Bound By Dragon Blood

Chapter 4: The Ash-Lands

The sun had not yet breached the horizon when Lyra was hauled from the silk-covered bed. There was no gentleness in the hands of the guards who dressed her this time. They traded her crimson gossamer for sturdy leather trousers, high-laced boots, and a tunic reinforced with dragon-scale plating. It was armor, she realized with a cold pit in her stomach.

​She was being prepared for war.

​"Move," a guard grunted, shoving her toward the balcony where the obsidian dragon, Ignis, waited.

​Valerius was already there, looking like a god of death in full plate armor. His cape was the color of dried blood, billowing in the high-altitude winds. He didn't say a word as he reached down, grabbing Lyra by the waist and hoisting her onto the dragon's back behind his saddle.

​"Hold on," he commanded, his voice muffled by his helm. "Unless you wish to see how fast you hit the ravine."

​Lyra had no choice. She wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands pressing against the cold, hard steel of his cuirass. Even through the armor, she could feel the unnatural heat radiating from him. With a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the Spire, Ignis launched into the air.

​The sensation of flight was terrifying. The world fell away in a blur of grey and black. The wind whipped Lyra's hair across her face, stinging her eyes, but she refused to look away. Below them, the Empire stretched out like a jagged wound across the earth. They flew over active volcanoes, rivers of molten slag, and ruined cities that had long since surrendered to the dragon-lords.

​"Where are we going?" she shouted over the roar of the wind.

​"To the Ash-Lands," Valerius replied, not turning around. "The border between our world and the Void. It is where my brothers and I settle our... disputes."

​By midday, the air turned thick and grey. Snow-like flakes drifted through the sky, but as they landed on Lyra's skin, they didn't melt—they stung. Ash. The ground below was a desolate wasteland of grey dunes and skeletal trees, illuminated only by the rhythmic, subterranean glow of magma veins.

​Ignis spiraled down toward a massive stone plateau where three other dragons were already perched. They were smaller than Ignis but no less ferocious—one a sickly green, another a pale, ghostly white, and the third a vibrant, aggressive red.

​Valerius dismounted and pulled Lyra down after him. Her legs felt like jelly, but she forced herself to stand tall.

​Three men stood at the center of the plateau, surrounded by their own guards and trembling tributes. These were the other Dragon Princes. Lyra recognized Prince Kaelen by the cruel sneer on his face—he was the eldest, a man known for his hedonistic brutality.

​"So," Kaelen drawled, his eyes raking over Lyra with predatory intent. "This is the little mouse you rescued from the sands, Valerius. She looks... fragile. I doubt she'll last the first mile of the Hunt."

​"She has more fire in her than your entire harem, Kaelen," Valerius retorted, his hand dropping to the hilt of his black-steel sword.

​"We shall see," Kaelen laughed. "The rules are simple. One week to reach the Obsidian Gate at the far end of the Ash-Lands. No dragons. Just the Prince and his tribute. If the girl dies, the Prince forfeits his claim to the southern provinces. If she survives... well, we'll see what's left of her."

​The other princes laughed, a sound like grinding stones. Lyra felt a surge of cold fury. She was a wager. A piece of territory.

​"I am not a dog to be hunted," she spat, her voice echoing across the plateau.

​Kaelen's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. "She speaks. How novel. Valerius, your pet has a bite."

​"She isn't a pet," Valerius said, stepping between Lyra and his brother. He leaned down, his voice a low vibration meant only for her. "Tonight, you run. If you want to live, you stay close to me. Do not wander. The Ash-Lands are home to things far worse than my brothers."

​The sun set, turning the sky a bruised purple, and the Hunt began.

​Valerius led them down from the plateau and into the labyrinth of ash dunes. The silence was absolute, broken only by the crunch of their boots and the distant, rhythmic thumping of the magma below. The heat was oppressive, drawing the moisture from Lyra's body until her throat felt like it was filled with sand.

​Hours passed. Lyra's muscles ached, her lungs burning with every breath of sulfur-tainted air. She stumbled, her foot catching on a buried root. Valerius caught her before she hit the ground, his hand searing her arm.

​"Stop," he commanded.

​He led her into the hollow of a petrified tree, shielded from the biting wind. He pulled a canteen from his pack and pressed it to her lips. The water was lukewarm but tasted like life itself.

​"Why do you do this?" Lyra asked, wiping her mouth. "Why risk your provinces for a slave?"

​Valerius sat across from her, his amber eyes the only light in the darkness. He had removed his helm, and in the faint glow of the ash, he looked less like a god and more like a man haunted by his own power.

​"Because the Emperor is dying," he said quietly. "And when he falls, my brothers will turn this Empire into a slaughterhouse. I need the south to build a wall against them."

​"And I am just the key to that wall?"

​Valerius leaned forward, his hand reaching out to tilt her chin up. "I thought you were, at first. But in the arena... when you looked at me... I didn't see a slave. I saw someone who refused to let the world decide when she would die. I find that... intoxicating."

​His thumb brushed her lower lip, and the memory of their kiss in the Spire came rushing back, hotter than the magma beneath them. The danger of the Ash-Lands seemed to fade, replaced by the dangerous electricity between them.

​"You're a monster, Valerius," she whispered, her heart racing.

​"I am," he agreed, his gaze dropping to her throat. "But in this wasteland, a monster is exactly what you need to survive."

​He moved closer, his heat enveloping her. He didn't kiss her this time. He simply leaned his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the cold air. It was a moment of strange, quiet intimacy that terrified Lyra more than the Hunt ever could.

​Suddenly, a high-pitched, metallic shriek echoed through the dunes.

​Valerius stiffened, his hand flying to his sword. "Ash-Walkers," he hissed. "They've found our scent. Get behind me."

​Out of the swirling grey mists, thin, spindly shadows began to emerge—creatures made of bone and ash, their eyes glowing with a sickly green light. The Hunt had truly begun.