The sky had been burning for days.
Not with fire alone, but with spells, smoke, tears, and falling ash.
Mallory crouched behind a shattered wall, her small body pressed tight against stone. Time no longer makes sense. Screams and thunder of magic collided in her ears, and the air was heavy, thick enough to choke on.
"Mama…" she whispered, clutching the heart-shaped music box to her chest. It vibrated faintly, warm against her palms.
The ground trembled beneath her again. Rivers blackened with ash cut through the valley, reflecting the burning sky. Distant cliffs split open like wounds from falling debris.
The battlefield stretched across broken plains, littered with shattered weapons and failing wards.
Every shadow whispered danger.
Steel clashed. Magic snapped like dry bones.
A scream tore through the smoke, and Mallory ducked instinctively. The smell of iron, burning wood, and something older, something wrong, stung her nose.
She peeked over the wall.
Even in chaos, she saw patterns.
Witches cast spells in unison, voices rising and falling like a chant. Vampires struck with precision, appearing and vanishing through smoke. The rules of magic and motion flickered into focus if she watched carefully.
"Don't move!" her mother's voice cut sharply.
Mallory turned. Isolde landed in front of her, boots skidding, hair whipping around her glowing face.
"Stay here," she said, one hand pressed to the wall, the other flaring a shield that shimmered violently as an attack hit it. "Do not come out. No matter what you hear."
Mallory nodded, gripping the music box tighter.
"I won't," she said, voice trembling.
Isolde spun back to the fight. Spells erupted from her hands, forming barriers and striking attackers with deadly arcs. Caelum swung his blade nearby, red-tinged blood magic flaring with every motion.
"Left!" Isolde shouted.
Caelum pivoted instantly, his eyes glinting. Sparks flew as he collided with an incoming vampire. The creature screeched and fell back.
They held the line. For now.
The vampires were endless.
A vampire lunged toward Caelum, blade aimed for his chest.
"No—!" Mallory cried.
Caelum twisted, steel and magic colliding in a blinding flash. Sparks flew. Screams followed.
Mallory pressed her hands to her eyes, counting one… two… three… before peeking again. The vampire was gone. Caelum moved to the next threat.
Her chest ached. Every pause, every careful swing, she noticed. Survival was written into every movement.
A shadow shifted at the edge of the battlefield.
Mallory froze.
Tall, humanoid, draped in liquid darkness. The Draconian woman.
She didn't strike. She didn't speak. Only watched.
Mallory shrank back instinctively. Her heart thumped. Something about this woman was older than the war, older than magic itself.
Their eyes met.
"She sees me," Mallory whispered.
The Draconian woman stayed still, silent.
Lightning cut the sky—but no thunder followed. Clouds pressed low. The air felt like it held its breath.
Vampires sensed it in their blood.
Witches in their bones.
Magic itself shuddered.
The ground shook violently.
Mallory screamed as a distant tower cracked and collapsed with a deep groan. Dust and rubble rolled across the battlefield like waves. Muffled screams followed.
"Mallory!" Isolde shouted.
Mallory pressed closer to the wall, sobbing, wishing she could disappear into the music box.
Even in fear, she felt a tug, soft but insistent. Threads she could not see pulled at her chest.
A shadow passed overhead.
"Kylan," someone whispered nearby.
The Vampire Prince moved through chaos like living night. Centuries old. Cold-eyed. Precise.
Mallory glimpsed him through smoke, chills crawling down her spine. How could someone so dangerous feel… careful? She didn't understand, only that he seemed protective.
Isolde threw herself in front of Mallory again, slamming her palms into the air as magic exploded outward.
"Stay hidden!" she shouted, glancing back. "No matter what happens!"
Mallory nodded, tears running.
The Draconian woman moved closer, faster than Mallory could track.
Mallory opened her mouth to scream. Silence swallowed it.
The woman knelt, shadowed hand reaching out.
"Hush," she said, voice low. "You must live."
Mallory trembled. "I want my mama!" she sobbed, clutching the music box.
"I know," the woman replied. "But you must live."
Her parents' calls were lost in war's roar.
Mallory twisted, trying to see back. "Papa!"
Only fire and ash answered.
The battlefield unraveled. Witches' spells faltered mid-cast. Vampires reappeared screaming from shadows. Rhythm vanished. Only survival remained.
The Draconian woman carried Mallory through forests, rivers, and burned villages. Questions tumbled in her mind.
Who are you? Why me? Can I go back?
No answer came. Only steady motion.
Mallory's small hands reached for branches, catching glimpses of ruins she barely understood. A burned wagon lay on its side, wheels twisted. A scorched wolf carcass twisted unnaturally near a river, and the water itself smelled of ash and iron.
"Quiet," the woman whispered as Mallory gasped, nearly tripping over roots.
The forest was dense, shadows stretching, shapes twisting like dark fingers. Every snapped branch sounded like an approaching footstep.
"Are you a… dragon?" Mallory asked suddenly, voice small. Her music box rattled faintly in her grip.
The woman's shadow shifted closer. "Not yet," she said softly. "You will see soon enough."
Mallory's stomach twisted. "Will I see… my parents?"
The woman paused but said nothing. Only her careful steps and the soft pull forward continued.
Far behind, Kylan's eyes scanned the battlefield. He saw witches retreating, bodies fallen. He felt a pull. Small. Alive. Mallory.
He did not move. Not yet.
The war slowed. Silence crept in unevenly.
Mallory pressed her cheek to the music box as the forest thickened.
"I want to see them again," she whispered.
The Draconian woman paused.
"I know," she said softly.
Threads of destiny tightened.
Mallory's small body shook with exhaustion. Her eyes scanned the trees. Shadows moved unnaturally. Tiny lights—fireflies? Or magic lingering from the battlefield? She wasn't sure.
The music box hummed faintly. She whispered, "Please… help me see them again."
The woman glanced down, almost a nod, before continuing.
Every step they took seemed to pull them further from one danger, only to brush another. A wolf stirred, its eyes glowing unnaturally. A flash of light across a clearing. The smell of smoke stung anew.
"Do you know where we're going?" Mallory asked.
The woman only moved faster.
Mallory gripped the music box so tight her knuckles turned white. "I… I need to understand," she said, tears streaking her cheeks.
Silence answered.
But Mallory knew. She had survived this long because someone, something, was guiding her. She had been pulled from fire and blood. And somehow, someone was still watching.
Kylan's presence lingered, unseen, somewhere between shadow and smoke. His centuries of calculation allowed him to sense threads no one else could. One small tug caught his attention: Mallory. Alive.
Not yet safe, but alive.
The Draconian woman carried Mallory deeper into the forest. Every step was careful, precise. No sound but the faint hum of her protective magic.
Mallory's thoughts swirled: her parents, the battlefield, the fires, the vampires. What had she survived? Why her? What powers did she have yet to discover?
The sky darkened further. Fires still burned in the distance. Broken towers and remnants of war glimmered faintly through smoke and shadows.
Mallory pressed her cheek to the music box again. "I will see them," she whispered, half promise, half prayer.
The Draconian woman's hand brushed hers briefly. The gesture felt like warmth, protection. Then, like shadows folding into themselves, they moved on.
The war had ended, or slowed. But Mallory's story—her real story—was only beginning. Questions and mysteries lingered. Who had saved her? What was she becoming? And what role did Kylan play in all of this?
The threads of destiny tightened, weaving around her, unseen, unstoppable.
Mallory clutched the music box once more. Somewhere far away, the battlefield continued, but she was no longer part of it.
She would survive. She had to.
And the story—her story—was just beginning.