Page 17 of Wicked Depths

I arch a brow. "Have you?"

He lunges.

I exhale. And I burn him. Viridian Wrath erupts from my lips, spiraling toward him in a violent blaze of searing emerald fire. His armor warps, the metal twisting like melted wax. His screams shatter the night, raw and desperate—until his flesh peels away, curling into nothing but blackened bone. In seconds,there is nothing left but ash. The last soldier does not waste time. He flees into the trees. He will carry my message.

My vision blurs at the edges. The wound is worse than I thought.

I press a hand to my ribs, breathing heavily, my fingers slick with blood as the warmth seeps through the torn fabric. The wound isn’t fatal, but it’s deep, and every breath sends a sharp pulse of pain through my side.Annoying. The scent of burning flesh lingers in the air, clinging to my skin, mingling with the iron tang of my own blood.

I grit my teeth, forcing my wings to unfurl, the motion tugging at the gash in my side. I don’t have time to linger. More will come. They always do.

With a powerful beat of my wings, I launch into the sky, the force of it sending a gust of wind howling through the charred clearing. The air is cool against my fevered skin, biting at the open wound, but I push higher, away from the wreckage, away from the stench of human filth.

Pain burns through me with every movement, each wing stroke jarring the torn flesh, but I don’t stop. I can't. Below, Varellith sprawls in all its ancient, wounded beauty, the trees whispering beneath me, their magic faint, weakened from the encroaching war.

The king is pressing harder.

His forces are growing bolder.

And this is only the beginning.

I push forward, forcing my wings to cut through the wind, ignoring the fire burning in my side. Varethorne looms ahead, its obsidian towers reaching toward the night sky, its silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

I descend swiftly, the effort dragging a pained snarl from my lips, my landing harder than it should be. My claws scrape against the stone as I stumble, catching myself against one ofthe castle’s great pillars. I swallow the pain, straighten, compose myself.

I will not collapse here.

I will make it to my chambers, and I will tend to this wound.

Gritting my teeth, I push forward, forcing my legs to move, though each step sends a fresh wave of pain searing through my side. The grand doors of Varethorne loom ahead, towering and unforgiving, their dark stone slick with rain.

With a sharp flick of my wrist, the doors groan open, the ancient hinges protesting as I step inside. The dim green torchlight flickers against the polished obsidian walls, casting long, jagged shadows that stretch and shift as I pass.

The corridors feel endless, the stone beneath my boots suddenly too uneven, the air too thick. My vision wavers for half a breath, the edges darkening.

I stumble.

One hand snaps out, catching against the wall, claws scraping over the rough stone. A snarl curls from my lips, frustration warring with pain.

I refuse to fall here, bleeding and weak within my own halls.

With a steadying breath, I push forward, dragging myself through the corridors toward the one place I can gather my strength.

A sharp rustle of fabric makes me pause. I lift my gaze. Vaela leans against the doorway of her cell, her head tilted in mock sympathy.

"Well, well," she purrs, voice like silk dipped in poison. "The mighty Dragon Queen bleeds just like the rest of us."

I bare my teeth. "Silence, siren."

She steps closer to the gate, her icy gaze flicking to the wound, her smirk widening.

"You’re not looking so invincible now, Dragon Queen."

I straighten, squaring my shoulders despite the throbbing pain radiating from my side. "I’ve suffered worse," I bite out, voice cold, dismissive.

She hums, unconvinced, tilting her head. "Have you? Because from where I’m standing, you’re bleeding all over the floors of your pretty little castle."

I clench my jaw. The wound is deep, annoyingly so, but I do not need her.

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