Morning came slow to Dranevor Keep.
The light didn't pour through windows; it filtered through molten rivers and reflected in the black walls, bathing the halls in a strange, living glow. The air shimmered faintly, thick with traces of power. Every breath Lysandra took felt heavy, like the atmosphere itself refused to belong to her kind.
She woke to the low hum of chanting. Somewhere below, the beasts were performing a ritual—she could feel the magic thrumming faintly through the stones beneath her bare feet. It wasn't like sound or vibration; it was alive, pulsing like the heart of the world.
She sat on the edge of her narrow bed, hands clasped tight, eyes fixed on the small ember of fire flickering in a lantern near her desk. Her reflection stared back from the metal basin—dark circles under her eyes, tangled hair, and lips pale from exhaustion.
The scars on her wrists still burned faintly where the enchanted chains had touched her. But beneath that pain was something stranger—a warmth, subtle but constant, spreading like a thread beneath her skin.
She rubbed at it, trying to shake the feeling away.
Nothing changed.
The door opened without warning.
A tall woman stepped in, her posture straight, movements graceful. She had fox ears, a long rust-red tail that flicked lazily behind her, and eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her beauty was cold, precise, and dangerous.
"You're awake," she said flatly. "Good. The Emperor doesn't tolerate idleness."
Lysandra rose instinctively. "You're… his servant?"
The woman smiled without warmth. "I am Serath, Head of the Inner Court. You're the new human. Try not to embarrass him."
Before Lysandra could answer, Serath threw a folded garment toward her. It landed in her hands—fine linen, light but elegant, far better than the torn dress she wore.
"Put that on," Serath said, already turning toward the door. "You're to attend the Emperor in the Hall of Flame. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't touch anything unless ordered. And above all…" Her gaze narrowed. "Don't look him directly in the eyes for too long. Dragons dislike being challenged."
Lysandra's fingers tightened around the cloth. "I didn't challenge him."
"Maybe not. But something in you already does."
And with that cryptic warning, Serath vanished down the corridor, her tail swaying like a metronome of disdain.
---
When Lysandra entered the Hall of Flame, her breath caught.
The ceiling soared high above, carved with runes that glowed like molten gold. Streams of fire flowed through crystal channels that hung in the air like rivers of light, illuminating the massive room. The walls were lined with banners bearing dragon sigils and claw marks, each representing a victory in the empire's long, bloody history.
And there—at the end of the hall, seated on a throne of blackstone and ember—was Veyrath Dranevor.
He wasn't wearing his armor this time. His black coat hung open at the chest, revealing faint traces of iridescent scales that shimmered when the light touched them. His eyes, golden and piercing, lifted as she approached.
"Come closer," he said simply.
Lysandra hesitated, then obeyed. Her steps echoed through the vast hall, each one feeling heavier than the last. When she reached the foot of the stairs leading up to his throne, she stopped.
Veyrath leaned back slightly, studying her in silence for a long moment. "You look better in white."
She blinked. "Better?"
"It suits the lie of innocence," he said, almost amused. "Though I suspect you've lost that long ago."
Her jaw tightened. "Is this another test?"
His lips twitched. "Everything in this place is a test."
He rose from his throne and descended the steps slowly. Every movement radiated control—the kind of control that came from knowing he could crush the world beneath his heel and didn't need to prove it.
"I want you to see something," he said. "Follow me."
---
He led her through a side corridor that opened into an immense balcony overlooking the volcanic valley. The heat rolled upward in waves, but the wind that carried it felt strangely cool, infused with traces of magic.
Below them stretched a training ground—a vast open circle of black rock surrounded by sharp cliffs. Dozens of beastmen were gathered there: wolves, lions, serpents, and others Lysandra didn't even recognize. They fought in pairs, their weapons clashing, claws sparking with magic.
Veyrath rested one hand on the railing. "Tell me, Lysandra. What do you see?"
She hesitated. "Warriors. Training for battle."
He nodded slightly. "Good. But look closer."
She did. And then she saw it—how the fights weren't just about strength. The air shimmered faintly around each beast, reacting to their movements. Magic wasn't being cast like a spell—it flowed through them, instinctive and natural, bound to their emotions. When a wolf snarled, fire burst from his blade. When a fox twisted midair, illusionary duplicates followed his motion.
"They don't command magic," she whispered. "They are magic."
Veyrath's lips curved faintly. "Exactly. That's what you humans will never understand. Magic isn't a tool—it's a soul made visible. That's why you cannot wield it. You were born separate from it."
"Then why keep us?" she asked softly. "Why enslave what you think is lesser?"
He turned his gaze on her, and for a moment, the heat around them spiked. "Because we are not gods, Lysandra. We are beasts. And beasts take what they want."
His tone was calm, but beneath it lay something heavy—something ancient.
She met his gaze before she could stop herself. His eyes caught the light, burning gold, ancient and infinite. And in that instant, something inside her shifted—a spark behind her ribs, a flicker of heat that wasn't from the volcano below.
She gasped and stepped back, pressing a hand to her chest.
Veyrath frowned. "What is it?"
"I… don't know." Her heart was racing, and her skin tingled where his gaze had met hers. The warmth she'd felt earlier now pulsed stronger, deep in her veins.
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Strange," he murmured. "You're trembling like prey, yet your aura feels… alive."
"Aura?"
"Every living thing has one. Yours is faint, as expected of a human. But it's not empty."
He stepped closer. "When I look at you, I see a flicker of something that shouldn't exist."
Her throat tightened. "Maybe your eyes deceive you."
"Dragons don't deceive easily."
His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, stopping just short of touching her. The air between them buzzed faintly—electric, alive. For a second, she thought he might actually touch her, but instead, he drew his fingers through the air, tracing invisible lines.
Runes flared faintly around her—symbols of power she didn't understand. They hovered for a breath, then vanished like smoke.
Veyrath's expression hardened. "Impossible."
"What?"
"The chains you wore—they left residue. Enchanted iron absorbs fragments of magic when in contact with it. But humans have no magic to leave." He met her eyes. "And yet, the iron around your wrists burned from the inside out."
Lysandra's pulse quickened. "Meaning…?"
"Meaning," he said slowly, "something inside you reacted to power. Something alive."
She stepped back. "That's absurd."
His gaze softened—barely. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the world enjoys breaking its own rules."
For the first time, his voice carried something other than command. It was curiosity… and maybe a flicker of wonder.
He turned away before she could answer. "You'll remain under my watch. No one touches you. No one commands you but me. Do you understand?"
Lysandra hesitated, unsure whether to feel protected or imprisoned. "And if I refuse?"
He glanced back, his eyes burning faintly red now. "Then you'll burn before you even leave the gates."
---
That evening, after the sun dipped behind the volcanic ridges, Lysandra sat near the window in her chamber, staring at her hands. The warmth in her skin had grown—gentle, rhythmic, as though something pulsed beneath the surface.
She reached for a candle nearby. The flame danced, steady and soft.
Then—without touching it—the fire leaned toward her.
She froze. The wick flared, growing brighter, drawn like metal to a magnet. For a single heartbeat, she felt the flame's heat answer her pulse.
And then it went out.
Darkness swallowed the room, leaving her breathless, trembling, terrified.
She clutched her hands to her chest, whispering to the silence, "What's happening to me?"
No answer came. Only the distant sound of thunder rolling across the volcanic sky.
But in the depths of Dranevor Keep, on his high balcony, Veyrath Dranevor lifted his head suddenly, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
He felt it.
A flicker—a human heartbeat resonating with the pulse of magic.
The impossible.
And deep within his chest, the dragon stirred.