ONE
SERAPHINE
The training court reeked of old smoke and fresh blood.
Seraphine’s boots ground against scorched obsidian as she pivoted sharply, ducking beneath the swing of a war axe and driving her elbow into the ribs of her opponent. The crunch was satisfying. A grunt echoed from the armored bastard as he stumbled back, clutching his side. She didn’t wait for him to recover. House Drakar didn’t breed patience into their heirs. She spun, whitefire licking at her fingertips, and landed a sharp uppercut beneath his jaw. The blast sent him flying.
Silence rang out across the blackened court.
Torren Blackfang, her combat instructor and lifelong tormentor—grunted from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. His jagged dragonbone pauldron caught the afternoon sun and gleamed like a warning.
“Sloppy footwork on your third pivot,” he said, not bothering to look up from his sharpening stone. “You almost tripped on your own pride.”
Seraphine wiped the sweat from her brow, straightened, and turned to him with a smirk. “Still flattened your best man.”
“He’s not my best.” Torren finally glanced up. “Just the only one dumb enough to bet he could land a hit.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Her chest heaved with exertion. Beneath her scales—subtle and shimmering in the right light—her skin ached from bruises yet to bloom. But it was a good ache. A familiar one. Pain had been her companion long before power ever deigned to notice her.
“You done admiring yourself, Icefire?” Torren asked, tossing her a waterskin.
Seraphine caught it and drank deep. The nickname meant to mock the cold detachment she wielded as skillfully as her fire—no longer stung. She wore it like armor. Better that than show them how much she burned underneath.
“I’m not here to admire anything,” she said, voice flat. “I’m here to be ready.”
Torren nodded once. Approval, in his language. It was the closest she’d get to praise today. “Then you’ll want to wash up. Your father’s summoned you.”
She stiffened.
The Emperor did not “summon.” He commanded. And if he was calling her, it wasn’t for idle talk.
She turned toward the towering gates of the Drakar Citadel without another word. As she walked, the wind kicked up the ever-present scent of sulfur and scorched metal. The mountains surrounding the citadel wept slow rivers of molten gold—House Drakar’s inheritance, its curse, its pride.
She was its heir.
The throne room was carved from volcanic glass and old bones. Massive dragon skulls lined the walls, their hollow sockets forever watching, judging. The light here was wrong—more shadow than flame, more memory than presence.
Her father sat atop the bone-sculpted throne like he’d grown from it. Zareth Drakar, Emperor of Fire, Wielder of Goldflame, Last of the Crowned Flameborn. He was a statue given breath. Ageless, inhuman, terrifying in his stillness.
“Seraphine,” he said, not rising, not smiling.
She bowed low, as tradition demanded, but her gaze never left his.
“You called for me.”
“Prophecy stirs,” he said, voice like a forge bellows. “And I am not fond of surprises.”
She waited.
He gestured, and a robed figure stepped forward from the shadows. Her stomach clenched. The Seers of the Ashen Flame were rarely summoned—never for good tidings.
The Seer’s eyes glowed white, her mouth unmoving as a voice—not hers—spoke through her.
“The Hollow wakes. Beneath fire and bone, it stirs. Hungers. The blade that sealed it lies broken. The heir must rise, or all shall fall.”
The room chilled despite the fire that danced in its walls. Seraphine blinked. “The Hollow is a myth.”
Zareth’s golden eyes narrowed. “And dragons were once myths to men. That did not save them when we razed their cities.”
