The sky bled crimson.
Elaria stood atop the shattered ramparts of the ancient citadel, her bare feet soaking in the warmth of dragonfire that licked the stone beneath her. Her eyes, no longer purely human, shimmered with gold flecks that pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat. Her hair—once a curtain of midnight silk—now flowed like smoke caught in moonlight, untamed and elemental.
Below, the ruins trembled. Not from battle—yet—but from the dread that always preceded it. The Forsworn were coming. The Ashen Order had returned to finish what they started.
Kael's shadow loomed beside her.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
She felt him in every shift of wind, in every flare of her own power. Since the night she'd surrendered to him, Elaria had changed. Not just physically, not just the burning blood in her veins or the ache that lingered in her core from their dark communion—but in her soul.
She had become something new.
And it was time to let the world feel it.
"They're at the river pass," the scout rasped, his arm mangled, face pale. "At least two hundred of them. Led by the High Inquisitor himself."
Kael didn't move.
Elaria nodded, kneeling to close the scout's eyes as he died. Her hands lingered a moment over his chest.
"Burn him," she said softly. "Honor him with flame."
Kael obeyed. His dragonfire consumed the body in a silent blaze.
The scent of scorched flesh drifted on the wind.
Elaria turned to Kael, her voice low. "It's not just about revenge anymore."
He regarded her with slitted golden eyes. "No. It's about dominion."
The army came like a plague.
Men clad in iron, mouths chanting prayers to gods who had long abandoned them. At their head rode the High Inquisitor: tall, skeletal, draped in robes etched with ash and bone, his gauntlet forged from the fang of a fallen wyrm.
Elaria met him on the battlefield at dusk.
The setting sun split the sky with fire. Her skin drank it in. She wore no crown, no armor—only the ceremonial robe Kael had given her, crimson silk slit to the waist, the mark of the dragon burned into her sternum, just above the heart.
The Inquisitor sneered. "Witch."
She smiled. "Wrong word. Queen."
Kael landed behind her, shaking the earth. Massive, ancient, wings outspread like a god of judgment.
There were no more words.
Only war.
They struck first. Always.
The Order surged like ants, blades drawn, spells flaring. Elaria unleashed a wall of flame that devoured their front line in a scream of heat. Her body moved like molten lava, fluid and unstoppable.
Kael took to the sky, raining destruction with every beat of his wings.
But they were prepared.
The Order unleashed their secret weapon—glass orbs filled with dragon venom. When shattered, they released clouds of poison that darkened the air and crippled Kael's flight.
He crashed to the earth, roaring.
Elaria screamed, not in fear, but fury.
She sprinted through the chaos, blades of flame extending from her wrists. She cut down man after man, her breath hitching with each burst of pain from her overtaxed magic.
Then the Inquisitor reached her.
He was fast. Too fast.
A blast of shadow magic caught her in the chest and sent her flying. She hit stone, bones cracking, vision swimming. When she looked up, he was standing over her, blade drawn.
"You're no queen," he hissed. "You're a curse."
She spat blood and grinned. "Then die with me."
And lit herself on fire.
Kael's body writhed on the battlefield, his wings scorched, his eyes dimming. But when he felt her flame spike—uncontrolled, all-consuming—his beast roared back to life.
He launched himself at the Inquisitor, jaws open wide.
The old man raised his blade—but Kael was faster.
His teeth clamped around the Inquisitor's torso and tore him in half.
The Order broke.
Leaderless, terrified, they scattered.
Elaria lay on the ground, flames dying around her, eyes half-lidded.
Kael shifted back to human form, bloodied and ragged, and scooped her into his arms.
"You burn too bright," he murmured.
Her lips moved. "Then don't let me go out."
He carried her back to the temple, through the field of fire and ash. They were too broken for words, too raw for promises.
But once the world was silent, he laid her down upon the stone altar and kissed her wounds, one by one.
Not gently.
Desperately.
She moaned as his mouth found her throat, her breasts, the burn-scar just above her navel. Their magic sparked again, wild and aching.
He entered her with a growl that vibrated through the air.
There was no sweetness now—only need. His thrusts were savage, deep, relentless, her cries echoing across the ruined hall. She wrapped her legs around him, nails digging into his back, drawing blood.
They were fire and fury, wreckage and ruin.
When she came, it was like the sun itself broke open inside her.
Kael followed, roaring into her mouth, their flames entwining, igniting the very stones beneath them.
Later, they lay together, her head on his chest.
"They'll come again," she whispered.
He nodded. "Let them. The dragon queen rises."
And in the shadows of the broken temple, their fire never faded.
Far away, in the last stronghold of the Forsworn, a high priest watched the horizon with dead eyes.
"She survived."
A younger acolyte trembled. "What should we do?"
The priest turned.
"Pray to your gods. And bury your name. The dragon queen is coming."