Page 79 of Wicked Depths

Down in the courtyards, my warriors prepare. The Sentinels sharpen their blades, their eyes glowing in the dim torchlight. They flicker in and out of existence, whispering to the shadows, calling forth the creatures that will join the fight.

The forges burn bright, molten steel hissing as newly forged weapons are submerged in ice-cold water.

A group of wyvern riders saddle their beasts, the creatures snorting and shaking their armored heads, their wings stretching against the night sky. Above them, my dragons circle, waiting for my command.

My armor is brought to me in silence.

Blackened steel, forged in the flames of my own fire, etched with runes of power. A second skin, unyielding, unwavering.

I fasten the chest plate, the weight of it pressing into my bones, a familiar comfort. My claws flex against the leather straps, securing the pauldrons at my shoulders. My battle leathers stretch over my thighs, the fabric reinforced with enchanted scales that shift like liquid in the candlelight.

The last piece—the crown.

Not a delicate thing. Not a symbol of grace. A weapon in its own right. Jagged edges of obsidian and silver rise from the circlet, framing my temples like the teeth of a predator, sharpened to wound.

I lift it, feeling the cold bite of metal in my palm. The inside is molded to fit the curve of my horns, the sharp peaks nestling between them like a second spine of shadow and steel. As I lower it into place, the weight settles at my brow, the enchanted silver locking into the ridges of my horns, binding to me, becoming me.

The obsidian curves at the back, arching around the base of my skull, while silver chains drape between the spires, threading along the ridges of my wings. The moment it is secured, the magic within it hums, whispering to my own, shadows curling from the edges like smoke, as if the crown is alive.

As if it knows war is coming.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders, feeling the armor move with me, feeling the balance of my wings as they extend, the dark membrane stretching, catching the flickering light before folding once more against my back.

I am ready.

And tonight, every human who thought to step foot into my land, will burn.

The night air is thick with the scent of metal and fire. The acrid tang of burning oil drifts through the wind, mixing with the stench of sweat, steel, and blood yet to be spilled.

Then, the war horns sound.

A deep, guttural bellow, like the roar of some ancient beast, rolling through the very bones of Varethorne. It vibrates through the stone beneath my feet, through the marrow in my bones. A summons. A promise.

I step onto the high battlements, the wind howling around me, my cloak snapping behind me like a banner of war. The torches along the castle walls burn high, their golden light dancing against the onyx stone, but they do not soften the darkness stretching beyond the gates.

From this vantage point, I see everything.

The first wave of human soldiers has reached my borders, their torches flickering in the distance like scattered embers on the battlefield. Their war cries shatter the stillness of the night, a clamor of steel and savagery as they press forward.

Behind them, towers of wood and iron lumber into position—siege engines creeping forward like monstrous, mechanical beasts, their spiked wheels grinding deep into the earth.

And beyond them—Vaela.

She stands atop the cliffs, her silver hair a beacon in the night, catching the glow of the moon. The ocean writhes beneath her, churning violently, the tide rising and falling as if it breathes with her.

She is waiting.

Watching.

The betrayal should not sting. And yet it does.

My magic flares, the heat licking at my skin. Sparks dance between my fingertips, curling into fire.

I exhale slowly, my claws tightening at my sides. My breath is barely a sound, a whisper swallowed by the flickering torchlight.

"I do not need her," I murmur, the words brittle, sharp. A lie I force past my lips. "I never did."

The shadows do not answer.

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