Page 55 of Wrath of the Dragons (Fear the Flames #2)

My lips part as I look around me. My dragons’ flames are different from those I’ve seen them blow previously—their fire reflects the color of their scales.

Flames as red as the ripest cherry spill from Venatrix’s mouth, streaked with pink and gold.

The heat that accompanies them is overwhelming, so much hotter than earthly fire.

Sorin cuts a line down a ship with emerald flames as black dances within, and Basilius does the same with lavender.

Calithea’s flesh-melting silver flames shimmer like stars, and Delmira’s burn like a blue sky with the sun at the center.

I recall Asena telling me dragonfire and earthly fire were two entirely different elements, but I didn’t expect them to look vastly different. Dragonfire is so beautiful that an onlooker would burn themselves trying to bottle it as a keepsake.

Screams drift up to me, twining together with the essence of their demise as smoke stings my eyes.

Venatrix blasts another ship, spitting fire as she glides just above the water, setting more ablaze as she turns her head side to side.

Sharp shrill shrieks rise in the distance, and I spot leathery, scaled bodies thrashing through the air.

Wyverns.

“ Don’t show mercy, ” Cayden’s voice echoes in my mind. It’s them or us, so I harden my heart and push forward .

“Venatrix, Sorin, Calithea,” I command. “Vetàs tesis wyverns!” Attack the wyverns.

Venatrix tips her wings up, an answering roar echoing through the other two as Basilius and Delmira stay behind to continue burning the fleet. Imirath will spend ages removing the graveyard of shattered and splintered ships. No one will be able to sail into this port once we’re done with them.

We sharply upturn, and I jolt in the saddle as Venatrix’s jaw unhinges and latches around a wyvern’s neck.

She takes the beast by surprise as her fangs slice through the flesh like warm butter, splattering the pair of us in blood.

The rider’s eyes are entirely white as she tries to keep hold of the mental connection to the wyvern, but they clear once the beast goes limp in Venatrix’s hold.

Her face ripples with pure terror as Venatrix unlatches her teeth and I fire my crossbow, hitting the rider straight through the chest before Venatrix lets the pair of them fall to the sea.

I hook the crossbow onto the saddle again, looking toward the sandy shore soaked with blood and littered with bodies.

Sorin kills two wyverns flying close to the ground, flaying several enemy soldiers in the blast. Calithea isn’t far behind, shooting up beneath a wyvern approaching me and decapitating it.

The battle continues as entrails and flames descend, and the clattering of swords rises.

I bare my teeth, continuing to shoot commands down the bond and letting all of Imirath and its allies see what happens when you wrong someone more powerful than you.

Cayden

I leave a trail of corpses in my wake, dodging the entrails Elowen drops from the sky and arrows aimed at me.

Blood slides down my armor and though I’ve never had a problem instilling fear in the enemy, the dragon helm certainly helps.

All it does is solidify the image Ravaryn has of me: not entirely human, but some kind of monster ruled by a demon lurking within.

Someone charges me, and I spin away from their strike, impaling the back of his skull with one of my swords.

Blood pours from their opened mouth as I yank my blade back through it, immortalizing his final battle cry.

I’m an artist, but not in the way Ryder spends hours blending paints for the perfect shade.

My blade is my brush and the only color I see is red.

I need more.

I crave more.

A flash of silver catches the corner of my eye, and I jam one of my swords in the sand, pulling a knife from the sheath on my thigh and spearing the enemy rushing toward Ryder through the side of his neck.

He didn’t become my second in command because he’s my best friend.

He earned his position, but it’s instinct to look out for him.

Sometimes when I look at him, I see the lanky boy begging me to help his sister who didn’t know how to hold a sword.

He’s not my brother through any blood we share, but through blood we’ve spilled.

“I had that!” he calls out, slicing through the stomach of the soldier he was fighting.

“Oh, I’m sure,” I drawl just to piss him off.

Eight men form a circle around me, and I wrap my hand around the hilt of my discarded blade, twirling it as they close in.

My chuckle is smothered by my helmet. Imirath can send eight men or eighty—I’ll cut them all down.

When I was fourteen, I once ripped out a man’s throat with my teeth in the fighting pits; after that, most confrontations seem tame.

I slice through their armor, pivoting and maneuvering around their blades as they try and fail to take me down.

One aims for my leg, and I stomp their blade into the sand and break their jaw with my other boot.

Their bodies join the corpses surrounding me, serving as a warning to anyone who decides they’re brave enough to fight me.

I’m not a king or commander on the field.

I’m a god.

Flames blaze from my left, and the heat slams into my face as the scent of burning flesh stings my nose.

It draws the eyes of everyone on the beach.

Elowen is a beacon on the battlefield, haunting the mind of every soldier as she sits atop Venatrix, making sure every person can see that the dragon queen is here to take what was stolen from her.

The blast of pure red flames swallows all the Imirath and Thirwen soldiers firing arrows from the ramparts of the fort.

The purple banners framing the entrance with a golden trident spearing a crown are victims of Elowen’s wrath, as are the docks jutting into the ocean.

The sight of Elowen destroying the symbol of House Atarah after taking my name is something I’ll never forget.

I step to the side, quickly dodging a sword swiped at my face.

The soldier growls, and though their armor indicates they’re from Thirwen, I don’t sense any magic.

It seems all of Thirwen’s magical efforts are focused on the wyverns, but I expected more.

It keeps me on edge. He aims for me again, but I grab his wrist, twisting it behind his back and bringing him to his knees.

“You shouldn’t have gone for the face. My wife likes me pretty.

” I slice his neck open, shoving him down with the others as I continue pushing against the enemy.

My father once told me I destroy everything I touch, and rather than fight it, I became destruction.

Steel clashes and separates as boots slosh in the wet sand.

Another soldier approaches and grits his teeth while tightening his hand on the hilt of his blade as if it’ll save him.

I twirl my twin blades, widening my stance and waiting for him to advance, not for any reason other than the fact that I prefer defense.

When I take the offensive route too quickly, the fight ends before my muscles even have the chance to burn.

He cranes his blade back as the ground rumbles beneath our feet.

The soldier glances down, and I end him for his hesitancy.

The ground rumbles again, and blood ripples in the puddles along the beach.

“Retreat!” I hear in the distance. “RETREAT!”

All around me, Vareveth soldiers begin cheering as a mixture of Imirath and Thirwen forces rush back toward the port town. Ryder looks to me, but I shake my head. Something is wrong. They wouldn’t give up the fort this easily.

“Stand your ground!” I command. “We take no prisoners!”

Rocks along the cliffs framing the bay tumble into the water, and though the fort hasn’t completely collapsed, it soon will.

Dust and stones rain down from the top. Asena and her cult accompanied us, while Ophir stayed behind, needing to prepare for the journey to Galakin, but I know this isn’t her.

Her task has been wielding fire to cut through enemies, nothing worthy of this reaction from the landscape.

A blinding light shoots up behind me, and sparks burst through the air as it dissolves.

Everyone holds their breath while the air around us becomes heavier, as if it’s weighed down by humidity and being pulled away from us.

Screams make my ears ring as a transparent arch— a ward —forms high behind us, even higher than Elowen where she flies on the other side.

It’s longer than the beach and begins closing inward.

Ryder and I are deep in their territory having led the charge.

“All hells,” I mutter. “Fucking mages.”

A stampede of soldiers plows through the sand, delving in a directionless frenzy as they fight to reach their respective sides.

Anyone on the wrong side of the ward once it closes will be executed or taken as a captive.

Someone slams into my bad shoulder, and I grit my teeth, quickly righting myself as I fight my way to Ryder, not caring who I’m plowing down.

I hardly see my surroundings as I swing my blades, dodging both the enemy and my soldiers trying to run to safety.

The sky above me is coated in the dome. It’s growing farther into their territory as the gap for us to leave grows smaller by the second.

“Ryder!” I call out, catching glimpses of him through the chaos.

“Get out of here!” he shouts, farther into Imirath territory than I was, but I keep killing my way toward him.

They swarm around us like black flies in search of blood, but I make my way to him, cutting down the last soldier between us.

He looks at me, splattered in blood and chest heaving, relief clearly written across his features.

We don’t bother saying anything as we turn around and push through the masses, painting our path in entrails and corpses.

The closer we get to the dwindling gap, the tighter the space becomes.

Swords have no use anymore, and we use our height and size as an advantage, elbowing and shoving our way through, keeping our footing as we step over bodies, both alive and dead.

There is no good and bad in war, only those who survive and those who die.

I’m not fucking dying today.

I keep my eyes locked on Elowen flying toward the gap in the forcefield, fighting my way out of hell, finally having a reason to do so beyond selfishness.