The golden fire pinning Lyra and Valerius to the stone floor was not hot. It was a freezing, heavy weight that felt like being buried alive in liquid lead. Emperor Malakor stood over them, his dragon-glass staff humming a low, discordant note that vibrated through Lyra’s very teeth.
"You were always a disappointment, Valerius," the Emperor said, his voice smooth and cold as polished bone. "But your choice of tribute has proven... fortuitous. A True Flare, seasoned with the Wither-Smoke of my own creation. You are the perfect vintage for the Reclaiming."
He raised his staff, and the iridescent Origin dragon, which had been circling the rafters, was suddenly jerked down by invisible chains of golden energy. The tiny creature let out a heartbreaking, melodic shriek as it was dragged towa
