Dragon Empress E-Book

Elana A. Mugdan

• Herausgeber: Shivnath Productions
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: The Shadow War Saga
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 780

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

All roads lead
to Darkness.

Keriya Soulstar is a hero. News of her historic victory against Necrovar has spread. Creatures from all over the world have flocked to Allentria to meet her draconic family. The mortals still believe the dragons are the key to their salvation.

But Keriya knows better. The dragons are being controlled by a terrible dark force, and without their help in the war, the burden of victory falls solely on her. Now that the truth about Necrovar's power has been revealed, Keriya understands that she can’t win unless she learns to control the deadly, destructive magic in her soul.

The weight of power, duty, and honor settle on Keriya as she embarks on her final and most dangerous quest. She must free the dragons, fulfill her obligations to Allentria, and master valemagic. She must become a god.

If she has to sacrifice her humanity along the way...so be it.

Contains: Fantasy violence, mild romance

Leseprobe

Copyright © Elana A. Mugdan 2022

www.allentria.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Jaka Prawira

Interior Art by Neiratina

ISBN: 978-1-7923-6663-5

Check out the other books of The Shadow War Saga!

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Table Of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

FUTURE BOOKS

GLOSSARY & PRONUNCIATIONS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“Choice is stronger than destiny.”

~ Keriya Soulstar

PROLOGUE

Third Age, Year 738

Shivnath paced the edge of eternity, waiting.

Ages passed before she sensed something. A spark. A pulse. A single magicthread wriggling into existence from nothing. Secluded in the depths of Argos Moor, she concentrated on the energy signature of the thread, so beloved and feared.

Necrovar’s final enchantment would soon come to fruition.

Shivnath watched as more threads popped into existence. Pairs of matter and anti-matter appeared and annihilated one another. The two essential parts of Valemagic existed in balance and bloodshed: spontaneous creation and immediate destruction. An invisible battle of cosmic scale.

Occasionally, a particle would escape the deadly kiss of its bonded partner. A molecule of dark matter would break free, and Necrovar’s enchantment would seize it. Threads were drawn from the outer reaches of the universe to converge on Selaras, to fulfill the Shadow’s spell.

“Here,” Shivnath whispered, focusing the energy.

Necromagical threads twisted into a familiar shape. Over the course of decades, a skeleton came into being. White scales grew from sinewy flesh to coat the small body. Wings sprouted, horns bloomed, and a face she hadn’t seen in a thousand years slowly knitted itself together.

“Valerion. My drackling.”

Valerion was the only creature Shivnath loved unconditionally. Even if she hadn’t been bonded, she knew she would have loved her son.

But bonded she was. It was her curse.

“You will not be safe with me,” she told the forming body. She knew Valerion could not stay in her domain, but she could keep him close. The young Chardon could take care of him.

“Blast the wretched demon,” Shivnath hissed. If Arisse hadn’t meddled, Valerion would never have joined the war. He wouldn’t have sold half of his soul to Necrovar.

In that moment, Shivnath longed to destroy Arisse. Perhaps that was a result of her bond to Helkryvt—he’d poured too much jealousy and hatred into her—but she couldn’t destroy the Chardons without destroying the essence of Pure Changemagic. And if she destroyed Changemagic, she would doom the world.

For Valerion’s sake, she would swallow her pride and work with her brethren guardians.

<Arisse.> She reached out to the nebulous, ever-changing mind of the young goddess. <I have news. Valerion has returned.>

A hurricane swirled within Arisse—a tempest of disbelief tinged with desperate hope. <It shouldn’t be possible. Where is he? Why did you sense him when I could not?>

Shivnath’s lip lifted in a sneer. She had kept Valerion’s identity secret from her brethren deities, pulling strings so subtly that no one sensed her touch. <I know everything.>

<It is a miracle,> thought Arisse, brimming with an incomprehensible mix of emotion.

<The world owes Valerion a debt.> Shivnath, by contrast, kept her mindvoice cold and her thoughts detached. She couldn’t risk any emotional overspill. <Will you accept the task of protecting him? He is crippled without his magic.>

<It would be my honor, but I am a god. And he is . . . I do not know what he is. There is no safe place for us to be together. The binding laws—>

<Let me worry about the binding laws.> Shivnath severed her mental connection to the Chardon and did some calculations. She couldn’t bear the idea of sending her son away. She couldn’t lose him again.

There was only one option. She gritted her fangs and narrowed her eyes.

<Kraken.> She extended a tendril of thought to the host of Pure Watermagic. After the world-changing end of the Great War, storms and earthquakes had reshaped the planet as nature struggled to find balance. Her mountains, which had once bordered a wasteland, now plunged into the sea—and the sea belonged to Kraken. He was Water itself.

<It has been an age since last I heard that voice,> came the deep, rippling reply. <To what do I owe this honor? Why does the great and powerful Shivnath wish to speak with me?>

Shivnath bristled at his unctuous tone. <I need a favor.>

<I don’t do favors, but I’m always willing to bargain. You scratch the barnacles off my back, I scratch some off yours.>

Instinctive fury clawed at Shivnath. The emotional response had been ingrained in her during her time with Helkryvt, who’d never been able to control his temper

<Agreed,> she thought, stamping down on her destructive impulses. She would have to barter with Kraken, anyway. If she desired something from him, she’d have to offer something to balance the exchange.

<Then we are in business. How may I be of service, O Mighty One?>

His mindvoice was oily as octopus ink, utterly flippant. Shivnath squeezed the hot coals of anger in her chest, squeezed them until they cooled to cruel determination.

<I am doing some renovations on the Smarlands,> she informed him. <I would like a small piece of your domain.>

So it was that Shivnath and Kraken struck their bargain. Kraken, greedy and shortsighted fiend that he was, desired nothing more than food. Shivnath had no love for the Allentrian humans—they were at fault, in part, for Valerion’s demise—so she snaked her way through several loopholes and promised Kraken he could feed on her mortals whenever they ventured into his domain.

In return, the miserable mollusk allowed Shivnath to claim a portion of his domain as her own. Using earthmagic, she created a haven for Valerion by raising land out of the sea. She took stone and made it fertile; she took saltwater and made it fresh; she put her heart and soul into it, as much as she could when her heart was broken and her soul was poisoned.

<I have a gift for you,> Shivnath told Arisse when her masterpiece was complete. <I created a space between domains where you and Valerion may live.>

It took Arisse a while to respond. <You did this in accordance with the binding laws?>

<I haven’t been destroyed by Valemagic, have I?> Shivnath retorted with a snap.

That quelled Arisse’s interrogation. She was too desperate to reunite with Valerion to question her good fortune.

Shivnath glanced at the corner of her cave. The necromagical enchantment was nearly complete. Valerion wasn’t conscious yet, and she wished more than anything that she could let him stay.

But she couldn’t jeopardize his safety. The truth about him—both of them—was too dangerous. So she brought his body to the haven she’d created, settling him gently in verdant, windswept grass. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes fluttered.

<Here he is.> Shivnath sent a mental picture of his location to Arisse, retreating to watch from the safety of her mountains. <This land is called Aeria. It means perfect in the draconic tongue.>

No sooner had Shivnath sent the information than Arisse appeared beside Valerion. Another creature stood at her side, small and wobbly and hideously deformed.

Shivnath, who presided over the Aerian valley on a cliff, bared her fangs. <What is that?>

Arisse whirled through a series of dizzying changes. The tiny goblin muddled through several changes as well, though none of the forms it took were recognizable.

<You have kept secrets from the world.> Arisse looked up from her place on the emerald plain and locked eyes with Shivnath. <I have kept a few of my own.>

Something sinister slithered through Shivnath, seeping from the hollow place in her chest where Helkryvt’s presence had once been. This time, she did nothing to fight the darkness searing her veins and hazing her vision.

She dug into Arisse’s mind, traced threads of memory, tore through the fabric of the past to find the truth.

“A child?” Shivnath’s voice was thunder, and her wrath was a storm. It manifested in clouds that filled the sky, blocking the midday sun, turning the world dark.

Arisse changed forms again, becoming a sleek, sky-blue dragon—the ultimate insult. “I know it is in violation of the binding laws to interact with mortals, but Valerion was not a mortal. If he had been, I couldn’t have meddled with him. The binding laws allowed me to continue my dalliance—”

“This is hardly a dalliance.” Shivnath’s magic was in her mental grasp. Threads hovered around her, each one a deadly spear pointed at the treacherous Chardon.

“It is not,” Arisse agreed, shrinking to a small form. A human form. The same body she’d worn when she had defied law and reason and followed Valerion into the Great War. “I loved Valerion. I never stopped loving him. But he was not mortal then, nor is he now. And our child is not a mortal—she is a hybrid.”

Shivnath had to admire Arisse for the sheer gall of it. It took a master to know a master; Arisse had weaseled her way through loopholes, hoodwinking the gods of Selaras better than anyone ever had.

Except for Shivnath herself, of course.

She yearned to put the Chardon in her place . . . but then Valerion stirred. Arisse turned her back on Shivnath and ran to his side. And Shivnath, who knew she could not destroy Arisse or her halfbreed demonspawn, withdrew. An ache built in her chest as she watched her son awaken.

“Arisse?” he whispered.

“Yes, my darling soul-star. I’m here.”

Shivnath cringed away from the words as if they were whips lashing her scales. Valerion shouldn’t have any memories of his past, yet he’d remembered Arisse.

He had forgotten Shivnath when he’d done nothing more than change the shape of his body; how was it that he’d been resurrected from scrap molecules of necromagic, yet he knew the contemptible goddess the moment he took his first breath?

Shivnath retreated to the depths of Argos Moor in disgrace while Valerion met his daughter. Arisse summoned his old sword from where she’d squirreled it away. The fact that the Chardon had claimed it still made Shivnath’s blood boil.

One day, Shivnath vowed, I will set everything right.

Shivnath watched over the mismatched family for the next thousand years. They were happy in Aeria, and the blade of her resentment dulled.

But her semblance of peace was not to last.

Valerion’s resurrection enchantment began to fray at the seams. As he decayed, the molecules of his body emitted necromagical radiation. The process was slow at first, almost unnoticeable, but it accelerated. Darkness oozed out of Valerion into his surroundings, poisoning his perfect haven.

<I am sending my daughter away from Aeria,> Arisse told Shivnath one morning. <If she remains, the radiation will infect her. She will cross your mountains and seek a life with the mortals.>

Shivnath did not deign to reply. She didn’t care what the child or Arisse did; she cared only for Valerion.

But because Valerion loved his child, Shivnath vowed to protect her.

So it was that Shivnath kept one eye on the hybrid, who assumed human form and settled in the Smarlands, and the other eye on Aeria. She watched, numb and disdainful, as Arisse failed time and again to heal Valerion’s terrible curse.

It was no good. If there had been a magical cure, Shivnath would have woven it herself. Nothing could undo what had been done.

Unless . . .

Unless it was undone by the hand of its original wielder. She seized on the dangerous thought. Her mind churned into motion, concocting schemes and calculating risks.

But Helkryvt was imprisoned. Nothing could stitch the Etherworld together with Selaras. That enchantment had been fueled by the pure energy of Valerion’s body and soul, powered by all the gods of the world, tethered and locked.

Locked it must remain. Shivnath knew this. It would jeopardize the balance. She couldn’t risk it.

But bubbling up from the darkest depths of her soul came a thought, a truth, a voice that sounded very much like Helkryvt’s:

I don’t care. I sacrificed everything for this ungrateful, wicked world, and what do I have to show for it?

She made her choice. Tracing the threads of her bond through the rolling, endless loop of spacetime, she walked between universes, searching.

<Helkryvt.> The word slipped from her mind and was forged into a thought—a thought that reached her bondmate on the other side of eternity.

<Shivnath,> came the faint reply, not so much reaching her brain as filtering into her soul. <My beloved betrayer.>

She closed her eyes. She had a lot of explaining to do. The Etherworld had been her idea. The gods could not have destroyed Necrovar, after all, without destroying the balance.

<I suspected it was only a matter of time before you came crawling back to me,> he continued. <Did you think you could be rid of me so easily?>

<I didn’t want to be rid of you.> That was as close to an apology as she would ever come.

<You had a funny way of showing it.>

<I never wanted you gone, but you were on a dangerous path, one I could not let you follow.>

<I sought to reclaim my missing half.> The venom in his mindvoice seared the inside of Shivnath’s skull. <Everything I did, I did for you, Dragon. We could have ruled side by side, you and I—but you ruined EVERYTHING!>

The accusation shredded what little was left of Shivnath’s heart.

<I did what was best for Selaras,> she replied at length, in a mindvoice aloof and stoic. She would not let him see her turmoil.

<You did what was best for you,> he retorted. <Your duty to the balance has never been as important to you as furthering your selfish schemes. I know you wanted me gone because of Valerion.>

<It is Valerion I wish to discuss,> she admitted.

<I see. You transcended the quantum-magical laws of nature not to speak to me, but to plead on his behalf. I am, as always, second best.>

<Your power can save him from unraveling.>

<He will never unravel. I gave him the gift of life after death in his own, true form. I did it to make you happy. But your bastard dragon-child played a foul trick, and because I do not have his full soul, the enchantment is snarled. As a result, he is unable to die.>

<Unable to die, perhaps,> thought Shivnath, her withered heart silently weeping, <but he is suffering.>

<As he should,> the Darkness spat. <A punishment fitting of his crime.>

<Take that back.>

<Or what? There is nothing more you can do to me, Dragon. You are a universe away. Even if you weren’t, I would never help you.>

In that other universe, swathed in the shadows of her cave, Shivnath hung her head. <I know I’ve hurt you, but I can fix my mistake.>

There was a pause that lasted an age.

<How?>

How, indeed? Caught between her love for two creatures who hated each other, she’d made a choice that had effectively doomed all three of them.

But she was Shivnath, the master of manipulation. She knew the binding laws inside and out—and she knew how best to break them.

<I will set you free.>

She sensed the equivalent of a mental scoff from him. <Your lies and tricks are useless now.>

<It isn’t a lie. I will bring you home. You can return the half of Valerion’s soul that you stole—>

<He gave it to me willingly, Dragon. Make no mistake of that.>

<Do you want to come back to me, or not?> she snapped. <Do you want to be free?>

<I will never be free until I am whole. But I thank you for bridging the gap between our worlds; you’ve created a handy little rift in the tapestry of the threads that bind me. Maybe I won’t need your help returning to Selaras.>

<You’ll need me once you’re back,> she countered.

<We’ll see about that. I have always preferred creation, but you . . . you I might destroy.>

<We don’t have to fight,> Shivnath told him softly.

<I don’t see that we have any choice.>

“There is always a choice,” said Shivnath, telepathically and aloud. She narrowed her eyes and steeled her heart. “I will find the answer. When I do, I will put everything right.”

CHAPTER ONE

“Make them fear you and you will be powerful. Make them believe in you and you will be unstoppable.”

~ Beledine Arowey, Second Age

Twelfth Age, Year 611

Being a hero was hard work.

Keriya Soulstar groaned and pressed a pillow over her ears as the alarm clock on her nightstand chimed five. She had never been a morning person, and recently she’d been enjoying her sleep—no night terrors, no restless hours, no haunting memories. She longed to luxuriate in her newfound peace, but sleeping in was not part of a hero’s schedule.

A muscled arm reached over her, tapping the insistent clock into silence.

“Rise and shine,” Viran murmured. He brushed a soft kiss on her shoulder before rolling away to start his morning routine.

The sentiment was sappy—and irritating, because everything was irritating at five o’clock in the morning—but Keriya couldn’t help the drowsy smile that spread across her face.

Viran, having lived in the military most of his life, was disciplined in a way Keriya could never hope to be. Every morning was the same: he showered, dressed, stretched, read for twenty minutes, and left to start his day before the clock chimed six.

She dozed through most of his routine. It had been a long time since her body had allowed her to rest, and she cherished these calm moments.

“Keriya, you’re going to be late.”

She gasped as a blast of cold airmagic snaked beneath the blanket, ripping it away. Pushing herself up, she scowled at Viran. Amusement glittered in the depths of his blue eyes.

He wouldn’t leave until she was up, and if she lingered any longer, she’d make him late. With another groan, she swung her legs off the bed.

“I’m awake.” She pushed a matted cloud of white hair out of her face and squinted at him through eyes crusted with sleep. “Happy?”

He bowed, sweeping aside his cloak. Sethildras, the legendary blade she’d gifted him, glinted at his hip. “You are a vision of beauty, my little dragon.”

Keriya hurled her pillow at him. Viran sidestepped and opened the door, ducking into the bright marble hallway of the eastern wing.

“Love you, even though you’re making fun of me,” she called.

“And I love you, even though you’re attacking me with deadly projectiles.”

The door clicked shut, and Keriya began her own routine. She grabbed her uniform from where it lay in a crumpled heap beside a stack of books, then went to the bathroom to change.

Made with Erastatian silkworm threads that shimmered white-gold, containing built-in armor courtesy of the dwarves, the uniform made her look older and regal. She admired the glint of the trimmings in the bathroom mirror—and frowned when her gaze landed on her face.

“Mm. Let’s do something about that hair.”

Keriya represented the Empire of Allentria, and she had to look the part. She dragged a brush through her mane and applied her secret weapon: a potion that turned her frizzy tresses sleek and shiny. Satisfied with her appearance, her gaze shifted to the piece of parchment she’d tacked up beside the mirror.

To Do List:

1. Clean room

Keriya shot a guilty glance into the room, which was . . . not filthy, but very much in a state of disarray. It wasn’t even her room, it was Viran’s. Though she had private quarters, she preferred to stay with him. Listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing helped her fall asleep. Having him beside her kept the nightmares at bay.

“I really should clean today,” she commented to Aurelas, her plain steel sword. It rested on the table near the balcony doors, half-hidden amidst piles of scrolls, maps, and chicken-scratch notes Keriya scribbled while researching.

Cleaning, however, seemed an insurmountable task. Papers littered every available surface, and she’d have to quadruple-check each page before discarding it. She didn’t have time for that. It was nearly six-thirty, which meant she had to leave for . . .

2. Dress fitting

“Ugh.” Keriya yanked the list down. “No more delaying this.”

She grabbed Aurelas and buckled its belt around her waist, though there was no real reason to take the blade. Unlike Sethildras, which housed magic that had to be guarded, Aurelas was ordinary. She kept it because it held sentimental value. It had protected her from Necrovar.

Her mind clouded as it shifted to the Shadow Lord. Her stomach churned with nausea, so visceral and sudden that she hugged her arms to her abdomen.

“It’s fine,” she whispered. “I’m fine.”

Slowly, her sickness subsided. Keriya stuffed the list into her pocket, embraced her magicsource, and teleported.

Lightmagic transported her at impossible speed, making her feel as though she were expanding to the size of the universe. Then she was small and compact again, arriving at the in-house Imperial clothier. Three floors, two corridors, and one tower away from Viran’s room in the east wing.

Gods, but Keriya loved magic.

A petite Erastatian stood by the gilded doors. Short and slender, she was a perfect picture of poise. Her golden curls looped in an elaborate up-do, her rosebud lips gleamed pink, her sky-blue eyes were artfully outlined with cosmetic paint, her peach skin was flawless.

“You’re late.” The woman’s commanding voice was at odds with her doe-eyed gaze.

Keriya pointed to the clock that hung at the intersection of halls. “It’s six-thirty exactly.”

“Fifteen minutes early is on time. On time is late,” said Alisa Belbreeze, Chief International Liaison of the Imperial Alliance Institute. She threw open the clothier doors and swept inside.

Grumbling under her breath, Keriya followed.

The fitting wasn’t as bad as she’d expected, though it was still pretty bad. Belbreeze had chosen the fabric and style of Keriya’s dress for the upcoming New Year’s Gala. It was purple—and a bit too revealing.

“Can I . . . request sleeves?” Keriya asked, surveying her outfit in the three-paneled mirror. The gauzy trails hanging off her shoulders did nothing to conceal the collection of scars on her arms, and the v-shaped neckline put her darkest scar on display.

“No,” said Belbreeze. “You’ve delayed so long that you left no time for adjustments.”

“We have a week.” Keriya ran her fingers over the puckered patch of discolored skin on her sternum. Necrovar had given her that mark.

A reminder of a past she couldn’t outrun.

“And every day is packed with preparations.” Belbreeze whipped out a clipboard, displaying an itemized schedule that put Keriya’s list to shame. “Besides, this gala is your societal debut as much as it is a celebration of our new alliances. We want you to look your best.”

At seven-fifteen, Belbreeze called a halt to the fitting and departed for her next meeting with the royal Jidaelni envoy. Keriya changed back into her uniform and pulled out her crumpled list.

3. Eat breakfast!!

It seemed trivial, but it was the most important thing she could do for herself. As a Tier Eleven wielder, her body burned energy at an exceptional rate when she used magic. To avoid the gaunt look of working mages and maintain muscle mass, she needed proper nutrition.

The banquet hall was bustling when she arrived. Crystal chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling, illuminating tables laden with mouth-watering delicacies. Floor-to-ceiling bay windows overlooked the eastern quadrant of Noryk, where glittering skyscrapers speared the azure sky. Snow-dusted mountains loomed in the distance. The Imperial City was resplendent in the dawn.

She queued at one of the buffet tables, accepting heaping portions of everything that caught her eye. Candied Smarlindian yams, Erastatian honeywheat rolls, and a spiced mango salad—a Ghoren Islands recipe adopted by the Imperial chefs.

“Dragon Speaker.” A familiar voice hailed her as she headed toward an empty table in the window alcoves. She glanced over her shoulder to find Zarius Caelburn, highest officer of the Imperial Guard and military leader of the World Alliance.

“Commander-General,” Keriya greeted him as she slid into a seat. “You’re looking well.”

“As are you,” Caelburn replied in a coldly polite tone. They danced on eggshells around each other, Keriya and Caelburn. He held a lot of political clout, so she had to ‘play nice,’ as Belbreeze put it. He wasn’t her biggest fan, but she had saved Allentria.

She shivered, though her uniform contained an enchantment that kept her at an ideal temperature. If Caelburn discovered how close she’d come to destroying the world during that final battle . . .

“Do you have news from the coast?” Caelburn asked.

“Not thince yetherday,” Keriya replied through a mouthful of pastry. “I’m heading out again soon. I’ll report anything unusual.”

“See that you do.”

Caelburn left her to eat her breakfast in peace. Relative peace. She couldn’t go ten seconds without some foreign dignitary wishing her well. She stumbled through half-memorized customs of high society, hoping she didn’t accidentally insult anyone or ‘speak like a peasant’—an egregious crime, according to Belbreeze.

Keriya bussed her tray, ducked out of the hall, and slipped into an alcove before anyone could stop her. She fished out her To Do list so she could mentally check off one more item:

4. Scout borders

She left the palace in a dazzling flash, teleporting to the Fironian coast. She arrived on a sandstone cliff west of a bustling port city. A briny sea breeze gusted up from the whitecaps, flecking her cheeks with sand and salt, tossing her sleek hair asunder.

Though the seasons had stabilized in Necrovar’s absence, the weather was mild this far south. She tilted her face skyward, drawing ocean air deep into her lungs, letting the elements revitalize her.

“Keriya!”

She looked to the sea, grinning. A dragon glided across the narrow strait between Cinder Isle and the mainland, sunlight winking on her jade scales.

Keriya stepped back, giving the dragon space to land. She hooked pearly talons into craggy crevices and folded her leathery wings with effortless grace. As she crouched, a human leapt from her shoulder. Keriya barely had time to register the flash of purple eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses before he strode forward and caught her in a hug.

“Easy,” she laughed, returning the embrace. “You’ll mess up my hair.”

“I think that ship has sailed,” said Fletcher, releasing her. The wind had chapped his sun-darkened face, but an exuberant flush made his tan cheeks glow with life.

Keriya’s grin widened. Just to spite Belbreeze, she raked her fingers through her hair, letting the wind catch the long strands and whip them behind her.

“Drachrheenar,” the dragon rumbled in greeting.

“Morning, Khyvette. You’re looking good!”

“This is not an ideal time of year for shedding,” said Khyvette, picking at a scabby patch on her foreleg. Though most of the dragon’s hide was new and glossy, several flaky areas remained. “We’ve been too busy to travel to more humid climes to speed the process.”

“We’re expecting another ship tomorrow,” Fletcher added. “Danisan claims it’s from Syrion.”

“Good,” said Keriya. “I look forward to meeting the Syrionese.”

Fletcher shot her a skeptical look over his glasses.

“What? I mean it! Tomorrow won’t work with my schedule, but I’ll meet them at the gala. Assuming they have time to talk to me.”

He folded his arms. “I don’t think you understand. They’re all coming to talk to you.”

“Not just me. You and Khyvette—”

“Impressive though we are,” said Khyvette, “you are the main attraction. The legend of your victory against Necrovar has spread to the far corners of the globe.”

Keriya bit back the response that sprang to her lips whenever someone mentioned her victory. It hadn’t been a true victory—but Belbreeze had made it plain that she was never, ever to admit that in front of foreign guests.

“Where are they getting their information?” Keriya asked for the millionth time, gazing across the sparkling sea. Beyond the lush hills and gleaming ports of Cinder Isle, where inbound ships were rerouted for docking, the Waters of Chardon stretched endlessly.

Fletcher shrugged. “No idea, but I’m not complaining. Allies are showing up on our doorstep for the next wave of the war.”

Those words doused Keriya’s good humor. Noticing her shift in mood, his face fell. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t worry.” She’d been practicing smiles at Belbreeze’s behest, and now she could fake one so well that not even her best friend of fifteen years could tell the difference. “It’s all good.”

“Really? Have you had a breakthrough with research?”

“Um . . . yeah, I’m getting close. I have a great new plan in the works.”

Fletcher didn’t look convinced, and neither did Khyvette. To stave off further questions, Keriya changed the topic. “I don’t have anywhere to be until eleven-thirty. You have room for one more while you scout?”

She spent an enjoyable few hours flying with Fletcher and Khyvette. Though their patrols had once served to oust the Moorfainians and cull stray shadowtroops, now Fletcher’s missions primarily functioned to spot approaching ships.

Today’s flight didn’t turn up anything unusual—good thing, too, or Keriya would have to report to Caelburn—and when Fletcher’s dwarf-made wristwatch chimed eleven, she prepared to depart.

Khyvette landed on a sandy beach, settling Keriya beside a copse of palm trees.

“Do you have time to stop by tomorrow morning, at least?” Fletcher asked her. “You can pitch us your new plan.”

“Oh. My plan.”

Now I actually have to come up with something.

Khyvette’s eyes narrowed shrewdly, and Keriya hitched a wide smile in place. “I’ll see you at the usual time!”

She wasn’t sure she’d fooled the dragon, but Fletcher seemed placated. Keriya waved farewell to the bondmates as they launched into the azure sky, and fished out her To Do list.

5. Check-in with G’shídrian

Keriya had indebted herself to Lord G’shídrian in exchange for the phoenixes’ help in the Shadow War. In the year since the phoenix lord had called in his favor, she’d made little headway on her assigned mission.

She teleported to the Fironian capital, arriving on the city’s high point outside the palace gates. The guards bowed and stood aside to admit her, though she paused before the elaborate sandstone archway, surveying the metropolis.

Fyrxav had suffered greatly when Necrovar’s demonic followers had occupied it. With the necrocrelai gone—having fled the continent—the Fironians had reclaimed and rebuilt their land. Now the streets were lively. Open-air markets thrived in cobbled squares, music could be heard on every corner, and the spicy scent of street food wafted up to her through the forest of beige towers.

Keriya turned her back on the sparkling city. Beautiful though it was, she couldn’t shake the creeping sense of unease that clung to her whenever she visited Fyrxav.

Too many traumatic memories surrounded this place.

She shoved those memories aside, throwing back her shoulders and striding through the entry foyer. She was Keriya Soulstar, legendary hero of the Twelfth Age, and according to Belbreeze, she had a reputation of confidence and valor to uphold.

Veering left, she passed a colonnaded gallery and entered the west garden courtyard. There she found G’shídrian perched in his favorite acacia tree, preening his red-and-gold plumage. Reclining on a bench beneath the branches, a blanket draped around her shoulders to fend off the late autumn chill, was Roxanne Fleuridae.

Roxanne’s honey-hazel eyes flashed gold in the midday light as she looked up from her work. She dumped her pile of papers on the bench and let the blanket slide from her slim, muscled shoulders as she rose. “You’re late.”

Keriya huffed a sigh and embraced the taller woman. Roxanne’s cropped hair, which curled in dark, silky wisps, tickled her nose. “It’s eleven-thirty on the dot.”

“On time is late in this modern age.”

“You sound like Belbreeze,” Keriya muttered.

“Can’t say I’m fond of her, but she has a point.” Roxanne drew away and scooped up her pile of papers. “Take a look at this.”

She clutched a map of the Fironem, marked with intersecting lines of magical topography. For months, she’d been researching ways to complete the seventh item on Keriya’s list, the favor G’shídrian had asked of her:

7. Rescue Valaan from the Etherworld

No big deal. Just free the Allentrian guardian of firemagic from the parallel universe where Necrovar had imprisoned him. All Keriya had to do was find a way to safely enter the Etherworld—that task was item #6 on her list.

“See that, near the Chasm?” Roxanne pointed to a lattice of lines near the canyon. “The Rift is wide there, and the Flame’shikrim sense Valaan’s presence when they draw near. This could be the winning spot!”

“Great.” Keriya tried to sound excited, but her stomach sank at the thought of the task ahead. “I’ll scout it tomorrow.”

Roxanne’s full lips curled in a smirk. “Yeah? You aren’t busy getting ready for the gala, the most important night of our lives?”

Keriya chuckled. “I’d rather enter the Etherworld. If I get stuck there, I won’t have to attend.”

That was the roadblock. One of them, at any rate. Keriya couldn’t enter the Etherworld. Thanks to the magic in her soul, she’d become a prisoner as soon as she crossed the threshold of that hostile universe.

“You never know, it might be fun,” said Roxanne. “Besides, it’s your birthday. It’s like the whole world came to celebrate with you.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t make it better,” Keriya said wryly.

They made plans to explore G’shídrian’s new location together before Keriya departed. She bowed to the phoenix lord and embraced Roxanne once more, then teleported to the Imperial Palace. After a hearty lunch, she slipped off to work on her afternoon task:

8. Do research

The Imperial Library, located in the west wing with vaulted ceilings and magnificent bay windows to mirror the banquet hall, would have been an enjoyable place to pore over aged tomes. Keriya had spent her early days of research there, lounging in comfy armchairs. The dark nature of her studies had led her away from the library to the Antiquity Stacks.

She strode through marble halls until she came to an antechamber hewn from natural stone. A single wooden door stood in the center of the far wall. She turned the tarnished brass handle and the door swung inward. It had been enchanted to open at her touch.

The Antiquity Stacks housed tomes too ancient—or dangerous—to be displayed in the public library. This room had no windows. It was three stories tall, lit by floating orbs that emitted a steady, purplish-blue light. The stacks, crammed with books, stretched endlessly into the shadows.

“What’s that? Who’s—oh. It’s you.” Master Rikoru, ward of the Imperial Library, shuffled out from between stone shelves. His silver hair glinted in the fey light. His face was wrinkled with age, but his narrow blue eyes were bright and piercing.

“Nice to see you too, Master Rikoru. Any luck on your end?”

“A few things,” he said gruffly, waving a gnarled hand. “I left them on the third table down.”

“Thanks.”

“This research won’t lead anywhere,” he told her. “It’s all fairy tales from ages past.”

“The dragons say otherwise.”

“Hmph.” Rikoru’s mouth twisted, but not even he could argue with that. “I still say you’d do better just to practice your wielding, like a normal person.”

“I’m not a normal person,” Keriya murmured, drifting past him into the shadows.

Normal people didn’t risk the destruction of the world when they wielded.

Keriya went to the table where Rikoru had piled a neat pyramid of scrolls. She unrolled one and found that, like many older texts, it was written in runes she could understand. These ancient letters were the same ones she’d grown up with in her hometown of Aeria.

“The Origin of Valemagic,” she breathed, her fingertips tracing the title. Inhaling the musty scent of old parchment, she began to read.

Hours and hours she sat there. It was lucky she’d gorged at lunch, because dinnertime came and went. Rikoru’s scrolls contained little substance—mostly they recounted legends of valemagic’s mysterious guardian, the Dragon Empress. Keriya already knew the information they presented.

She is the god and guardian of Pure Valemagic.

She dwells in the Broken Vale at the crown of the world.

Only those who know the way may find her home.

Therein lay the conundrum. Another conundrum. Or perhaps the same one, because the problems that prevented Keriya from rescuing Valaan also prevented her from completing the last four items on her To Do list:

9. Find the Dragon Empress

10. Master valemagic

11. Free the dragons from their Spider

12. Defeat Necrovar (for real this time)

Valemagic was, and always had been, the answer. It had crafted Keriya’s life, shaped her destiny. It had given her the power to speak to dragons and save the world.

Or destroy it.

The last time she’d wielded valemagic, she had fallen victim to its seduction. It had seized control during her final battle with Necrovar, whispering to her, spurring her to do tremendous and terrible things. In her desperation for victory, she’d used it to siphon energy from every living soul on Selaras.

She didn’t trust herself to use it again, not in her current state. For a year-and-a-half she’d been seeking information that would help her find the Dragon Empress, so she could learn to master the fathomless power in her soul.

And still she had no answers.

Her brush with destruction horrified her. More horrifying still was the fact that she longed to feel valemagic surging through her veins. She yearned for her heart to chime in tune with the pulse of the universe. She longed for it like a drowning man longs for air.

Keriya gave her head a vigorous shake. “I need therapy.”

“The palace infirmary employs several psychologists,” came Master Rikoru’s scratchy voice. He emerged from the stacks, glaring at her. “And it’s nearly midnight. Off with you!”

“Can I take this one?” she asked, waving a scroll.

His bushy white brows stormed together. “You haven’t returned the last ones you borrowed!”

“Yeah, because I’m trying to figure out how to save the world.”

Rikoru tossed his hands in the air and stumped away, conceding defeat. Clutching the scroll, Keriya embraced her source and teleported one final time.

Faint spots winked across her vision when she arrived outside Viran’s room. Dizziness and a hint of nausea stole through her. She swayed, leaning against the door frame. All in all, she hadn’t done much wielding. There was no reason to be this exhausted.

“I’ve been busy,” she murmured, making excuses to the empty hall. “I had a long day.”

Yet it felt like she’d accomplished nothing. So she would tack the To Do list up in the bathroom again and take it with her tomorrow, hoping tomorrow would reveal the answers she sought.

Composing herself, Keriya turned the knob and eased the door open, thinking Viran would be asleep. He wasn’t. A merry fire crackled in the hearth, and he was up and about, cleaning.

“Clean the room,” she moaned, slapping a hand to her forehead. “I didn’t clean the room.”

“I’m doing it,” he said as she shut the door.

“I’ve had cleaning on my list for weeks, months, and I haven’t done it. I haven’t done anything, and I . . .” Keriya’s throat tightened. Her chest heaved with pent-up, broken breaths.

She stamped down on an irrational surge of adrenaline. Heroes didn’t have panic attacks—it was not on the list, not part of the itemized schedule. She fought to normalize her breathing, identifying familiar, calming scents: the smell of books. A hint of fresh snow wafting through the open window. Viran, whose aroma was a mix of summer and sand and magic.

He was suddenly in front of her. He placed his hands—one flesh and blood, the other a dwarf-made metal prosthetic—on her shoulders. “Keriya, I don’t mind the mess.”

“You do. You hate messes.”

“But I love you. So I’ll tolerate your mess, as long as it means you’re here.”

She buried her face against his chest. Strong arms wrapped around her, and the weight of her impossible tasks lifted from her shoulders.

“Any luck with your research?” he asked, stroking her flyaway hair with his human hand.

“No. And the stupid gala’s in seven days—six, now—and Belbreeze will be parading me around, telling people I’m the Master of Valemagic, when in reality I’m too scared to wield it for fear that I’ll kill everything on the planet.”

Viran tensed, and Keriya’s heart broke. He was one of her victims. He’d allowed her to siphon his magic and use his energy. In doing so, she’d nearly unraveled him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning back to stare up at him. “I’m not going to wield it, and Belbreeze knows that. I’m not going to touch it until I’m sure I can control it.”

Viran planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’m not worried about that. I have faith in you, drackling.”

“I just don’t want anyone making promises on my behalf,” she murmured.

Promises I can’t keep.

The power to fix everything tingled at the tips of her fingers, yet she couldn’t use it. That didn’t stop her from wanting it, wanting more. Wanting with every thread of her being.

“How can I help?” asked Viran, pulling her thoughts away from magic. He gazed at her with such tenderness that her frustration melted.

“Just hold me.”

Keep the nightmares at bay.

Viran pulled her close, and Keriya clung to him more tightly. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve someone like Viran, and she had no idea why he continued to tolerate her messes.

Because he thinks I can do it. Find the Dragon Empress, master valemagic, kill Necrovar.

Viran was counting on her. All her friends were. The whole of Selaras was.

Keriya could not fail them.

CHAPTER TWO

“Moderation in temper is a virtue; moderation in principle is a vice.”

~ Candra Greybark, Seventh Age

Five years ago, Fletcher Earengale had been a peasant in the lowest social caste of Aeria, scorned and ridiculed by the village Elders.

He chuckled. If only they could see me now.

<What’s so amusing this morning?> A telepathic thought bloomed in his mind. The words were as clear as if Khyvette had spoken aloud.

<Nothing,> he replied. <Just thinking about how far I’ve come.>

<Further than you ever imagined, I’ll wager.>

The wind snatched a contented sigh from Fletcher’s throat and carried it into the clouds. Yes, if only the Aerians could see him soaring on a dragon, wielding power—both magical and political—he’d never dreamed of. He and Khyvette were defenders of peace and justice, keeping Allentria safe.

<No sign of Moorfainians,> Khyvette observed as they passed a harbor hidden beneath a rock overhang. They’d ousted the invaders from this bay over a year ago, with help from their friends and several new allies.

<What about shadowbeasts or necrocrelai?> Fletcher asked.

She twisted her serpentine neck and shot him a meaningful glance. Her amethyst eyes gleamed in the morning light, but did not glow. Glowing eyes indicated the presence of necromagic—and as fantastic as it was to believe, Allentria hadn’t been plagued by necromagic in months.

<Point taken. I just want to be thorough. The war isn’t over.>

The sparkle faded from Khyvette’s gaze as they swooped past a swath of ground where bloodblossom sprouted. True to its name, the tiny crimson flowers soaked up nutrients from carnage. The battle that had taken place on this shore had left many bodies. Bloodblossom thrived here, as it did on many old battlefields across Allentria.

As they banked around a mountainous peninsula, Cinder Isle came into view. On schedule, a bright flash bloomed to the west of the mainland half of the city, a league beyond its sandstone walls. Fletcher waved, and Khyvette angled toward the rocky bluff where they met with Keriya most mornings.

“My new plan is ready,” Keriya announced the moment they’d landed.

Khyvette crouched, and Fletcher vaulted over her shoulder—no mean feat, seeing as her shoulder was nearly three heights tall. He landed in a nimble crouch and straightened.

“Let’s hear it,” he said. To Khyvette, he added telepathically, <Maybe it won’t be so bad this time.>

<One can hope,> she replied, though she didn’t sound hopeful.

With the air of an artist presenting a masterpiece, Keriya clapped her hands together, then spread them wide. “First, I master valemagic.”

Fletcher nodded, indulging her. She spoke as if that part of the plan didn’t require its own complicated plan to accomplish.

“Next, I summon Necrovar from the Etherworld. He’s weak, I’m strong. We fight, I destroy him.”

“And . . . how exactly does this differ from your previous plans?”

Keriya began pacing, hair snapping in the temperate breeze. “Necrovar is the dark half of Pure Valemagic. I thought killing him would destroy the balance, and in turn, the world. But we got along fine without Necrovar’s power for ten ages while he was imprisoned in the Etherworld. With him gone for good, Selaras would be better. I can make it better.”

“Would you even be able to weave a spell like that?” he asked, frowning.

“Of course. Once I master valemagic, I’ll be able to do anything.”

The confidence with which she spoke was off-putting, and Fletcher heard a hidden note of hunger in her voice. It wasn’t even in her voice—he was picking up on her emotions.

He wasn’t powerful enough to mindspeak with anyone apart from his bondmate, but he often caught flashes of Keriya’s feelings on the telepathic frequency of valemagic. Perhaps this made sense. He shared a bond with her, too: one born of fifteen years of friendship.

“So, Khyvette.” Keriya turned to the dragon. “On a scale of one to this-will-destroy-the-world, how’s my new plan?”

“It’s a solid eight,” Khyvette said in a flat voice. “Possibly a nine.”

“Oh.” The triumph slid from Keriya’s face. “But why—”

“You know I can’t explain why.” They had this same circular conversation every time Keriya begged for information. “The Dragon Empress is valemagic incarnate. So long as her power lives in my soul, I am forbidden from sharing her secrets.”

“It’s okay,” Fletcher said quickly, eager to prevent the possibility of an argument. “We’d never ask you to do anything that would compromise you or put you in danger.”

“I am always in danger. As a bonded dragon, I can no longer wield my valemagic, yet I remain beholden to its influence. I have all its drawbacks and none of its benefits.”

That statement struck him like a slap to the face.

Khyvette wrinkled her snout in concern—the draconic equivalent of his signature nose scrunch. <This is one of those moments when I should have lied, isn’t it?> she asked silently.

The familiar, endearing expression settled Fletcher’s nerves. <It’s alright.>

<You’ve explained that lying is sometimes kinder, sometimes diplomatic. And I see the truth has upset you.>

<I’m not upset.>

<There! You’re lying to make me feel better.>

He laid a reassuring hand on her leg. <If Keriya comes up with a bad plan, we’re all done for. She needed to hear the truth.>

So did I, he realized. It had never registered with him how much Khyvette had sacrificed when they’d bonded. She’d given up unimaginable power for him.

Why? The toxic question lodged behind his heart, turning him cold.

“Fletch?”

He pulled away from his private conversation to look at Keriya. The manic light had faded from her eyes, thank Shivnath—but now she, too, stared at him with concern.

“Sorry.” He straightened his uniform, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. “Just trying to come up with answers.”

“Aren’t we all,” said Keriya. “I’ll have a new plan next week, and it will be good this time, I promise.”

“Careful, Drachrheenar,” said Khyvette. “We all have valemagic in our souls. You’ve just made a binding vow.”

“Ah, I’d better stick to my word then, hadn’t I?”

They were trying to lighten the mood, Fletcher could tell. Maybe his inner turmoil had shone on his face, or maybe Khyvette—and possibly even Keriya—had sensed it. He was grateful for their efforts, though he couldn’t shake the icy feeling that clung to him.

A low, brassy horn sounded from far away. Fletcher turned to see a dark ship approaching the narrow strait between Cinder Isle and the mainland.

“The Syrionese,” he gasped. “We’re going to be late!”

“Go,” said Keriya, making shooing motions at him. “I have to scout a new Rift location with G’shídrian. Tell the Syrionese I’ll meet them at the gala!”

“Right. See you tomorrow!”

Khyvette crouched, and Fletcher scrambled up her outstretched leg, settling between her wing joints at the base of her neck. Her wings snapped open and she leapt from the mainland cliff. Twirling with the grace of a dancer, she angled toward the island.

The ocean air calmed Fletcher, and the verdant hills and artful turrets of Cinder Isle brought a smile back to his face. Valemagic was beyond his ken, but diplomacy came naturally to him. He loved liaising with different factions. He was good at it.

The island city had been rebuilt post-war, since the Moorfainians had wrecked it. New towers perched on tiered cliffs, rising in a semicircular arc from the harbor. Khyvette angled toward the highest ridge on the island’s west end and touched down on a landing pad, stirring up puffs of reddish dirt. Fletcher dismounted, pushed his glasses up his nose, and ran toward the three creatures awaiting him.

Danisan Carvaziae wore his usual all-black garb. Long, pointed ears poked through the sides of his headscarf, which covered most of his pallid face. His catlike obsidian eyes remained visible, and they shone with affection as they met Fletcher’s.

“I missed you,” said Fletcher, grasping Danisan’s clawed hand and standing on tiptoe to kiss the elf’s veiled cheek. Their conflicting responsibilities kept them apart more often than not, so it was a blessing when their paths coincided.

“The ship is ten minutes out,” said Gavoch, one of Fletcher’s dwarf friends. He’d overseen Port Cinder’s rebuilding efforts, and now led its dwarven population. “Our nereid scouts have alerted us to another vessel accompanying it.”

Fletcher scanned the Waters of Chardon. From the landing pad, he could see for leagues and leagues on a clear day. He marked the Syrionese ship by the ribbons of steam wafting from its smokestacks, but saw nothing else.

“How far out is the vessel?” he said.

“Very close.” Gavoch’s gravely voice quivered with excitement. His skin, as brown and textured as the bark of an ancient oak tree, buckled around his golden eyes as he grinned.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Fletcher, bemused. “Is it invisible?”

“Better. It is underwater!”

“The Syrionese call it a submarine,” Danisan explained. “It runs on voltmagic.”

“And it moves by tunneling. Tunneling through water!” Gavoch cried. He had a penchant for tunneling. It was a dwarf thing, or so Fletcher gathered.

“The main ship is about to dock.” Danisan’s low voice carried the subtlest hint of apprehension. “My people will not be happy to see me living here. They will view it as betrayal. They dislike consorting with foreigners and outside nations.”

“Yet they’ve come to consort with us,” said Fletcher. “Maybe they’ve changed.”

The elf’s eyes tightened. Fletcher squeezed his hand and added, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“Of course I will come. I wouldn’t abandon you and force you to speak with strangers alone.”

Fletcher fought to keep a straight face. Danisan could take on legions of shadowbeasts without batting an eye, but having conversations was beyond him.

“Quhai l’easse shai phreiré.” The third mortal on the launchpad, another human, spoke up. Fletcher dug in his pants pocket and fished out a silver ring. It didn’t look like much, but it contained a lifemagic enchantment that translated languages.

“Sorry, go again?” he said, slipping it onto his right index finger.

“The eastern wharf is prepped,” repeated Enwha, aerial commander and ambassador of the Ghoren Islands’ faction. A mischievous grin widened on her face. “Race you there?”

She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the creature behind her: a dragonfly of epic proportion. An artfully sculpted tree-resin saddle sat on its back, resting between two sets of gossamer, veined insect wings.

“It won’t be a fair race.” Khyvette spread her own wings, membranes rippling in the breeze.

“You may have the advantage of size,” Enwha conceded, striding toward her faithful odhonata mount, “but we have the advantage of speed.”

With practiced agility, she hoisted herself into the saddle. She pulled a set of dwarf-made goggles down from her shaved head, settling them over her amber eyes for wind protection. “Perhaps you’re scared, since you know how formidable skimmers can be. We played a key role in expelling the Moorfainians, as I’m sure you recall.”

“Oh, I remember.” Fletcher grinned and retreated to Khyvette. “A race, then—on the count of three. Gavoch, if you’ll do the honors?”

Gavoch rolled his bulbous eyes, but indulged them. “One.”

Fletcher scrambled up Khyvette’s foreleg. Danisan joined him a moment later, moving with the preternatural speed and grace of his species. His muscled arms slid around Fletcher’s waist.

“Two—”

“Yah!” With an exultant cry, Enwha urged her skimmer into the air. Its wings became an iridescent smear as it kicked off with six segmented legs, zooming away to the northeast.

“Cheater,” said Fletcher, tracking the skimmer as it bobbed and weaved down the rocky slope.

“I’m not concerned,” Khyvette said loftily. “I can cheat far more effectively than that.”

A swell of energy bubbled in Fletcher’s chest, vibrating in his soul—an echo of the sensation Khyvette experienced whenever she wielded. With a flash, she teleported. Blinking to clear his vision, he saw they now hovered high over the easternmost wharf.

Khyvette let out a wheezing breath. She bobbed in the air, struggling to maintain her altitude. The ghostly energy in Fletcher’s chest fizzled out, creating an ache behind his sternum.

<What’s wrong?> he asked. He’d never experienced that painful secondhand sensation before.

<I must have overextended myself. Too much recent wielding, not enough rest. Shedding doesn’t help, either.>

Fletcher suspected there was more to it. Pain lingered in his chest, and something about Khyvette’s too-casual mindvoice didn’t sit right with him—but he had no time to press the point. The Syrionese ship chugged along the cerulean strait below, angling toward the docks. Khyvette descended to the stone pier to greet it, arriving moments before Enwha and her odhonata touched down.

The Ghoori warrior wrenched off her goggles, her dark-brown cheeks warm with the flush of wind and flight. “No fair!”

Khyvette rearranged her wings in a draconic shrug. “You never specified the parameters of the race, nor forbid the use of magic.”

Enwha slid off her skimmer, patting its scaly face in consolation. “Poor Syrhes. Your victory was stolen.”

Its faceted eyes glinted as it leaned into her touch. It bore no bridle—Enwha was a Tier Nine wielder, and used lifemagic to communicate telepathically with her odhonata, just as Fletcher used valemagic to communicate with Khyvette.

The motley group made themselves smart, straightening their clothes and smoothing their scales in advance of the ship’s arrival. The Syrionese vessel was reminiscent of Moorfain’s destroyers: long, metallic, with steam-powered engines. It came to a shuddering halt at the dock, and wharf workers fell into their now-familiar routine of securing the ship and ushering out the newcomers.

It was a far cry from the first time foreigners had arrived without warning, after ages of Allentria being friendless and isolated. That had sparked a panic, which had almost escalated to a battle. Fortunately, those first visitors had been the Ghoren Islanders, and Keriya had recognized them in time to avert disaster.

A group of five Syrionese emissaries glided down a shiny gangplank. Like Danisan, they towered head and shoulders above the humans on the dock. Long, bare toes peeked out beneath their silk robes as they approached. They had black hair, pallid scales, and dark eyes—all but the tallest among them, whose irises were a vibrant cyan set against dark scleras.

“Welcome, friends, to the Empire of Allentria,” said Fletcher, stepping forward to greet them. “I’m Fletcher Earengale, the Chief Imperial Ambassador, and this is my bondmate, Khyvette Leilasorian. I know Allentria’s history with its former allies is tarnished, but we’re glad to see you here, and we hope to begin a new era of cooperation between our nations.”

Khyvette had helped him hone this speech, and the Syrionese appeared impressed with it. He saw translation rings glittering on their clawed fingers, gifts from the dock welcome committee.

“Ambassador Earengale.” The tallest of the five, the one with the odd eyes, inclined their head. They had a low, breathy voice, and fanged incisors so long that the serrated tips poked out over their lips. “I am Tethryn Indrossae, Lead Envoy of the Syrionese Coalition. Allentria’s sordid history nearly deterred us from making the voyage, but word has spread of the dragons’ return.”

Tethryn’s vibrant gaze floated over to Khyvette. “The stories do not do you justice,” they whispered. “Selaras has been dim without your light these past ten ages.”

As one, the five Syrionese bowed to her.

“Rise, honored guests,” said Khyvette. Despite the translation ring that filtered her words into Allentrian in his mind, Fletcher could tell she was speaking in the Syrionese tongue. She had a gift for learning languages, and Danisan had taught her the basics.

Tethryn seemed pleased with this little touch, for they nodded approvingly as they straightened. Their scaly face hardened once more as their attention landed on Danisan. “You are far from home.”

“So are you,” Danisan retorted.

“Out of necessity more than anything else. Though I do not begrudge the trip, now that I have seen a dragon with my own eyes.” Tethryn directed those piercing eyes at Fletcher. “This must be the fabled Dragon Speaker.”

“Nope,” said Fletcher. Legends had spread about him, to be sure—a phenomenon he still found disorienting—but he knew who people were referencing when they asked this question. “That would be my best friend, Keriya Soulstar.”

“Another rheenar? Allentria is indeed blessed.”

“The blessing of the dragons’ return and the rise of rheenarae is a double-edged blade,” said Khyvette. “We were only able to return because Necrovar destroyed the magical balance.”

The shorter elves shuddered at Necrovar’s name.

“We heard of that, too,” said Tethryn. “According to rumor, the Dragon Speaker met the Shadow in battle, but emerged triumphant and resealed him in the Etherworld.”

“The rumors have it right,” Fletcher said proudly, remembering how Keriya had imprisoned Necrovar during the Battle of Indrath Necros—the Final Battle, as people now called it.

“I am curious,” Khyvette said in a conversational tone, “as to where these rumors originated. How did word reach you half a world away?”

“We share a border with Jidaeln.” Tethryn flicked their wrist in a dismissive fashion at mention of the country. “We learned of Allentria’s plight when the dynast joined the Shadow War.”

“Naturally,” said Khyvette. “But how did the overseas community hear of Necrovar’s re-imprisonment?”

She was digging for information, trying to find the root of the rumors that had attracted the world’s attention. Dozens of ships had shown up over the last year, all bearing the same stories.

Fletcher wasn’t surprised word had spread so far; the real mystery was how word had gotten out. Allentria and Jidaeln had agreed to keep the news quiet, since Keriya had not truly defeated Necrovar. When they’d asked Enwha, she’d said her people had heard it from a trade ship, who’d heard it from another trade ship, and so on and so forth.

“We first heard whispers months ago,” said Tethryn. “The rumors originated in the south, swarming up from unsavory places like Daigath and Trigonith.”

The elves wrinkled their noses in distaste of these countries.