Chapter 5
1074 Words
"You don’t belong here."
The words hit Xyra like a lash, sharp and deliberate.
Seraya stood in the grand hall like she owned it and in some ways, maybe she did. The daughter of an Ashenborn warlord, she carried herself with the poise of someone born to rule. Her fiery hair cascaded down her back like a living flame, and her golden-scaled gown clung to her body as though the dress itself feared her wrath.
Xyra met her stare, unwilling to flinch.
Seraya tilted her head, a cruel smile tugging at her lips. "A mangy wolf, dragging mud through the heart of Draganthar. It’s almost poetic."
Xyra’s chest tightened, her wolf pacing beneath her skin.
She could feel the power radiating from the other woman, the subtle scent of dragon magic lingering in the air. But it wasn’t Seraya’s magic that made Xyra’s muscles coil with tension, it was her presence.
Seraya wasn’t just a scorned woman. She was a threat.
And she wasn’t afraid to bare her teeth.
"I belong where fate placed me," Xyra said, voice steady. "Or are dragons so fragile they crumble against prophecy?"
The hall fell unnaturally silent.
One of the guards shifted uncomfortably, the metal of his armor groaning.
Seraya’s smile didn’t falter, but the flicker of fire in her eyes betrayed the smoldering rage beneath her skin.
"Fate is fickle," Seraya whispered, stepping closer. "And prophecies can be rewritten."
Her claws slid out…sharp, black-tipped, and deadly.
For a moment, Xyra wondered if she would strike her right there, in front of Vaeren, the queen, and the gathered court.
But then a shadow moved. Vaeren. He stepped into the space between them like he’d been waiting for this moment, his gaze flicking to Seraya with something that looked almost like amusement.
"Careful, Seraya," Vaeren murmured. "She’s mine now."
Seraya recoiled as if he’d slapped her. The smile vanished. She turned on her heel, her gown rippling like liquid fire, and stormed toward the arched doorway without another word.
Xyra exhaled slowly, her hands trembling at her sides.
Vaeren watched Seraya disappear, then turned to Xyra with an unreadable expression. "You handled that poorly."
Xyra’s jaw clenched. "I didn’t realize I needed etiquette lessons from a man who rips out hearts for sport."
A slow smirk curved his mouth.
He leaned in, voice a low, dangerous murmur. "You may find that survival often hinges on knowing which predator to provoke."
Her heart thudded against her ribs, her wolf snarling. But she didn’t break his stare. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Not now. Not ever.
.
.
.
The Drakarion was both a fortress and a living monument to power.
The castle itself was carved from volcanic stone, its walls blackened by ancient flame and reinforced with molten iron. Rivers of lava snaked through open channels, casting a blood-orange glow against the obsidian floors.
High above, the ceilings were endless, with enormous arches that stretched into darkness. Massive dragon skulls hung like trophies, their jaws frozen in eternal snarls.
The air smelled of ash and embers, every breath carrying the scent of fire magic and the faintest trace of decay.
But it wasn’t the architecture that made Xyra’s skin prickle.
It was the people.
Everywhere she went, the courtiers stared, their golden eyes gleaming like predatory suns. They whispered behind silk-gloved hands, their expressions ranging from quiet disgust to outright contempt.
They didn’t try to hide it. She was the wolf in the dragon’s den. An intruder. An impurity. And they wanted her to know it.
Vaeren walked beside her as if he didn’t notice or didn’t care. His stride was slow, deliberate, every step a silent proclamation of dominance.
They feared him. They despised her. And yet, they said nothing. Because he had claimed her. The bond mark on her wrist still throbbed, a constant reminder of the ritual that tied them together. It felt foreign, wrong, like a chain welded into her flesh. Her wolf still snarled against it, trying to break free, but the magic held firm.
Vaeren caught her rubbing her wrist and smirked.
"You’ll get used to it," he said, voice laced with cruel amusement. "Or you won’t. It makes no difference to me."
Xyra bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood.
She hated him. But she hated herself more for the way her body reacted to his presence. The way her pulse quickened when he got too close.
The way her skin burned when he looked at her like he was deciding whether to consume her whole or peel her apart piece by piece.
He made her feel like prey. And she refused to be prey.
.
.
.
Later that evening, after the sun sank behind the volcanic peaks and the castle dimmed to flickering shadows, Xyra found herself summoned to the queen’s chamber.
Queen Lyanna stood by the window, her silver hair gleaming under the emberlight. She didn’t turn when Xyra entered, didn’t even acknowledge her presence until the door shut.
"You are not welcome here," the queen said softly, tracing her fingers along the jagged stone frame of the window. "You understand that, yes?"
Xyra straightened her spine, swallowing the knot in her throat. "I understand your feelings are irrelevant to the gods."
Lyanna chuckled, a sound like breaking glass.
"You misunderstand," she said, finally turning. Her golden eyes burned, twin suns of smoldering hatred. "I care nothing for fate. But if you think for a moment that I will allow you to corrupt my son, to dilute our bloodline with your cursed existence, you are gravely mistaken."
The words were venom. Each syllable a blade. Xyra lifted her chin, even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
"I didn’t choose this bond," she said. "I didn’t choose him."
"No," Lyanna whispered. "But you did choose to stay alive."
Xyra stiffened. The queen stepped closer, her presence suffocating.
"I wonder," she murmured, lifting Xyra’s hand and studying the raw bond mark like it was an infection, "if a wolf can survive in a den of dragons."
She dropped Xyra’s hand like it was diseased. Then she smiled.
"I suppose we’ll find out."
The door creaked open behind Xyra. Seraya stood in the hallway, her red hair cascading like flames over her shoulders.
Her smile mirrored the queen’s perfectly. Cold. Merciless. Predatory. Xyra’s wolf stirred, teeth bared. The war had already begun. And she was completely alone.
- Writer
