Page 142 of Severed Heir

“South of Tyvern. You might see Kamila again.”

“Okay? And how am I supposed to portal somewhere I’ve never even seen? I don’t know what Wrathi looks like.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Your quell will.”

I blinked. “How?”

“Flame remembers,” Archer murmured. “Close your eyes. Your grandmother’s flame will know the way.”

I scrunched my nose and held out my palm. Fire flared up in response, familiar and wild. “Now what?”

“Now you survive,” he said, stepping closer. “Serpent gatherings aren’t parties. They’re battlefields disguised in silk and expensive wine. Don’t wander. Don’t speak unless I’m beside you. And when I say stay at my side, I mean it.”

A faint smile tugged at my lips. “I’ve heard stories.”

He didn’t smile back. “Then thank the Gods your father kept you away from them.”

I turned back to the flame, channeling everything I could—every memory, every whisper of bloodline and name buried in my veins. The fire pulsed, then coiled, a vortex unraveling from its center.

“Take me to Wrathi,” I whispered.

It felt absurd—until the flame answered. The magic stirred like it had been waiting. It caught the air around us, twisted it,seized our bodies and minds like it had ears and intent. The fire didn’t feel like warmth. It felt like momentum, like memory cracking open.

I didn’t picture hearths or flickering candles. I thought of Veravine. I thought of my mother.

And the flame hurled us through time and space.

We landed hard on a cobblestone path in front of a monstrous stone estate. Driftwood rails framed a sweeping staircase that climbed toward a blood-red door. Two griffin guards stood flanking it, their obsidian armor catching the last breath of daylight.

A silver archway ushered us into a courtyard where a few dozen civilians and Serpents mingled beneath a dusk-painted sky. Music spilled into the air, it was something between seductive and strange. At the center, a half-clothed woman danced to the rhythm, golden chains swaying from her hips, her voice slipping between the notes like an enchantment. It reminded me of Giesel’s power.

Atop a staircase carved from black rock stood Hadrian and his wife, Motava.

Hadrian looked as if he’d stepped out of a portrait: beard freshly trimmed, his navy coat lined with silk, every edge tailored to perfection. Motava wore a silver pantsuit cut to the bone, the fabric shimmering like starlight. Her blood-red nails tapped lazily against the railing.

“Ah, the shadow ruler and his heir,” Hadrian called. Embers floated lazily around him, like his flame was too potent to fully contain.

“Flame,” I whispered to Archer. “Hadrian has a flame quell.”

“Stay calm,” he murmured at my ear. “Accusing a man of adultery at his own party doesn’t start gossip, it starts wars.”

Hadrian extended a gloved hand with a grand flourish. “Welcome to Wrathi.”

A server approached, bowing low before offering us leaf-shaped goblets brimming with an amber liquid.

“It’s homegrown cider wine,” Hadrian said. “Not as refined as Ravensla’s delicacies, I admit. Sadly, I don’t have as many trade agreements as your father, Archer.”

I took a cautious sip. The citrus hit first and it was deceptively sweet, but then came the fire. The alcohol scraped down my throat like a blade wrapped in silk.

“It’s lovely,” I said aloud, forcing a smile. Then I leaned in closer to Archer and whispered, “This tastes like straight alcohol.” I swallowed hard, fighting a gag.

He tilted his head, amused. “I don’t mind seeing you a little reckless.”

A familiar face stepped up behind Hadrian with a grand bow. “I’m Caius,” the man said. “Heir of Wrathi. Although... I believe we’ve met once before, haven’t we?”

He bore a striking resemblance to Ellison with the same auburn hair, but the resemblance only deepened the unease in my gut. Ellison had told me Hadrian wasn’t his true father. Motava had been unfaithful.

“Caius wields a rare quell,” Hadrian said proudly. “The power of invisibility. And his flame traces back to the Heitious dragon line—the only purebred flame dragon in recorded history.”

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