The wind howled like a lover scorned.
"Again," she whispered, breath frosting.
Steel flashed; blood hissed on ice.
Dragon down.
Not dead—never dead—only tamed.
"Good boy," Elena purred, gloved fingers trailing the ridge of the wyvern's throat.
Scales rippled beneath her touch, hot, alive.
She felt the pulse jump, felt it match her own.
A crack behind.
Boot on snow.
"Still playing with monsters, Elena?"
She knew that voice—velvet over iron.
Cecil.
Cecil in black furs, lips stained wine-red, eyes the color of sin.
"Jealous?" Elena asked.
"Always."
Cecil stepped closer; the wyvern snarled.
"Easy," Elena soothed, but her gaze never left Cecil's mouth.
"I brought you a gift," Cecil murmured.
"Another pretty lie?"
"A map."
Cecil unfolded parchment between them; their fingers brushed—static, spark, hunger.
The map showed the Emperor's road, the one no smuggler dared.
"Payment?" Elena asked.
Cecil's smile turned slow, wicked.
"One night. No gloves."
Elena laughed, low.
"Try to keep up."
The wyvern folded its wings, watching, knowing.
They left the carcass for the wolves.
—
Night fell like a silk shift sliding from pale shoulders.
The cottage stank of herbs and smoke.
"Mama!"
Leon barrelled into her knees, silver hair bright against her leathers.
Four years old and already tasting the sky.
"Story," he demanded.
Elena dropped to one knee, pressing her forehead to his.
"Once upon a time, a dragon stole a queen's heart…"
Leon's eyes went wide, starlight caught in violet.
Behind them, the witch stirred her cauldron.
"Boy's burning up again," she rasped.
"Magic?" Elena asked.
"Dragon fever. Needs cooling."
Elena's fingers brushed Leon's nape; the skin blazed.
She remembered fire beneath her own ribs, four years ago, in a carriage rocking like the world's end—
Stop.
"Mama, will the dragon come for me?"
"Only if you're brave."
"I'm brave!"
She kissed his brow.
Salt.
Fear.
—
Later, when the child slept, Elena stepped outside.
Snow whispered beneath bare feet.
She peeled off her gloves, let the cold bite.
Scars glowed—pale, intricate, shaped like chains.
Her breath hitched.
A memory rose unbidden: silk sheets, a stranger's mouth on her throat, the taste of stars and iron.
"Lucian," she whispered, the name a curse.
A shadow detached from the trees.
Tall.
Hooded.
"Your son has his eyes," the shadow said.
Elena's dagger was out before the last syllable.
"Speak again and lose your tongue."
The shadow lifted his hood.
Silver hair.
Purple eyes.
Lucian.
Alive.
Here.
"Hello, little wolf," he said softly.
The dagger trembled.
"Come to claim your blood debt?"
"Come to claim you."
Snow began to fall again, thick, silent.
Between them, the distance of years and lies.
Elena took one step.
Then another.
Until they were a breath apart.
His scent—ash and cedar—sent heat pooling low in her belly.
"Touch me," she said, "and die."
His smile was slow, feral.
"Death suits me."
Their mouths crashed together—
Not gentle.
Never gentle.
Teeth, tongues, the sharp taste of winter and want.
Hands tore at buckles, at furs.
Skin met skin—branding-cold, then molten.
She bit his lip; he groaned into her mouth.
"More," she demanded.
His palm slid beneath her shirt, tracing the scar that ran from rib to hip.
She arched, breath catching.
"Still beautiful," he murmured.
"Still deadly."
Lightning cracked overhead—
But it wasn't lightning.
It was Leon's scream.
They broke apart, panting.
Elena ran.
Lucian followed.
Inside, the cottage blazed with violet fire.
Leon stood in the center, arms wide, eyes glowing.
The witch was gone.
On the floor—blood and feathers.
A single white dove, throat slit, message tied to its leg.
Elena knelt, fingers shaking.
The parchment read:
"Bring the boy to the Tower.
Or watch the world burn."
She looked up.
Lucian's face was stone.
"Our son," she breathed.
"Our war," he answered.
Outside, the wyvern screamed.
Snow turned to steam.
And somewhere far off, a bell tolled once—
A promise of ruin.