

But he was stronger, and it was true: I was tiring.

He suddenly charged at me with a barrage of strikes—left, right, up, down. I parried each one, but barely. My arm shook. My shoulder screamed. He was toying with me.

I feinted low, then sliced toward his ribs. The blade cut across his side. He snarled and retaliated with a vicious backhand that sent me crashing into a marble pillar.

My vision blurred. My ribs throbbed.

“You've grown soft,” he said, stalking toward me. “You spent too much time on that island.”

I pushed off the pillar and charged.

We clashed again, and this time I forced him back. Blow after blow, we crashed swords until he locked my blade with his and leaned in, our foreheads nearly touching.

“You can’t win!” he hissed. “You never could.”

I headbutted him.

He reeled back, dazed, and I drove my knee into his gut, then slashed a deep line across his thigh. He screamed and retaliated with a punch to my jaw that knocked a tooth loose.

I spit out a glob of blood and grinned a crimson smile. “Now we’re even.”

He roared, flames flickering in his mouth. He was close to shifting—but the room couldn’t handle two full dragons. We'd bring the whole palace down.

Instead, he launched himself at me again, fists swinging.

We fought hand to hand with no weapons, just raw fury and bruised knuckles. He got a hit in on my ribs—I heard the crack. I got one under his jaw. He fell back. I stumbled.

We circled.

Breathing heavy. Blood dripping.

I drew my dagger. He raised his sword.

And then I dropped to one knee, spent and gasping.

Thorne loomed over me. “And now you fall.”

When he raised his sword to finish it, I knew Cat wouldn’t stand by and watch him kill me, no matter what I said. She was coming to my aid when…

A blinding light exploded from the center of the room.

Everyone froze.

A figure stood where there had been nothing a moment before.

Tall. Luminous. Not glowing but lit from within, as though his very skin held starlight.

His hair was jet black, shoulder-length, and swept back from a face too perfect and serene to belong to any mortal creature.

His eyes were twin voids—a glossy black so dark, they shimmered.

The room held its breath.

Even Thorne stumbled back a step.

Cat gasped and clutched her arm. “What—?”

And then another presence entered the room.

Malachar, in tattered gray robes, stepped forward from the shadows. His milky white eyes seemed to look everywhere but at nothing at all. He bowed deeply. “You stand in the presence of Azareth, the Immortal of Reckoning.”

The name struck like thunder.

An Immortal!

Thorne paled. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “You have no right to—”