Page 123 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
“Light it up, baby.”
“FYRTHAK!” Elara’s roar was pure command.
I knew she spoke in Dragonic, and I understood every word now.“Burn,”is what she commanded.
Gods, she was fucking perfect.
Misundranaryan stepped forward, his massive shadow swallowed the king whole.
And that’s when I looked.
The sheer scale of him was staggering—white celestial scales gleamed like starlight, each one outlined in gold so bright it caught the firelight and threw it back tenfold. His claws were the size of swords, curved and sharp enough to split stone, leaving deep gouges in the ground with every step. Spikes jutted along the ridge of his spine and down his tail, each edged in gold, a natural armor meant for war.
He moved over Elara and me like a living fortress, his vast wings arching high enough to blot out the sun. Misundranaryan was destruction incarnate—brutal, unyielding, every inch of him built to crush kings and burn armies.
Behind him, Ninaria stood poised and watchful, smaller only by comparison. Where Misundranaryan was raw power, Ninaria was refined precision—a weapon honed to perfection. Her rose quartz scales caught the light like frozen dawn, her gold-tipped horns and wing spikes gleamed like jewelry forged for a queen. She was elegance wrapped in lethality, and together, the two dragons were a vision no army could hope to stand against.
Then, Misundranaryan unleashed a torrent of white-hot fire into the cluster of men behind Aymon. The blast was so fierce it stole the sound from the air—there was no time for screams, no chance for mercy—only the instant transmutation of flesh and bone into drifting shadows of ash. The snow, which had been falling lightly only moments before, rose in the heat, twisting upward to mingle with the gray remains—until I could no longer tell where winter ended and death began. It came down in soft, deceptive flurries—flakes of pure white and flecks of burnt black—layering the ground, the bodies, the castle walls. The wind carried it over us like a shroud, settling in my hair, on my skin, the bitter taste of char and fire coating my tongue.
The dragon’s molten amber eyes locked on Aymon, unblinking, predatory—like twin suns burning through the swirling snow and ash. The heat from his gaze alone seemed to sear the air between them, promising that the next breath Aymon took would be his last.
I chuckled. This bastard deserved to die.
Elara looked back behind her, and I followed her gaze. Fintan. Makar used his influence to calm his magic down, and he now stood, watching. His mouth curved up ina wicked smile as he said to Elara, “Do it.” She only nodded once, then turned her attention back to Aymon.
“Say it,” Elara ordered, her voice like sharpened steel. “Misundranaryan.”
Aymon’s whole body shook. “M-Misundranaryan,” he stuttered.
Elara’s smile was pure death. The kind that could stop a heartbeat—a blade wrapped in beauty. “Good,” she said, her voice low, resonant, and cold enough to still the air between them. “I told you that would be the last thing you ever said.” From the corner of my vision, I saw Fintan watching her like she was the most dangerous and most magnificent thing he’d ever seen.
“FYRTHAK.” She commanded again.
Fire exploded over Aymon, his scream ripped through the courtyard—high, broken, desperate, before Misundranaryan lunged. The dragon’s jaws clamped around him, bone snapping under the force, and then tore him apart like he was nothing. Limbs and flesh scattered over the blackened stone, the burnt ground littered with the corpses of those foolish enough to stand with him.
Misundranaryan lowered his colossal body to the ground. His white celestial scales gleamed like moonlight on armor, his amber eyes glowed with molten fury. Even the air around him smelled of heat and lightning. Elara climbed onto his back, every movement deliberate, her presence commanding the eyes of all who remained standing. She turned her head to the crowd, her voice carrying like fire on the wind.
“All kneel to your king—Fintan Silverthron, first of his name. Born of human and Mage blood. He will rule Irongate with strength and with justice. Under his reign, no magical being will be hunted, no outsider turned away. Beyond these castle gates, in the outskirts where the forgotten suffer, there will be no more hunger. The poor will not remain poor—your king will see to that.”
Her gaze shifted to Fintan. For a heartbeat, the roar of the dragons and the murmur of the crowd faded. He met her eyes, nodding once, a proud smile breaking across his face.
The people dropped instantly to their knees, bowing low, but their eyes stayed on her as she settled onto the massive dragon’s back.
Gods, she was magnificent. She didn’t just stand there—she ruled there. Every word was a weapon and a promise, and every person in that courtyard felt it. My chest swelled, my bond to her thrumming so fiercely it was almost painful. She wasn’t only my mate—she was a queen, even without the crown. And watching her take command like that… I’d burn the world just to keep her on that dragon’s back, looking down at it like it belonged to her.
I stepped forward, my voice carrying just as far. “And all hail Elara Valdusian Aetheron—Elementara Fae, the fire-born storm, and rightful heir to the Fae Thrones. Bow to your Queen, or be reduced to ash beneath her feet.”
I caught her off guard. Misundranaryan roared, as if agreeing with me.
“Dramatic much?”Elara said in my head and then smirked.
Makar bowed first, without hesitation, his grin edged with pride. Gavrin followed, then Eryn—her head lowering in silent respect. Fintan’s eyes met Elara’s once more before he, too, sank to one knee.
The ripple spread through the crowd, the scrape of knees against stone echoing like thunder.
And then I bowed. Not because I had to—because I wanted to. Because every ruler deserved their throne, and she was born for hers.
Her gaze found mine. “Are you coming?”
