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The ancient stones groan beneath my feet as I storm through the ruins of the demolished ceiling. On the walls of the chamber all around I see flames licking up tapestries and turning ice to steam. Bodies litter the floor at my feet as the battle rages around me—both my men and Ulric's, their blood freezing almost instantly on the frost-covered stones. The battle rages around me in a chaos of steel and scale and fire.

But I barely register any of it. My focus has narrowed to a knife's edge, every instinct trained on the woman standing amid the destruction.

Calliope.

She's thinner than I remember, more fragile, dark hair falling in tangles around her scarred, too-pale face. The fine dress she wears hangs loose on her frame, and there are shadows beneath her eyes that speak of exhaustion. But gods, she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Even weak and afraid, her presence fills the space like smoke, like storm clouds gathering before lightning strikes.

Our connection flares stronger than ever, cutting through my rage, then sitting in the burning center of it. I feel her exhaustion, her fear, but also a fierce determination that makes my blood sing with recognition. Something else pulses between us too, strange and warm, but before I can identify it, movement catches my eye.

Ulric stands in the rubble between us with the posture of a serpent rearing, loosed from its den, brushing dust from his fine clothes with casual grace. Blood stains his face and coats one side of his golden hair, but his smile is triumphant as ever. Looking at him—at the brother I trusted once, so very long ago—makes something twist painfully in my chest.

"I must say, brother," he calls over the din of battle, "you're losing your touch. I expected you days ago. The Lords must be keeping you busy indeed."

Smoke rises between my teeth. "Not too busy to deal with traitorous ghasts like you."

"Traitorous?" Ulric laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "I prefer…ambitious. Someone has to drag our family's legacy into a new era. And speaking of family…" His gaze slides to Calliope, something possessive in his expression that makes my scales ripple beneath my skin. "Your wife has been quite the delightful guest."

"Guest?" The word comes out in a growl that's more dragon than human. I turn to Calliope, really looking at her now. She stands unbound, unchained—free in a way she never was in Millrath. She’s well-dressed, if thin and haggard. Her cold and ice swirl around us with fierce promise.

But— no . It can’t be true. I’ve felt her fear, seen her distress. If she stayed, it must have been because she had no choice, or so I desperately try to convince myself.

"Arvoren—" Calliope takes a step toward me, but sways slightly, catching herself against the wall. Something's wrong with her movements, sluggish and uncertain. "It's not what you think."

“Calliope.” Bitterness floods my mouth like acid, and I speak before I can stop myself, desperate to know. “Tell me this—was my brother's prison more to your liking than mine?"

The words come out harsher than I intend, driven by weeks of fear and doubt and desperate longing. I see the hurt flash across her face and hate myself for putting it there, but I can't seem to stop. Not with Ulric watching us both with that knife-edge smile.

"You don't understand," she says, her voice raw. "He's been—"

"Oh, come now," Ulric cuts in smoothly. "No need for dramatics. Why not tell him the truth, little bird? About our talks, our plans? About the future we could build together?"

The possessive note in his voice makes my vision bleed red at the edges. Before I can stop myself, I've crossed the space between us, catching him by the throat. Scales ripple fully to the surface as I slam him against the ground hard enough to crack the ancient stone.

"Choose your next words carefully, brother," I snarl, smoke curling from my mouth. "They may be your last."

But Ulric just laughs, even as my claws dig into his flesh. "Going to kill me, Arvoren? In front of your wife? Show her what a monster you truly are?"

"He's lying," Calliope calls out, desperation in her voice. "Arvoren, he's been drugging me, keeping me weak—”

A horn blast cuts through the chaos above us, deep and resonant. Then another answers, and another, the sound echoing off stone until it becomes a physical pressure against my skull. Ulric's smile widens as fresh troops pour in from both ends of the corridor—at least thirty warriors, all bearing his personal sigil.

"Did you think I wouldn't be prepared?" he asks softly, for my ears alone. "That I wouldn't have plans within plans? You've grown predictable, brother. All that power, all that fury, and still so easy to manipulate."

I release him with a snarl of rage, falling back to where Calliope stands. My own forces are outnumbered at least three to one now, and more of Ulric's men arrive with each passing moment. Already I can hear fighting on the floors above and below as the rest of his garrison mobilizes.

"Darian!" I shout to my commander, who battles three guards near the ruined ceiling. "Fall back! Defensive positions!"

He acknowledges with a sharp nod, calling orders to the others. My warriors begin a fighting retreat, forming a protective ring around Calliope and me. But Ulric's men press forward, forcing us deeper into the castle's maze-like corridors.

"Stay close to me," I tell Calliope as we back away. She stumbles slightly, and I catch her arm to steady her. Her skin burns despite the bitter cold. She’s shaking a little, perhaps with adrenaline.

"I can help," she insists, though her voice shakes. "My magic—"

"You can barely stand." The words come out harsher than I intend, driven by fear for her safety. "Just stay behind me."

A flash of her old defiance sparks in her eyes. "I don't need your protection—"

"Clearly you do," I snap, ducking as a crossbow bolt whizzes past my head. "Or was letting my brother get this close part of some grand plan?"

Her sharp intake of breath tells me I've gone too far, but there's no time to take the words back. Ulric's men are everywhere, pressing us back with coordinated attacks that speak of careful training. These aren't common soldiers—they're elite warriors, probably hand-picked for this very confrontation.

We retreat through torch-lit corridors that seem to twist and change with each turn. The tower's strange geometry works against us, passages that should connect instead of leading to dead ends. More than once we're forced to double back, barely escaping becoming cornered by Ulric's forces.

The fighting grows more desperate with each passing moment. My warriors are some of the finest in Kaldoria, but they're exhausted from days of hard riding, and the confined space prevents full transformation. One by one they fall—Kestrel takes a sword through the gut, while Atticus is overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Their deaths fuel my rage, but rage alone won't be enough to save us.

"This way!" Calliope tugs at my arm, pointing down a narrow side passage. "There's a way out through the kitchens, I think—”

An explosion rocks the corridor before she can finish. The ceiling caves in ahead of us, blocking our intended path with rubble. Through the settling dust, I see Ulric pelting across the far end of the hall, approaching fast.

"I tried to be reasonable," he calls out, his voice carrying easily over the chaos. "Tried to show you a better way. But if you insist on clinging to the old order…" He draws the longsword at his hip. "Then the hard way it is."

Ancient magic crackles through the air like lightning before a storm, making my scales ripple uncomfortably beneath my skin. This is more than just architecture—the entire fortress is a weapon, and my brother knows exactly how to wield it.

If we don’t run now, cut our losses and break for the cold beyond this place, we will die here.

I know it with terrifying certainty.