Page 2 of Wicked Depths

I was born of shadow and flame, forged in loss and vengeance. And tonight, the humans will remember why the Bloodline of Drakara is never forgotten.

The camp is chaotic and poorly organized, with a scattering of guards barely paying attention to their surroundings. Their laughter grates on me as they drink and boast of their so-called triumphs. The creatures they’ve captured—a mix of dryads, sylphs, and a terrified nymph—lie bound and bruised, their once-brilliant forms dimmed by iron chains and despair.

They’ll be freed before the night ends, but it’s the tent Morrin spoke of that holds my attention right now. Its canvas is larger and reinforced, standing apart from the others as if its contents require special care. Two guards stand outside the tent, their armor dull and streaked with soot, catching faint flickers of firelight. I slink closer, keeping to the shadows, the forest cloaking me as I listen.

“Did you hear what she said to the captain?” one of them mutters, his tone low and uneasy.

“Yeah,” the other snorts, shifting his weight. “Going on about how we’re all gonna pay. That she’ll drag us to the depths when she gets loose. Creepy as hell, but what do you expect from a sea witch?”

The first guard scowls, his lip curling. “She wasn’t just saying it to scare him. You saw the way she was looking at him—batting those eyes, whispering all sweet-like. She wanted it. Could see it clear as day in the way she moved.”

The second guard lets out a harsh laugh. “You’re an idiot. She’s the Sea Witch. That’s her thing—luring men with the promise of a good time before she drags them under. She doesn’t want anything but to see you dead, your soul locked in one of those creepy-ass pearls stitched to her bodice.”

“Still doesn’t mean she’s not a hell of a sight,” the first one counters, his voice dipping into something darker. “That hair, those eyes… and that body. Damn shame to keep her all chained up. She’s got that dangerous kind of look, you know? Exotic, like she could ruin your life, but you’d thank her for it.”

“Yeah, right before she guts you and strings you up as her next trophy,” the second sneers. He shakes his head, adjusting his grip on the spear. “She’s not some woman you can have fun with. She’s a monster. Pure and simple. And if you’re dumb enough to fall for her tricks, you deserve what you get.”

“Maybe,” the first says, a smirk creeping across his face. “But what a way to go.”

The second guard rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath as they fall silent. Their words hang in the air, twisted with both disdain and perverse fascination.

My claws twitch at my sides as I absorb their words, my fury simmering just beneath the surface. These men are cowards, fools blinded by their desires and their hatred. They think themselves safe behind their weapons and numbers, but they’ve clearly forgotten the price of stepping into Varellith. And as for their prisoner… their fascination, their fear—it all tells me what I need to know. Whoever is inside that tent is more than just bait or leverage. She’s dangerous and powerful and has already started playing her games. I smirk, my fire curling at my fingertips. If these men think they’re in control, they’re about to learn how wrong they are.

A prisoner with a spine. Interesting.

Morrin lands beside me, his wings brushing my shoulder. “She’s strong,” he murmurs. “But there’s anger in her magic. It feels… ancient.”

Ancient magic.My curiosity deepens, and so does my resolve. Whoever this prisoner is, the humans are desperate to contain her for their precious king. That makes her valuable and dangerous.

It also makes her mine.

I step out of the shadows and let my fire unfurl. The moment I do, everything erupts into chaos. Half a dozen guards whirl to face me, their torches and steel clattering together in a franticattempt at defense. It’s already too late. A searing green blaze floods my palms, racing across the ground in a crackling wave. Their armor warps and melts like wax under the heat, filling the air with the sickening stench of burnt flesh. Panicked screams echo in the clearing, but I don’t flinch. My fire is precise, sparing the large canvas tent behind them even as the rest of the encampment scorches under my wrath.

To my right, I hear wings beating furiously. Morrin dives in from above, shrieking as he rakes his tiny claws across an unsuspecting guard’s eyes. The man howls, stumbling backward, only to be swallowed by the edge of my inferno. Another guard charges at me from behind, sword raised high, but I spin on my heel and rake my claws across his chest. He drops with a guttural groan, the glow of my Dragonfire licking at the corners of my vision.

A trio of soldiers rush in, trying to overwhelm me with sheer numbers. I take a step back, inhaling a deep breath of night air laced with smoke and fear. My lips peel back in a snarl. I exhale, and Viridian Wrath explodes from my throat in a torrent of emerald flames. They hardly have time to scream before they’re reduced to silhouettes collapsing in the blaze. The fire wreaths my body like a living thing, dancing along my arms, trailing from my horns. It’s intoxicating—raw power demanding to be unleashed.

“Morrin!” I shout, my voice cutting through the crackle of flames. My bat screeches in acknowledgment, swooping low across the camp. “Free the others! Get them out of here!” He flutters toward a series of crude cages stacked against a wagon, where frightened dryads, a trembling nymph, and two wounded sylphs huddle in terror. His wings beat urgently, and I can hear the frantic chittering of his attempts to gnaw or claw at the locks.

One last guard dashes forward, adrenaline fueling a desperate swing of his axe. I sidestep easily, planting a clawedhand against his back and shoving him face-first into the dirt. My fire pulses, surging along my arm, and I release a burst of heat that engulfs him in an instant. The smell of scorching leather and singed hair tangles with the haze of blood and ash swirling through the camp.

Stepping over the charred remnants, I leave the bodies behind and set my sights on the tent. Morrin’s screeches echo from somewhere behind me, punctuated by the clanging of cages. I allow myself a fleeting sense of satisfaction at the sound of splintering wood—he’s making progress. The creatures will be free in moments.

Turning back to the tent, I rip through the singed canvas with a single slash of my claws. The air inside is thick and stagnant, almost suffocating. But I feel the hum of magic pulsing through it, calling to me like an unspoken challenge. I may not know much about thissea witchor the true extent of her power, but there’s a reason she’s chained so tightly.

I intend to find out precisely why.

Inside, the first thing I notice is the glow. Pearls, dozens of them, gleam faintly from where they’re stitched into the bodice of the woman sitting in chains. Each pearl pulses faintly, as if alive.

Then I see her.

Her opal-toned skin shimmers under the faint illumination, catching every stray flicker of light and refracting it like moonbeams on still water. The subtle gleam along her arms and shoulders suggests a fragile elegance, yet there’s a quiet, hypnotic power within that luster. Her eyes—icy white-blue and unwavering—are twin shards of arctic crystal, daring anyone to look away first. Threads of silver hair cascade over her face and shoulders, braided with tiny pearls that gleam like constellations. Petite though she is, she carries herself with cool confidence, even as thick chains coil around her slender limbs.The pearl-encrusted bodice clings to her curves like a regal shield, each pearl reflecting the mysterious radiance that seeps from her very being, hinting at a tide of power waiting to break free.

“So,” she says, her voice as smooth as the sea, “the dragon queen graces me with her presence.”

I stiffen. “You know who I am?”

Her lips curl into a faint smile. “Who doesn’t? Your reputation precedes you, Nyxara.”

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