I stand at the high window of the war room, watching as lines of people file into the catacombs—mothers clutching children, old men leaning on sticks, the sick and injured carried on makeshift stretchers.

In peasants’ clothes so as not to be recognised as what she is, Calliope moves among them like a spirit, helping, comforting, directing. Even from here, I can see how they look at her: with hope, with trust. They think she’s a common medic, a healer. It’s a position that suits her well.

Something twists in my chest at the sight.

"The outer walls are secured," Darian reports from behind me. "Every archer we can spare is positioned on the towers. But if all five houses attack at once …"

"They won't." I turn from the window, studying the maps spread across the table. "My brother is many things, but he's not foolish enough to risk friendly fire between rival dragons. They'll come in waves, testing for weakness."

"And the beasts?"

I bare my teeth in what might be a smile. "Let them come. Better they face me than my people."

A horn sounds from the northern watchtower—three long blasts. We are surrounded. It will not be long now.

"It begins," I murmur, already feeling the change rippling through my blood, the dragon within me stirring to life. "Sound the alarm. Get those people underground. And find my wife—"

But when I turn back to the window, Calliope is gone, swallowed by the crowd flowing into the dark mouth of the catacombs.

Something niggles at the back of my mind—a suspicion, a fear I can't quite name. But there's no time to dwell on it. Through the windows, I see the first of House Draven's dragons diving toward the city, its scales gleaming like fresh blood in the winter light.

I shed my cloak, my shirt, feeling my skin begin to change.

"Secure the gates," I command as my voice starts to deepen, to roughen. "Seal the catacombs once everyone is inside. No one enters or leaves without my express permission. Get our shifters to the skies—I will join them there.”

"Yes, My King."

I don't wait to hear more. I'm already running, my body shifting, growing, changing as I race toward the still-destroyed sanctum, its iron frame like a broken birdcage. By the time I burst through the doors onto the roof, I'm no longer a man but a dragon, my wings spreading wide as I launch myself into the battle-ready sky.

Let them come. Let them all come. I will teach them why they call me Tyrant.

But even as I rise to meet my enemies, that nagging doubt remains, whispering in the back of my mind:Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

I push the thought away, focusing on the dragons mounted upon the peaks surrounding the city, their wings darkening the sky like storm clouds. They’re lying in wait. Now, we’re at a stalemate. There will be time for doubts later. For now, there is only the fight.

And I intend to win.

Chapter 32 - Calliope

The catacombs smell of fear and damp stone. Hundreds of bodies press around me as we descend into the darkness, the rough-hewn steps slick with condensation beneath our feet. Children whimper, their voices echoing strangely off the ancient walls. Old women clutch talismans, lips moving in silent prayer.

I help where I can, steadying the elderly, comforting frightened children. My chains drag against the stone with each step, but in this chaos, no one seems to notice. They see only what they want to see: a healer, a helper, one of their own. Not their queen. Not their doom incarnate, the witch they have hated for so long.

The guilt sits heavy in my stomach like lead.

Somewhere far above, someone screams, the sound muffled by layers of earth and stone. The crowd surges forward, panic rippling through them like wind through wheat. A child stumbles beside me, and I catch her before she can fall, lifting her into my arms.

"Careful, little one," I murmur, though my voice shakes. "The stone is treacherous here."

"Will the dragons eat us?" she whispers, her small hands fisting in my rough peasant's dress.

I swallow hard. "No, sweetling. The king will protect us."

The lie tastes like ash on my tongue.

We reach the first chamber—a vast cavern carved from the living rock, its ceiling lost in shadow. Torches flicker in iron brackets along the walls, their green flames casting everything in a sickly glow. The royal tomb lies deeper still, but these outer chambers will serve well enough as shelter.

As I set the child down and turn away, no longer able to look, a familiar figure materializes from the shadows. My heart stutters in my chest.