Chapter One

Iselda

Fire burned the sky, red as my scales, hot as my fury. My fire. It darkened everything in its path. Trees turned to smoke, the river hissed beneath its heat, and shadows scattered like insects in its wake.

For an instant, before they burned, I saw the fae soldiers cheering below, thinking they’d won the day.

Fucking fae.

I roared and unleashed another stream of fire. I watched them notice me—watched their cheers snap into screams as they broke and ran for safety, but there was nowhere to run. I would give them no escape. Not today. Not after they took my sister from me. Not after they forced me into my dragon form.

They thought they could withstand me? Me—Iselda, dragon queen of Cindermarch, born of the oldest fire and bound to none.

I was fury made flesh, and now I painted the battlefield with it.

Fae archers once perched like ornaments on the cliffs now tumbled as ash. Their illusions melted in the heat of my breath, their light dimming like broken stars.

When I flew low, the ground split beneath my wings and trees bent away from me in fear.

But the fae had teeth too.

The first strike hit my left flank—cold, sharp, and seething with enchantment. Not fire. Not steel. Something worse: glamour laced with intent. It slid across my scales like oil over water, whispering falsehoods to my bones. My wing faltered, believing the lie. I howled as it tried to snap itself in half like a twig. But I held fast to the truth of myself: I was a dragon, and so was every piece of me. My wing furled, then flapped again—strong, sure, and mine.

A second strike came—brighter and crueler—a spear of silver light hurled from the treeline. It screamed as it flew, and the voice stopped me midair. Where had my sister’s voice come from? Before I could think of an answer to the thought, the spear hit me.

My wing jerked mid-beat, and my entire form buckled for an instant. Pain lanced through the membrane, but I didn’t fall.

I turned, searching for the source of the attack, my eyes slicing through magic and haze, my breath coiled tight in my chest.

And then I found them—three fae, cloaked in mirror light and leaves, hidden behind layers of trickery and stolen air. I bared my teeth as I spotted them, heat burning through my jaw, my fury sharpening to a single, searing point. They stood still now, watching me with wide, perfect eyes.

I saw fear take root.

And I answered it.

I dove.

The forest shuddered beneath my descent. Branches snapped, earth caved, light twisted. I opened my jaws and bathed the trees in flame—not once, but twice. When I flew over them again, only ash covered the ground.

Let them think their tricks could touch me. Let them learn what it means to strike at Cindermarch’s queen.

I rose again, wings thundering as they caught the air. My body cut through the smoke—vast, radiant, unmistakable. Let them see me. Let the cowards watch the sky and remember what dragons truly are.

My wings spanned wide enough to cast shadow over the valley. Scales like molten garnet shimmered along my flanks, each edged in gold and kissed by old flame. My horns curled back like obsidian crowns, sharp and regal. My claws glowed with heat where blood had tried to dry against them.

I wasn’t beautiful in the way the fae are. I was terrifying.

They built songs to silence my kind. They built weapons to pierce our hearts. And still I flew.

I searched the field for more.

Below me, the earth bore scars of my wrath—craters of fire, darkened ground, splintered trees. Fae formations scattered under broken illusions. A group tried to flee through a veil of mist, but mist is only water, and fire doesn’t fear water.

I turned my gaze toward them, flame built in my chest once more, but then I saw her. Fighting. Surviving. Alone.

Pinned by the cliffs on three sides, backed into a gash in the stone, stood a woman—hair wild, face bloodied, holding nothing but a long stick like a spear. She swung it wildly at a group of advancing fae, her stance desperate but defiant.

My eyes narrowed. Her shoulders, her eyes, the tilt of her chin—I knew them. My sister was alive.

Rage twisted into something sharper, something colder. Relief pierced my chest—but it was swallowed fast by fury. They had cornered her. Hunted her.

I tucked my wings and dove.

The wind shrieked past me. The battlefield blurred. All I saw was her, and those who would die for what they'd done.

My fire begged release. I wanted to bathe them where they stood, to reduce every fae body near her to scorched earth and bones too brittle to bury.

But my sister was with child.

I knew she would survive the blast. Her dragon blood would shield her. But the life within her?

That, I couldn’t risk.

I banked sharply, pulling the heat back into my chest, coiling it into a molten knot. It seared against my will, raging for release.

I landed like a falling star, my claws crushing two of them beneath me with a crack that split earth and bone. My tail swept behind me, smashing through stone, while my head snapped toward the others, hurling them away like wind-scattered leaves.

I rose from the crater I'd carved, wings flared, body arched protectively between her and them.

Then I let the fire go.

It roared from me in a furious tide, engulfing the ones who hadn’t already fled. Their screams were brief. Their bodies, briefer.

But it was too late for silence—shouts had already risen nearby. I heard horns. Voices. Movement.

A squadron was forming, ranks tightening, weapons drawn. With that many, even I could be cornered.

I turned to Serenya, my sister, battered but unbowed. Our minds found each other in the storm of thought. Let's go, I said, the words shaped by will and instinct. Climb on my back. I will get us out of here.

But she didn’t move. Her eyes flashed. “I can’t,” she shouted back. “It’s time.”

Time?

No—it couldn’t be. She wasn’t due for another three days.

“The egg has fallen,” she said, her voice taut as her hand pressed to her belly. “It’s coming, Iselda—now.”

I turned back toward the squadron. Their formation was complete. Shields locked. Magic pulsing in their hands. They would be upon us soon.

We cannot face this alone. Not from down here, I told her. We leave. Forget laying the egg. You will give birth instead.

But she shook her head. The look in her eyes was one I knew too well, the one she wore when her mind had settled and wouldn’t be moved.

“The son of House Virelor will not be born dragon-touched,” she said. “He will rise from an egg. A true dragon. As he was meant to.”

Fury and dread clashed within me. We would die here if we stayed. And still—I saw that look.

She wouldn’t yield.

Can you turn? I asked her.

“Yes,” she answered. “But my wings... they’re dead. I can’t fly.”

I looked around the jagged space where the cliffs met the valley floor—tight, uneven, stone-locked.

This place won’t hold us both, I said.

I turned to face the squadron. They were almost upon us now, their formation steady, their shields tight together, designed to resist fire.

I opened my jaws and scorched the earth between us, carving a line of flame into the stone, a barrier of heat and ash that would buy us seconds, no more. Then I pulled the fire inward, and let the dragon in me retreat.

The transformation tore through me—bone grinding, wings splitting into nothing, talons curling into fingers. Scales shrank back into skin. Heat coiled into my core and stayed there, humming beneath the surface.

When I opened my eyes again, I was crouched in blood and smoke, bare feet and naked on scorched stone, my breath ragged.

I looked at her. “Do it,” I said aloud. “I will protect you.”

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