Daevan's POV
"Tell me again."
Daevan's voice came out low and dangerous. His spy—a thin man named Garrett who usually had steady hands—was trembling.
"I-I saw her in the Market District, Your Highness. A woman in crimson wraps selling healing charms. She had the right height, the right build—"
"And?" Daevan leaned forward in his throne, golden eyes burning. "Did you see her face?"
"No, Your Highness. She wore a hood. But the magic signature matched previous reports. The Scarlet Veil always leaves traces of bond-magic behind, and this woman—"
"Had you found her or not?" Daevan's control slipped. Crimson scales rippled across his knuckles as his dragon surged beneath his skin.
Garrett stepped back, fear flooding his scent. "By the time I got close enough to confirm, she'd vanished. I'm sorry, Your Highness. I failed you."
Daevan's fist slammed into the throne's armrest. The ancient stone cracked under the impact. His dragon roared inside his chest, furious and desperate and half-mad with need.
Three years. Three years of searching. Three years of following rumors and chasing shadows and finding nothing.
Lyra was out there somewhere. Alive. Hidden from him.
And his dragon was slowly losing its mind without her.
"Get out," Daevan said quietly.
Garrett practically ran from the throne room.
The moment the door closed, Daevan doubled over, pressing both hands against his chest. Pain radiated from where his bond-mark used to be—the place where Lyra's soul had once connected to his. Now there was only emptiness. A hole that grew bigger every day.
His dragon thrashed inside him, clawing at his control. It wanted its mate. It didn't understand why she was gone. Every day without Lyra, the beast became more feral, more violent, harder to contain.
The court whispered that Crown Prince Daevan Ashenclaw was going mad.
They were right.
Daevan straightened and walked to the window overlooking Pyrstone. The capital city stretched before him—floating obsidian towers where the bonded elite lived in luxury, and far below, the Lower Rings where unbonded masses struggled to survive.
Lyra was down there somewhere. He felt it in his bones.
"Your Highness?"
Daevan turned. His personal guard, Captain Rhen, stood in the doorway. The older man's face was carefully neutral, but Daevan saw pity in his eyes.
Everyone pitied the Crown Prince who'd lost his bond-mate.
"What is it?" Daevan asked.
"The Council meeting starts in one hour. Grand Matriarch Veyra expects your attendance."
"Tell her I'm busy."
"Your Highness, you've missed the last four Council meetings. The Matriarch is growing... concerned about your fitness to rule."
Daevan's lip curled. Veyra. The ancient dragon who controlled the empire's entire bond-system. She'd smiled at him three years ago when he'd announced his political marriage to Seraphine Frostwyn. Smiled like she'd won some game he didn't know he was playing.
Then Lyra had severed their bond and disappeared, and Daevan had burned the Ice Duke's estate to ashes rather than marry anyone who wasn't her.
Veyra hadn't smiled since.
"The Matriarch can wait," Daevan said. "I have more important—"
He stopped mid-sentence. Something pulled tight in his chest. Not pain this time. Something else. Something that felt like—
His dragon suddenly went completely still inside him. Alert. Focused.
The beast felt it too.
"Your Highness?" Captain Rhen moved closer. "Are you unwell?"
Daevan pressed his hand to his chest again. The pulling sensation grew stronger, tugging him toward the Lower Rings. Like an invisible thread connected to his heart.
Impossible. Their bond was severed. Dead. Gone.
But his dragon knew that pull. It had felt it every day for two years before Lyra left—the constant awareness of where she was, what she was feeling, the unbreakable connection between their souls.
"Get my fastest horse," Daevan said suddenly.
"Your Highness?"
"Now!"
Rhen ran.
Daevan strode from the throne room, his heart pounding. The pull in his chest grew stronger with each step. He descended the palace's grand staircase three steps at a time, ignoring servants who scrambled out of his way.
She was close. She was so close he could almost feel her heartbeat matching his own.
How? The bond was severed. This shouldn't be possible.
Unless—
Unless the severance hadn't been complete.
Unless fragments of their connection still remained, buried so deep they'd been dormant for three years.
Until now.
Daevan burst through the palace doors. Rhen waited with a black stallion already saddled. Daevan swung onto the horse without breaking stride.
"Your Highness, where are you going?" Rhen called.
"Lower Rings. Send reinforcements to follow me."
"But the Council meeting—"
Daevan didn't hear the rest. He kicked his horse into a gallop, racing down the mountain road toward the city below. The pulling sensation in his chest burned brighter, clearer, more urgent.
She was there. She was really there.
After three years of searching, three years of madness, three years of slowly dying inside—
He was going to find her.
The horse's hooves thundered against cobblestones as Daevan entered the Lower Rings. Twilight had fallen, turning the narrow streets into shadowed mazes. People scattered from his path, recognizing the Crown Prince's crimson-scaled hands gripping the reins.
The pull led him deeper into the slums. Left at the apothecary. Right past the burned-out tavern. Straight through the market square where vendors were packing up for the night.
His dragon roared inside him, so loud Daevan's vision went red at the edges.
Close. So close.
He rounded a corner and saw Council guards surrounding a building. An Enforcer in official robes stood at the entrance, barking orders.
Daevan's heart stopped.
They'd found someone. Someone important enough to send an Enforcer and armed guards.
The pull in his chest blazed like fire, pointing straight at that building.
No.
Daevan threw himself off his horse before it fully stopped. He ran toward the guards, power crackling around his hands. Crimson scales spread up his arms. His dragon was done hiding, done waiting, done being patient.
"Move!" he roared.
The guards turned, saw their Crown Prince bearing down on them with dragon-fire in his eyes, and scattered.
Daevan shoved past the Enforcer and burst through the doorway.
The room was chaos. Overturned furniture. Broken ritual circle. Candles scattered across the floor. And in the center—
Two women.
One collapsed and barely breathing. The other being dragged to her feet by guards, her hood torn away, blood running from her nose.
Dark hair. Emerald eyes. Silver scars visible beneath torn crimson wraps.
Lyra.
The world stopped.
Daevan's dragon went absolutely silent. After three years of rage and madness, the beast simply... stilled. Like coming home after a lifetime of wandering.
Lyra's eyes met his across the room.
For one heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then her expression twisted with something between fury and terror, and she whispered one word that hit him harder than any weapon:
"No."