Elara's POV
The golden eyes didn't blink.
They stared at me from the shadows like twin suns—beautiful and terrifying and utterly inhuman. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might burst through my chest.
"Well?" The voice rumbled again, echoing off volcanic rock. "Aren't you going to scream? Run? Beg for mercy? That's what the last five keepers did before I killed them."
I should have been terrified. I should have run back to the iron door and pounded on it until my fists bled, begging the guards to let me out.
But where would I go? Back to the family that disowned me? Back to the man who used me? Back to the sister who destroyed me?
At least here, death would be quick.
"I'm not going to run," I said. My voice shook, but I forced myself to take a step forward instead of back. "And I'm not going to beg."
Silence. Then a low, rumbling sound that might have been laughter.
"Brave or stupid. I haven't decided which yet." The shadows shifted, and suddenly he was there.
Not a dragon. A man.
The most terrifying man I'd ever seen.
He was tall—so tall I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His skin was covered in silver scars that caught the firelight, creating patterns like armor. His hair was black as midnight and fell past his shoulders. But it was his eyes that held me frozen—molten gold with vertical pupils like a snake. Like a predator.
"I'm Drakarion," he said, his voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade. "The Last Flame. The World-Ender. The Monster of Emberlands. I've burned cities to ash and killed more humans than you can count." He stepped closer, and I smelled smoke and something wild, like storms and ancient forests. "What's your name, little keeper?"
"Elara." I lifted my chin, refusing to show weakness. "Elara Veylin. Though I don't have that name anymore."
His head tilted, curious. "Disowned?"
"Three days ago." The words tasted like poison.
"What did you do?" He circled me slowly, like a wolf studying prey. "Steal? Murder? Betray your empire?"
"I trusted the wrong people." My hands clenched into fists. "I was kind when I should have been smart. I believed in love when I should have seen the trap. I thought being good mattered."
Drakarion stopped in front of me. For a long moment, he just stared. Then something shifted in his expression—something almost like recognition.
"They broke you," he said quietly. "Whoever they were. They took everything from you and threw you away like garbage."
"Yes." The admission hurt more than I expected.
"Good." His smile was sharp and cruel. "Then you understand what it means to hate. What it means to want revenge. What it means to burn with rage so hot you could set the whole world on fire."
I met his burning gaze. "Is that what you did? Set the world on fire?"
"No." His smile vanished. "I tried to save it. And for that, they chained me here for three hundred years."
The bitterness in his voice was so deep, so raw, it made my own pain seem small by comparison.
"The chains," I said, noticing them for the first time. Massive iron links wrapped around his wrists, glowing with strange symbols. They looked heavy. Painful. "They hurt you."
"Every second of every day for three centuries." He held up his arms, showing where the metal had cut into his flesh, creating permanent scars. "They drain my magic. Feed it to the Dragon Corps above. Your precious empire built itself on my stolen power while calling me a monster."
"That's not—" I started to say "fair," but stopped. Nothing about any of this was fair. Not what happened to him. Not what happened to me. The world wasn't fair, and pretending otherwise was how I'd ended up here.
Drakarion watched me with those unsettling eyes. "So what will you do, Elara-who-has-no-name? Will you try to tame the monster? Break me further? Use me like all the others?"
"No." I surprised myself with the certainty in my voice. "I'll help you."
He laughed—a real laugh this time, dark and mocking. "Help me? You're a disgraced healer with barely enough magic to light a candle. What could you possibly do to help me?"
"I don't know yet," I admitted. "But I know what it feels like to be hurt by people you trusted. To be called worthless. To have everything stolen from you." I took another step closer, and he didn't move away. "You called me a lamb for slaughter. Maybe I am. But if I'm going to die anyway, I'd rather die doing something good than doing nothing at all."
For the first time, Drakarion looked genuinely surprised. "You're serious."
"Yes."
"You're insane."
"Maybe." I managed a small, bitter smile. "Three days ago, I would have said I was sane and kind and good. Look where that got me."
Something flickered in his golden eyes—something that might have been respect. Or interest. Or maybe just curiosity about this strange human who wasn't behaving like the others.
"Fine," he said finally. "If you want to help, start with this." He turned around, showing me his back.
I gasped. The scars on his front were nothing compared to what I saw now. His back was a map of torture—deep cuts, burn marks, places where scales had been ripped away and never healed properly. The worst wound ran from his shoulder to his hip, black and infected with something that pulsed with dark magic.
"The keepers did this?" I whispered, horrified.
"The keepers. The guards. The magisters who come to harvest my power." His voice was flat, emotionless, like he'd learned to feel nothing about his own pain. "That black wound is from yesterday. They call it a draining cut. It bleeds my magic slowly, keeping me weak."
My healer instincts kicked in before my brain could catch up. I pulled my small pack off my shoulder—the guards had let me keep basic supplies—and dug out bandages and the few herbs I had left.
"Don't," Drakarion said sharply. "Healing that will hurt you. The dark magic fights back."
"I don't care." I was already moving toward him. "Turn around."
"Foolish human—"
"Turn. Around."
He did. And when I pressed my hands against the infected wound, three things happened at once:
First, pain exploded through my palms like I'd grabbed hot coals. The dark magic fought my healing power, burning and biting and trying to drive me away.
Second, my magic—my weak, pathetic, barely-there healing magic—suddenly flared brighter than it ever had before. Like something in Drakarion's presence was waking it up. Feeding it. Making it stronger.
Third, the chains around Drakarion's wrists flashed with brilliant light.
Then cracked.
Not broke. Just cracked. But it was enough.
Drakarion spun around so fast I stumbled backward. He grabbed my wrists, staring at me with wide, shocked eyes.
"What are you?" he demanded.
"I don't—I don't know, I just—"
"Your magic." His grip tightened. Not painful, but firm. Urgent. "It's not normal. It shouldn't be able to touch my chains. Nothing has touched my chains in three hundred years except the magisters who made them."
I looked down at my hands. They were glowing. Actually glowing with soft silver light.
"I'm just a healer," I said weakly. "A bad one. Everyone says—"
"Everyone is wrong." Drakarion pulled me closer, his golden eyes searching my face like he was seeing me for the first time. "You're not weak. You're sealed."
"Sealed?"
"Your magic is being suppressed. Blocked. Hidden." His voice grew excited—dangerous. "Someone didn't want you to know what you really are. Someone powerful enough to place a seal on you as a child and make it hold for decades."
The world tilted sideways. "That's not possible. Why would anyone—"
"Because," Drakarion interrupted, his smile turning sharp and wild, "you're not just a healer, little Elara. You're something the empire thought they'd exterminated centuries ago." He leaned down until his face was inches from mine. "You're a Lifeweaver."
"A what?"
"A wielder of the forbidden magic. The only magic that can restore what was destroyed. Heal what was thought beyond healing. And most importantly—" His golden eyes blazed with something between hope and madness. "—the only magic that can break dragon chains and set me free."
My heart stopped. "I can free you?"
"If you survive the attempt." His thumb brushed across my wrist where my pulse hammered wildly. "The magic required to break these chains will likely kill you. Your body isn't strong enough yet. Your power isn't awakened fully."
"Yet?" I latched onto that word. "You mean it could be?"
"Yes." Drakarion's smile was terrifying and beautiful. "I can teach you. Train you. Help you unlock what they sealed away. But it will hurt. It will be dangerous. And if we're discovered before you're ready—"
A massive gong sounded from somewhere above us. Once. Twice. Three times.
Drakarion's face went deathly pale. "No."
"What? What is that?"
"The summoning bell." He grabbed my shoulders. "Listen to me very carefully. In approximately three minutes, the harvest magisters will arrive. They come once a week to drain my power. They cannot know about you. About what you are. Do you understand?"
"But—"
"They will kill you." His fingers dug into my shoulders. "Not imprison you. Not torture you. Kill you. On sight. Lifeweavers are enemies of the empire. If they discover what you are—"
The iron door burst open.
Light flooded the cavern, and six figures in dark robes entered. Their faces were hidden behind masks, but I could feel their magic radiating off them like heat from a furnace.
The leader pointed at me. "Who is this?"
Drakarion moved faster than thought. He shoved me behind him, his body a wall between me and the magisters.
"My new keeper," he growled. "Barely worth noticing."
The leader stepped closer, and I saw his eyes through the mask—cold, calculating, cruel.
"She's glowing," he said softly. "Why is the girl glowing, dragon?"