The journey to Dranevor Keep began under a sky of molten gold and shadow. The road wound through valleys lit by strange blue fireflies, the air alive with hums of unseen magic. Every sound—the snap of hooves, the whisper of chains—echoed louder than it should have, as if the land itself watched them pass.
Lysandra sat in the same iron cage as before, her wrists still bound, her dress damp with sweat and soot. Across from her sat a young boy, no older than twelve, silent and hollow-eyed. His lips trembled with each breath, but no sound came out. He'd seen too much. They all had.
The cart jolted suddenly as it crossed a stone bridge, and Lysandra's shoulder slammed against the side. The soldier driving—one of the wolf beastmen—snorted without even looking back.
"You humans bruise too easily," he muttered.
Lysandra said nothing. She had learned silence was safer.
The wolves guarded them, a pack of six, their armor blackened with dried blood. They carried weapons carved with runes that pulsed faintly whenever they brushed near human flesh. Magic-conductive steel, she realized. Everything in this world seemed to thrum with power except her kind.
Her people were flesh and bone. Theirs were born of fang and flame.
As the hours passed, the land began to change again. The woods gave way to mountains whose peaks glowed faintly red, as though fire lived beneath the rock. Steam drifted up from cracks in the ground, and the air grew thick with heat.
And then, she saw it.
Dranevor Keep—a citadel carved into the heart of a volcano, its black spires piercing the clouds. Rivers of molten rock flowed like veins down its sides, yet no part of it burned. Magic shimmered around it like a shield, humming faintly as the caravan approached.
Even the wolves bowed their heads when they crossed the great obsidian gate.
Lysandra couldn't look away. It was terrible and magnificent—beautiful in the way of things meant to destroy.
The cart came to a halt in the courtyard. Guards in scaled armor stood waiting, their eyes slitted like serpents. None of them were human.
A tall figure approached, his cloak fluttering in the rising heat. His aura hit like a wave before he even spoke. The air around him rippled faintly—dense, suffocating, like standing too close to a lightning strike.
It was him.
Veyrath Dranevor.
The Dragon Emperor.
He didn't wear a crown—he didn't need one. The world seemed to bend subtly around him. His long coat of black dragonhide caught the light of the molten rivers, scales shimmering faintly beneath. His hair—jet-black with streaks of silver—fell to his shoulders, framing a face that was too refined for a beast, too dangerous for a man.
When his eyes lifted, the golden-red light within them pierced through everything.
"Bring her out," he said. His voice was calm, low, yet every creature obeyed instantly.
The wolf guard opened the cage and yanked Lysandra forward. She stumbled, catching herself against the rough stone floor. Her knees scraped open, but she stayed silent, her pride the only thing she had left.
Veyrath watched her with quiet interest, his head tilting slightly as if she were an unfamiliar creature.
"So this is the human the wolves dragged from Eldervale," he murmured. "You look fragile… yet you're still breathing. That's impressive."
Lysandra swallowed hard. "Because I refused to die."
A few guards stiffened at her tone. One of the wolves growled, stepping forward. "Watch your tongue, human. You stand before—"
Veyrath lifted a hand, silencing him instantly. His gaze remained fixed on her, unwavering. "Let her speak," he said, almost amused. "The weak rarely talk like that."
Lysandra's heart hammered in her chest, but she didn't drop her eyes. Something in his voice both terrified and anchored her. It wasn't cruelty—it was curiosity.
He circled her slowly, each step unhurried, the sound of his boots echoing softly on the stone. "You've seen death and didn't break. You've stood before beasts and didn't beg." He stopped behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. "What are you, little human?"
Her throat went dry. "Someone who remembers."
A long silence followed. She could feel the eyes of every beast in the courtyard watching her, expecting her to be struck down.
But instead, Veyrath laughed—a low, deep sound that rolled through the air like thunder. "Interesting."
He turned to his guards. "Unchain her."
The wolf soldier blinked. "My lord—she's a slave."
"She's mine," Veyrath said coldly, his tone sharp enough to cut stone. "Not a toy for wolves to leash."
The guards obeyed immediately. The iron fell from her wrists with a clatter. For the first time in weeks, Lysandra's hands were free. The skin beneath the cuffs was raw and blistered, and when she touched them, she almost didn't recognize the sensation.
Freedom. Fragile, false—but still freedom.
Veyrath studied her again, expression unreadable. "You'll come with me," he said simply, turning toward the grand stairway. "If you wish to live, keep up."
---
The halls of Dranevor Keep were carved from obsidian and lined with glowing veins of molten magic that pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of the volcano itself. Statues of dragons in various forms—winged, serpentine, humanoid—stood at every corner, their eyes inlaid with gemstones that shimmered when she passed.
The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice, heavy but not unpleasant. There was beauty here, hidden under danger.
Veyrath walked ahead without looking back, his pace steady. "Do you know what separates humans from beasts, Lysandra Elowen?"
She blinked at the sound of her name. "You… know who I am?"
"I make it my business to know everything that walks into my territory." He turned his head slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting. "And to answer your question—the difference is magic."
His hand brushed a rune-engraved column as he walked, and light rippled across it like liquid gold. "Beastmen are born with it, molded by it. It fuels our instincts, our strength, our dominance. Humans, however…" He glanced at her. "You're born empty. No spark. No flame. And yet…"
He stopped.
Lysandra almost bumped into him.
"…some of you carry fire in other forms," he murmured. "Willpower. Defiance. Things even magic can't forge."
Her chest tightened. "If that's true, then why enslave us?"
His eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light. "Because the world is cruel, and power always feeds on weakness. That's the first law of existence."
They reached a massive door made of black steel. Veyrath pushed it open with one hand. Inside was a vast chamber lined with ancient tomes, crystal vials, and maps drawn with runes that moved like living ink.
"This will be your place for now," he said, motioning toward a side alcove with a small bed and basin. "You'll serve here. Quietly."
"Serve?"
"I require an assistant. Someone with hands steady enough to turn pages, eyes sharp enough to read details, and a will strong enough not to faint when a dragon breathes next to her."
Lysandra frowned. "Why me?"
"Because you haven't begged yet."
The answer was so simple, so brutally honest, she almost laughed.
---
That night, as the fires dimmed and the keep settled into a strange silence, Lysandra sat alone in the corner of the chamber, staring at the shifting light of molten rivers through the window slit.
For the first time since the raid, she could breathe. But her mind refused to rest.
Veyrath Dranevor—dragon, emperor, executioner. He had bought her like property… yet treated her like something more dangerous. Something he didn't quite understand.
She touched the raw marks on her wrists. They still glowed faintly where the enchanted metal had burned her. And when she closed her eyes, she could feel something faint beneath her skin—a pulse, light and flickering, like a spark buried deep.
Magic? No. Impossible.
Humans couldn't wield magic.
And yet—something inside her stirred when she had met his gaze at the auction. A warmth, faint but real, had rippled through her veins.
Maybe it was fear.
Maybe it was fate.
Or maybe, just maybe, the fire he saw in her wasn't just metaphorical.
---
Veyrath stood alone on the balcony above, watching the volcano's light reflect in the sky. His claws glinted faintly where they emerged from his fingertips.
Below him, the human girl sat quietly, unaware that he could still feel her presence—like a flicker of warmth in the cold magic that surrounded his keep.
He exhaled, and smoke coiled from his lips.
"She's not ordinary," he murmured.
For centuries, dragons had ruled, their bloodlines pure, their magic unmatched. But something about this fragile human felt… wrong. Or perhaps, dangerously right.
He could still see her eyes in his mind—blue, defiant, and bright as a shard of ice in a world of fire.
He didn't buy her out of boredom.
He bought her because something about her called to him.
And dragons, once they desired something, never let go.