Page 37

37

RHAEGAR

T he air around the artifact hums like it knows we’re about to destroy it.

Nora stands in front of it, her hand still faintly glowing with the aftershock of the translation. Her expression is unreadable. Still. Too still.

It unsettles me.

I’m standing only a few paces behind her, blades at the ready, every muscle tense with unspoken anticipation. This thing—this prison—has been the root of too much. And the moment she understood what it truly was, I thought the decision would be easy.

But she hasn’t moved.

Hasn’t said a word.

The spire pulses in quiet defiance, veins of red and gold pulsing through obsidian. A heartbeat. A breath. A tether to something that wants to be free .

I move toward her cautiously. “Nora?”

She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t blink. Her head tilts ever so slightly to the side, as if listening to something only she can hear.

“I know what it’s doing,” I say, louder now. “It’s whispering to you again. You have to fight it. You have to be the one to end this.”

She finally speaks, but her voice is strange—soft, cold. “She says… if we keep it, we don’t have to fight anymore. We could rule . Together.”

My blood runs ice-cold.

Not because of what she says.

But because I see it—her eyes.

Not blue. Not gold.

Black. Glinting with fire.

I move fast.

Blade in hand, I spin and drive it forward—not toward her—but toward the artifact.

I don’t hesitate.

Steel strikes stone and a shriek erupts—not from the artifact—but from within it. Something alive . Something caged.

The first blow fractures the surface. The second splits the glyphs apart in a burst of light.

The third wakes the dead.

The ground quakes. The runes flare. The entire ruin shudders as if trying to breathe through a shattered lung. And then?—

A shadow peels itself free from the far wall. Not just another Wraithborn scout.

This one is different.

Taller. Armored in bone etched with ritual markings. A helm like a broken crown. Its mouth sewn shut with molten gold and yet I hear its voice.

Inside my head.

“You dare awaken me?”

The Wraithborn Warlord.

One of Medea’s generals.

I raise my blade just in time as it descends, sword gleaming with soulflame. The impact sends me skidding back across the floor. I slam into a pillar hard enough to fracture bone. My vision spins. My magic stutters.

But I force myself upright.

“Nora, run !”

She doesn’t.

She’s frozen, clutching her head. Her magic is flaring around her like a storm barely leashed, reacting to the Warlord’s presence—maybe even resonating with it.

He steps toward her, ignoring me now. His focus is her . And she still hasn’t moved.

“You were mine once,” the Warlord says inside our heads. “You wore a crown of ruin. You bound us with blood. Come back, and we will finish what we began.”

I throw my blade.

It slices across his face—more a distraction than a wound—but it buys me seconds. I charge again, claws extended, wings tearing the ash behind me as I crash into him.

The Warlord catches me by the throat.

Lifts me like I’m nothing.

His fingers burn into my skin. My magic howls in protest, flickering like it wants to collapse.

And then?—

Nora screams .

Not a cry of fear.

A command.

The air detonates around us in a shockwave of pure, ancient power. Magic not born of this age. Older. Wilder. Hers .

The Warlord reels, his grip loosening as fire—not elemental, but something deeper—wraps around his limbs and begins to burn inward . He shrieks without opening his mouth, his armor melting, his form unraveling.

I fall, gasping.

And Nora rises.

Her eyes glow—not with Medea’s hunger—but her own fury. Her own will .

She speaks in the Wraithborn tongue, low and furious. Words that tear reality, twist the stone beneath her feet.

“You are unbound. You are forgotten. You have no dominion here.”

The Warlord collapses.

Not dead. Not destroyed.

But banished .

His armor crumbles into dust, leaving only silence behind.

The magic vanishes.

And then, she sinks to her knees.

I’m at her side in an instant, wrapping my arms around her even as I shake.

She’s trembling. Eyes wide. Breath shallow.

“I didn’t know I could do that,” she whispers.

“I didn’t know anyone could do that,” I answer.

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t Medea,” she says softly.

“No.” I brush her hair from her cheek. “You were you . And you saved us.”

But her voice breaks as she says, “It scared me.”

I pull her into my arms tighter.

“It scared me too.”

For one terrible second—I wasn’t sure which side she was on.

And now I wonder… if she knows anymore.