Page 38 of Wicked Depths

A sharp flutter of wings disturbs the silence. I don’t turn as Morrin lands on the balcony railing, his talons curling against the stone. He watches me for a long moment before speaking.

“You should go to them.”

I exhale through my nose, fingers tightening against the balustrade. “They know I am here.”

“They know, yes. But they need to see you,” he counters. “Your presence reassures them. And reassurance is what they need now.”

I glance at him, arching a brow. “Since when do you care for diplomacy?”

His beady eyes gleam. “I care for survival.”

A low hum settles in my chest. He’s right. The creatures of this land need more than whispered promises. They need to know that I will fight for them, that they will not be left to suffer beneath human greed.

It is time I remind them who I am.

With a sharp turn, I stride through my chambers, pushing open the heavy doors that lead to the courtyard. The castle gates loom ahead, the winding stone path stretching beyond them into the dense heart of the forest. As I walk, my magic presses outward, curling through the trees, stirring the rivers. I hear them respond in turn.

The moment I step past the tree line, the whispers start.

The wind rustles through the ancient oaks, carrying with it voices—soft, fleeting, urgent.

Wisps drift between the trunks, their delicate, glowing forms floating like embers caught in a breeze. They speak in fragmented emotions, brushing against my mind, their presence like fingertips trailing over my skin. Warnings. Human feet defiling sacred ground. The king’s reach pressing closer.

I walk deeper, the foliage thickening around me. The air grows heavy, rich with the scent of damp moss and blooming nightshade vines, their luminescent petals curling in the underbrush, feeding off the latent magic that seeps from the rivers of Varellith.

By the time I reach the river, the waters are already stirring. They ripple in anticipation, the current twisting unnaturally, drawn to my presence. I step forward, my power brushing over the surface. A tremor. A pulse.

Then, the water parts.

Lirien emerges, her translucent form rising from the depths like something pulled from the marrow of the world itself. Water drips from her glowing skin, her seaweed-dark hair fanning around her like ink bleeding into water. Her moonstone eyes lock onto mine, piercing, unreadable.

She has seen centuries of war, and she knows another is coming.

"Dragon Queen," she murmurs, voice like the tide, steady and unyielding. "You have been absent."

"I have been preparing."

"For war?" Her gaze flickers, unreadable.

"For survival."

Silence stretches between us, the river lapping softly against the shore.

Then, she turns her eyes to the distant mountains. To the lands beyond the rivers. To the crumbling ruins that mark the edges of human-controlled territory.

"He gathers more soldiers. More weapons. He will not stop."

I already know this.

The king is growing desperate. I slaughtered his scouts, but that was only the beginning. He will send more. He will not stop until he has torn this land apart.

"I will not let him take Varellith."

Lirien’s lips curl, but it is not amusement. It is something closer to pity.

"And yet, you harbor one of his greatest weapons within your own walls."

My body stiffens. She means Vaela.

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