Page 34 of Sereis
One by one, they began to shift back to human form. Davoren first, his magma scales cooling to copper skin, his massive form condensing to merely imposing height. Kara slid from his shoulder to land beside him with practiced grace, that spear still burning in her hand like a piece of captive sun. The others followed—Zephyron becoming a tall figure in storm-gray robes, Garruk's mountain mass transforming to broad shoulders and hands that looked like they could shape stone, Morgrith stepping out of shadow as if he'd always been standing there, Caelus's wind becoming flesh with an almost disappointed sigh.
They stood in a rough circle around Sereis, no longer attackers but witnesses to his truth. The shift in atmosphere was palpable—from violence to recognition, from rage to something more dangerous: cold, calculated fury directed at someone who wasn't here to face it.
Kara moved forward, and I wanted to scream at her to stop, to leave that spear where it was because removing it might be what killed him. But she knew what she was doing. Her hand wrapped around the burning shaft, and with one smooth motion, she pulled it free.
Sereis didn't scream, but his entire body convulsed. More blood—that aurora blood that looked like liquid starlight—poured from the wound. He swayed but remained kneeling, his pride too strong to let him collapse entirely. The spear dissolved in Kara's hand, its purpose served, returning to whatever realm such weapons came from when their work was done.
"Forgiven," Sereis said, though nobody had asked for forgiveness. He was offering it anyway—absolving them for their attack, for their assumptions, for the violence they'd brought to his domain. His eyes found each Dragon Lord in turn, then settled on me where I still pressed against the cracked black ice barrier. "We have all been deceived. The question now is what we do about it."
The blood pooling beneath him had spread far enough to touch my barrier, freezing instantly into patterns that looked like winter flowers. Each drop that fell seemed to take something from him, dimming the perpetual winter that lived behind his eyes. He was dying, or would be if he were purely human. But the dragon in him was too strong for that, would keep him alive through sheer will even as his body tried to quit.
"Heal him," Kara said to Davoren, her voice carrying command despite their obvious bond. "You burned him, Daddy, so you must heal him. Then we discuss how to make Solmar pay for playing us against each other."
The politics of that statement were delicate—a bonded mate directing her Dragon Lord, but in a way that preserved his authority by making it his choice. Davoren's eyes flashed with something that might have been pride in her diplomatic instincts, and he moved toward Sereis with the careful steps of someone approaching a wounded predator.
"This will hurt," Davoren warned, kneeling beside the Ice Lord. His hands began to glow with controlled fire—not the wild destruction of before but something precise, medical, careful.
"Everything hurts," Sereis replied with the ghost of his usual precision. "Get on with it."
The fire that healed was nothing like the fire that destroyed, though both came from Davoren's hands with equal ease. I watched as he worked, his palms hovering over Sereis's shoulder wound, flames dancing between his fingers in patterns thatlooked almost like embroidery. This was controlled burn, the kind that cauterized without destroying, that sealed without scarring. The fire knew exactly how deep to go, how hot to burn, which vessels to close and which to leave open for proper healing.
Sereis's jaw locked against the pain, but he didn't pull away. The aurora blood stopped flowing, the edges of the wound drawing together like time reversing. Where the fire touched, his pale skin flushed with returning warmth, life flooding back into flesh that had been approaching corpse-cold. The entire process took maybe three minutes, but I felt each second stretch like winter afternoons, long and still and waiting.
"There," Davoren said, sitting back on his heels. A thin line of sweat traced his temple—healing took more effort than destroying, apparently. "You'll have a scar. Dragon weapons always leave marks, even with the best healing."
"It’s far from my first," Sereis replied, his voice already stronger. He pushed himself to standing with the kind of dignity that made his blood-soaked robes look like formal wear. "We have more important matters to discuss than my collection of battle souvenirs."
Kara had settled herself on one of the few intact divans, her hand resting protective over her belly in a gesture I recognized with sudden clarity. The slight swell was barely visible beneath her travel clothes, but the way she held herself, the way Davoren's eyes tracked to her every few seconds—she was carrying.
"Solmar has been working against dragon-human relations for longer than just this attempt," she said, her voice carrying the kind of authority that came from lived experience. "When I was his contracted bride—" she paused, disgust flickering across her features, "—he spoke often to my father about the 'dragon problem.' How you'd accumulated too much power, controlledtoo much territory. He saw your servants as abominations, humans enslaved to dragon will."
"Ironic," Zephyron interjected, "considering he tried to purchase you like cargo."
Garruk had been examining the ruined walls, running his massive hands over cracks in the eternal ice. Now he turned, his expression grim. "Ore shipments have been going missing from my mines. Not randomly—specifically the ones containing star-iron, the only metal that holds enchantment well enough to pierce dragon scale. I thought it was bandits, but the thefts were too precise, too knowledgeable."
"He's been buying weapons," Caelus added, uncharacteristically serious. "I've seen them in the wind markets—lightning-glass spears, storm-caught blades. Weapons designed to channel elemental energy against its source. A lightning blade could cut through Zephyron's storms. An ice-caught spear could pierce Sereis's winter armor."
Each revelation built the picture larger. This wasn't just revenge for a lost bride or a single ambitious merchant's power grab. This was systematic, planned, a campaign designed to destabilize the balance that had held for millennia.
Sereis moved to a wall that had somehow survived the battle, pressing his palm against what looked like smooth ice. The surface shimmered and became transparent, revealing maps etched directly into the frozen water. Not just one map but dozens, layered at different depths, showing trade routes and territorial boundaries and something else—thin red lines that crossed through spaces that shouldn't be crossable.
"These are Solmar's routes," he said, tracing one red line with his finger. "My ice-speakers have been tracking his caravans for months, trying to understand how he moves goods so quickly between territories. He's using reality tears—places where the world is worn thin from old magic. Dangerous passagesthat dragons avoid instinctively but humans, with the right protection, can navigate."
"Protection he learned from the Ghost Monks," Morgrith said, speaking for the first time. His voice was shadow given sound, making everyone lean in to hear properly. "I've seen their work in the between-spaces. Wards that smell of old magic."
The weight of what we faced settled over the room like winter fog. Solmar wasn't just a merchant with a grudge—he was a revolutionary with the knowledge and resources to actually threaten the Dragon Lords' dominion.
"Wine," Sereis said suddenly, looking at me. "Our guests require refreshment while we plan. Mira, please serve."
My legs felt unsteady as I left the safety of the barrier, but I moved with the practiced grace Caelus had beaten into me through endless repetition. The wine storage had survived behind a wall of reinforced ice, seventeen different variations arranged in perfect order. My hands moved without conscious thought, selecting each vintage based on the Dragon Lord it would serve.
For Davoren, the volcanic wine that could only be aged in lava tubes, served at exactly the temperature of blood. For Zephyron, the storm-caught vintage that sparkled with captured lightning, poured during the exhale so the electricity would dance properly. For Garruk, the mountain wine that took centuries to ferment, heavy with minerals that made it taste of deep earth. For Morgrith, the shadow wine that existed more in possibility than reality, poured between heartbeats when the recipient wasn't quite looking.
And for Caelus, who had trained me in this art with his typical casual humour, all seventeen variations in a flight of perfect measures, each one exactly 2.3 ounces, arranged in order from lightest to most complex. His eyes widened slightly when I setit before him—surprise that I'd remembered, that I'd perfected what he'd taught even after escaping his service.
Kara received the gentle vintage reserved for those carrying—sweet but not cloying, strengthening without intoxicating. And for Sereis, nothing. He never drank in company, considering it a weakness to let any substance alter his control.
"Your mate is well-trained," Davoren observed, and I nearly dropped the bottle I was holding. Mate. He'd said it so casually, acknowledging what Sereis and I had begun but hadn't sealed, what existed between us without the formal Pact.
