Page 80 of Wicked Depths

But they know the truth.

The first wave of arrows rises like a black tide, blotting out the stars.

A thunderous cacophony of steel against steel as my warriors raise their shields. The castle walls shudder under the assault, the force of thousands of arrows raining down in a deadly hailstorm.

A single signal—a flick of my hand—and the night ignites.

Flames erupt across the battlefield, racing along the dry grass like a living thing, hungry, insatiable. The first line of human soldiers barely has time to react before the fire swallows them whole.

Screams split the night, shrill and raw, bodies crumbling to ash before they can even reach my gates. The acrid scent of burning flesh fills the air, thick and suffocating.

The battlefield is chaos—blood, fire, the clash of steel against steel, the screams of the dying. My Sentinels move in the shadows, swift and merciless, their cloaked figures slipping through enemy ranks like wraiths, blades flashing, cutting down anything that dares move. The Sentinels phase in and out of existence, flickering ghosts of war, their whispering weapons carving through armor like silk, severing flesh from bone.

And yet the humans fight harder than I expected.

They push forward, stumbling over their own dead, undeterred by the massacre unfolding around them. The secondwave advances, shields locked, formations tight. They are prepared. Too prepared.

A war drum beats in the distance, deep and thunderous, shaking the ground beneath my feet. A signal.

I lift my chin, watching as the human frontline tightens, their spears glinting in the firelight. A ripple of command moves through them, and suddenly, I see it.

A break in our forces.

A weakness they intend to exploit.

My jaw clenches and I unsheathe my sword, the blade forged in dragonfire, its edge sharp enough to split bone. The weapon hums in my grasp, a whisper of destruction waiting to be unleashed.

And then the humans surge forward.

They strike with coordinated precision, forcing my warriors back step by step. My Sentinels cut them down by the dozens, but they keep coming. They sever them from the shadows, yet they do not falter. Their numbers are unrelenting, a tide of steel and flesh threatening to push us back toward the castle gates.

For the first time since this battle began, a sliver of doubt pierces through my fury.

No. I will not be undone. Not by men. Not by creatures who think themselves worthy to set foot in my lands. Heat burns beneath my ribs, coiling in my chest, demanding release.

I let it.

A roar tears from my throat, the sound shaking the very foundations of the battlefield. My bones crack, my flesh ignites, and before the humans can take another step forward I shift.

My body expands, power erupting from within me, wings unfurling into the sky, blotting out the light. My scales shimmer like molten obsidian, the fire inside me crackling through every inch of my form. Clawed feet slam into the earth, talons sinking into the bodies littering the battlefield. My tail whips out,catching a line of soldiers, sending them flying into the air, their bodies crushed before they even hit the ground.

Terror ripples through the humans. Some hesitate. Others run, but it doesn’t matter. Because they are mine to burn. I inhale deep, viridian wrath pooling in my throat, my chest expanding with molten fury and then I breathe fire.

The front line erupts in an explosion of hellish light, flames engulfing everything in their path. Metal melts. Flesh peels. Screams pierce the air, sharp and agonized, as men crumble into nothing.

The humans break. Their careful formations collapse. They scatter, their disciplined lines falling into chaos.

I let out another roar, taking to the skies, circling above the battlefield, smoke and embers trailing in my wake. Below, my warriors regain control, surging forward, cutting through what remains of the human forces.

Victory is close, the battlefield bending to my will, the tide of war shifting in my favor. But something feels off.

A tremor moves through the earth beneath me, deep and rolling, not from the force of my fire or the clash of steel, but something other. It pulses through the battlefield, subtle at first, like the slow breath of a beast waking from slumber. Then the scent of salt thickens, creeping past the blood and smoke, lacing the air with something unmistakable.

I beat my wings, lifting higher, my gaze sweeping the battlefield, scanning for the source of this shift. And then I see her.

Vaela.

She stands alone at the edge of the cliffs, her silver hair whipping in the wind, her sheer gown rippling around her like liquid moonlight. She does not wield a weapon, does not wear armor, does not charge into battle with a blade in hand. She doesn’t need to.

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