Chapter 14 – Beneath the Seal
Draven's POV (then Damian's)
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Draven
She wasn't the weapon.
She was the war.
And I think a part of me always knew that. But not like this.
Not as the dragons circled behind her like shadows of an ancient storm. Not as the seal beneath our feet cracked wider with every heartbeat. Not as the throne behind her burned so bright it was like staring into a sun made of screaming.
I should've backed away. Should've bowed or begged or at least said something smarter than what came out of my mouth.
"Why us?"
Yeah. That's what I said.
My voice was dry and small and human. Too human.
"Why me?" I added, even quieter. "Why are we even part of this?"
Scarlet blinked. Slowly. And then—something in her changed.
The fire didn't go out. It just… dimmed. Like she took it and wrapped it around herself from the inside out. Her claws slid back into her skin. The air stopped buzzing like it was going to explode.
And I saw her again.
Not the monster.
Not the prophecy.
Just her.
She looked right at me, and said, "You think this is about you."
Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut anyway.
"You think it's about your powers. Your bloodlines. Your birthright."
She stepped closer. And yeah, the heat was still there — pouring off her like sunfire — but it didn't hurt anymore.
It warned.
"You were never the flame," she said. "You were the puzzle."
I frowned. "What does that mean?"
She didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
"You and the others — you've always been fragments. Broken on purpose. Four alphas. One power, split into pieces and fed lies. Split by pride. Separated by time."
She tapped her chest — or maybe her heart. Whatever was glowing inside it.
"I'm the missing piece. The one that doesn't shift. The one that doesn't break. The one that brings everything back together."
She paused, just long enough for the seal beneath us to crack louder.
"But even a storm needs a path."
Her eyes drifted — toward the throne, the dragons, the burning sigil. And I saw it. The weight. The cost.
"My body is breaking," she admitted. "This form... it's not built for this. Not alone."
I didn't move. I couldn't. Because I felt it. Every word in my bones.
"I wasn't sent to destroy you," she said softly. "I was sent to rise. But I don't know how to survive this yet. I don't know how to burn without falling apart."
She looked at me — really looked at me. Not like a threat. Like a plea.
"That's where you come in. All of you. Your power wasn't a coincidence. It was pulled. For me."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Because the truth slammed into me like ice and fire at the same time.
We weren't kings.
We were keys.
And Scarlet?
Scarlet was the door.
The seal around us began to unravel — threads of glowing magic snapping like spider silk in fire.
Scarlet turned her face toward me one last time.
"Help me, Draven," she whispered. "Before I burn everything."
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Damian's pov
Outside her body — outside whatever weird throne-room-dream-prophecy madness she was trapped in — Scarlet moved.
First it was just her fingers.
Then her whole body jerked like something inside her had snapped.
Elira flinched.
Devon swore under his breath.
Dexter muttered something ancient and angry, and the entire library shimmered.
I stepped closer. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I did anyway.
She looked asleep. But her claws were out, ripping through the silk sheets like paper. Her mouth moved. No sound came out — not at first — but I felt it. Like a pulse under my ribs.
Then she whispered:
"Valzȳrys... jāhor nages... hūja."
No one breathed.
The language was old. Older than the seal. Maybe even older than the gods. And somehow, some how, it still made my skin crawl like it remembered.
Elira looked terrified.
Devon looked worse — like he understood what she'd just said.
"She said: 'The king... or the dragons... choose.'" he whispered. "It's a choice. A warning."
The sigil burned brighter on her chest.
The room trembled like it remembered war.
Then—
Scarlet's eyes flew open.
But they didn't look like they had before.
They glowed, yes — but the glow wasn't focused. It shimmered wildly, chasing the light like water catching fire. And for a second, I thought she was seeing us.
But then I realized...
She wasn't.
She didn't blink at movement. Didn't flinch when Elira called her name. Her pupils didn't track. Instead—
They were empty. Clouded. But not dead.
The irises swirled with color — pale silver ringed with molten gold, her pupils a haze of smoke.
Central heterochromia.
Like someone had torn the sky in half and poured two suns into her eyes.
But she was blind.
Not broken.
Because the way she moved — the way she sat up, slow and steady, like she could feel the air bending around us — it wasn't the blindness of weakness.
It was the kind that saw something else.
Something we couldn't.
Dexter took a step back. Devon didn't dare breathe.
She turned her face toward the throne room — or whatever invisible thread was still connecting her to it — and her mouth moved again. A whisper in a voice that sounded older than anything in the room.
"Elēni... rūs."
("Light... remember.")
The sigil on her chest pulsed once.
And the seal cracked.
Not fully.
But enough to remind us all that we weren't ready.
Not for her.
Not for what was coming.