He turned it over. The seal was scorched into the back, and scrawled beneath it: “Summoned. Meet at Aethermoor threshold. No delay.”
He stood slowly, jaw tightening.
Drakar didn’t summon rogues. They hunted them.
Unless they needed something worse than themselves.
THREE
SERAPHINE
Seraphine walked through the veiled city with her chin high, her whitefire cloak brushing the cobbled path behind her. Mist coiled around obsidian spires like breath held too long, and the bioluminescent moss underfoot pulsed faintly with each of her steps, as though recognizing the blood in her veins.
People bowed as she passed.
Not only out of respect, but also fear. And she preferred it that way.
The Court of Claws for the Dragonborne convened in the Heartspire, a twisted tower that pierced the clouds above the capital. Inside, it was less a hall and more a battlefield with chairs. Every monarch, regent, and heir from the major shifter Houses had a place here, just like in every major shifter castle—every one of them would sell the other for an edge.
Seraphine stepped through the obsidian arch and into the pit of vipers.
The chamber buzzed with low voices, sharp glances. Murals carved into the walls shifted as she passed—dragons devouring their enemies, wolves howling beneath blood moons, panthers blending into shadows and bats flapping against the darkness.The scent of ancient magic clung to everything, like old perfume worn long past its charm.
She didn’t falter.
Not when the Umbraclaw delegation gave her cool nods from the shadows. Not when Grimhart’s brute prince Calder gave her a lopsided smile and a subtle fist-to-chest. And certainly not when Vaela Drakar, in all her icy perfection, rose from her seat at the edge of the Drakar circle.
“Cousin,” Vaela said, voice like sweet wine laced with poison. “You’re late.”
Seraphine gave her a thin smile. “You’re always early. I suppose we each have our vices.”
Vaela’s eyes glittered, blue as frozen steel. Her pale silk robes clung to her like mist, and her fingers sparkled with gold-tipped claws she’d sharpened more for show than use. A dozen courtiers hovered behind her, sycophants and softbloods all cut from the same decorative cloth.
Seraphine didn’t bother looking at them. She locked eyes with Vaela and held.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Until the older woman turned with a flourish and resumed her seat.
Torren Blackfang, at her side like a living war banner, murmured low, “You didn’t kill her. I’m proud.”
“She’s not worth the paperwork,” Seraphine muttered, striding toward her seat.
The Emperor’s throne no longer sat empty.
Zareth Drakar loomed from the center of the chamber, cast in shadow and dragonlight, the throne’s spiked back curling around him like the jaws of an ancient beast. He did not rise. His presence alone silenced the room.
His golden eyes swept the gathered rulers like a general surveying terrain. When they landed on Seraphine, they sharpened—not with warmth, but with expectation. She knew the look. It was the same one he gave battlefield maps. Problem. Solution. Piece.
He was a man who had outlived kings, rewritten laws, and broken bloodlines to preserve House Drakar’s legacy.
Even now, he studied his Court like a board full of untrustworthy pieces.
“The Hollow stirs,” he said, voice flat as a blade’s edge. “You’ve all heard the prophecy. You know what it means.”
Murmurs followed. None dared speak over him, but the ripple of unease spread like wildfire.
