The night before the ceremony
"We begin before midnight."
Elder Graves stood at the head of the Council table as the wardstones lining the chamber walls fractured with loud cracks—each one shook the floor.
Councillor Frost leaned forward. "Dawn may be too late. The seers in the healing ward report—Rhaedor's connection to the sun-stone weakens. His light is fading. He has hours at most."
Elder Morvain's voice cut through the debate. "Then we move faster. Begin the binding tonight."
The floor shook violently. One ward-stone split down its centre, shattering like glass.
Frost rose from his seat. "He is waking faster than we anticipated. We must begin now."
Graves placed both hands on the table. "Very well. Prepare the ritual chamber. We begin before midnight."
. . .
In her cell, Kaelen clutched the map Frost had given her. The floor trembled beneath her feet. Above, guards ran past. Fragments of conversation drifted through the door.
"—third ward-stone cracked—"
"—Elder Graves wants full lockdown—"
"—if he wakes, we are all—"
The voice cut off.
The door's locks began to turn. Kaelen hid the map beneath her mattress beside her mother's journal. She pressed Halden's brass key into her palm.
The door swung open. A guard stepped inside, wiping his palms on his tunic.
"Elder Graves wants you moved to the preparation chambers. Now."
Kaelen rose slowly. "The ceremony is not until—"
"Now." He stepped back into the corridor. "The healing ward measures are beyond reckoning. They are clearing the lower levels."
A second guard appeared in the doorway. They hauled Kaelen to her feet and bound her wrists.
Between two guards, Kaelen walked through the Council halls, collar pulsing red with each step. The guards led her deeper into the fortress, past the sealed doors to the Sunken Vaults.
A chamber lay at the end of the corridor—vast doors carved with sun symbols. One guard pushed the doors open.
Inside lay a circular room with a stone altar at the centre, ward-rods arranged in a ring around it. Elder Graves waited beside the altar.
. . .
"Welcome, Riven Drae."
Riven woke to a stone ceiling—carved, old, marked with dragon script. He touched the back of his head. Blood slicked his fingertips.
The ambush. Someone knew I was leaving Shadowland.
At the far end of the chamber stood a throne of dragon bone, and seated upon it—the voice.
Riven reached for his sword. Empty sheath.
The figure rose—tall, clad in dark armour. As he stepped into the firelight, Riven saw his face: gold eyes, and at his temples—scales.
"Where am I?"
"Drakonthir. The old seat of House Draconis in the eastern mountains—three hundred miles from Erathil, beyond even Shadowland's reach."
Dragon script. The old language of House Draconis. The one place he had sworn never to return.
"Why have you brought me here?"
Draconis crossed to a table beside the throne. "To discuss Verrian Dain. You stole the girl's pendant and delivered it to him at Shadowland. You do his bidding whilst he plots in the shadows."
"What I do is my own concern."
"Not when it threatens the balance of the realm." Draconis moved closer. "He promised to restore House Drae. To give you back what the Council stole from your family."
Riven said nothing.
"I know what Erathil did to your people. I know Zhorander orchestrated it all."
"If you know all this, why did you help him?"
Draconis turned back to the table.
Riven held his gaze. "I saw your banners at the siege of Erathil. Your warriors fought alongside Verrian's."
"I weighed the choice. Help Verrian weaken Erathil now, or wait for the Council to conquer us later. But I learned too late what he truly wants."
He paused.
"Twenty years ago, he came to me with a different bargain. I refused because I recognised his hunger—not for freedom, not for justice. For absolute power."
"Why tell me this?"
"Because you still have a choice. Tell me what he plans, and when this is finished, I shall ensure your family's name is restored."
Riven examined the dragon scales at his temples. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I shall let you go. But know this—when Verrian's plan succeeds, when the barriers fall, and the realm burns, you shall burn with it."
Riven turned towards the carved dragon script on the walls—his family's language, written by ancestors he would never know. Verrian had given him House Drae's name back. But a name meant nothing if the realm itself was ash.
He faced Draconis. "If I tell you what he plans, and you fail to stop him, my house burns regardless."
"Yes."
"And if you succeed, the Council remains. The same Council that destroyed my family."
"The Council can be reformed. The realm cannot be rebuilt from nothing."
Riven was silent for a long moment.
"What do you need to know?"
. . .
"Bring her forwards."
The guards shoved Kaelen towards the altar. Graves circled the altar once, twice, his footsteps echoing.
"The ceremony will begin within the hour. You will be bound to the sun-stone. Your power will sustain the barriers that protect this realm."
"Like my grandfather."
"Yes. Though his power fails, yours will not. Dragon blood burns hotter. Burns longer."
"You knew. All of you. What I carried."
"We have known since your mother's execution. When her blood touched the ward-stones and they flared brighter than they had in decades. We knew you carried dragon blood—but not what your mother had discovered about its true purpose."
Kaelen pulled against her bonds. "My mother refused you."
"Your mother was a fool. She believed she could protect you by dying, but all she did was delay the inevitable."
"What if I refuse?"
"You cannot refuse. The ceremony does not require your consent. Only your blood."
The chamber shook again. Graves caught himself against the altar.
"He wakes faster than we anticipated. We must begin the ceremony now."
"Now? But the Council—"
"I am the Council. I say we begin."
Graves pulled a blade from his robes—silver, etched with symbols. "Bind her to the altar."
The guards advanced. Kaelen retreated a step.
"No."
The first guard reached for her arm. Kaelen pressed the brass key against her collar. Halden had etched flame-script into the brass—old magic that answered to dragon blood.
The script flared. Heat surged through her—not wild, but controlled.
The collar cracked. Shattered.
The guard screamed and fell back, smoke rising from his blistered palm. The second guard raised his spear.
Flames erupted from Kaelen's hands—a surge of instinct, survival. The spear melted in the guard's grip.
He dropped the molten metal and fled.
Graves raised his ward-rod. "Enough!"
The ward-rod blazed blue, light striking where Kaelen's collar had been. Graves loomed over her, ward-rod raised.
Flames flickered at Kaelen's fingertips. Graves smiled. "The binding will be stronger for it."
He lifted the blade. "Hold her down."
Both remaining guards backed towards the door—neither willing to face whatever magic had just melted solid steel.
Another shake—stronger than before. The floor cracked. One of the ward-rods toppled.
The doors exploded inwards.
Thorne entered the chamber, clutching Elena's journal. "Step away from her."
Graves levelled the ward-rod at him. "How did you escape your chamber?"
"The cell locks are failing. The wardstones are cracking. Your control is breaking, Graves."
Thorne moved deeper into the room. "You cannot bind her. Not now. Not whilst the heart is waking."
"That is precisely why we must bind her now. Before the dragon heart breaks free completely."
Thorne threw the journal at Graves's feet. "Read page forty-seven. Elena discovered what the sun-stone truly feeds."
"What do you mean?"
Graves snatched up the journal, scanning the pages. He staggered back.
"No. The Peak—he said the Cradle was unreachable, not—"
"Within the mountain lies the Cradle. An ancient vessel that holds a dragon's heart—petrified and sleeping. The binding was accelerating the process, not delaying it. She died trying to warn the Council."
Another shake. The floor split down the centre of the chamber.
Red light poured from the crack. Heat shimmered up from the depths, distorting the air.
Graves stumbled away from the growing crack. "We need to complete the binding. Now. Before he—"
The floor exploded. Stone fragments flew outwards.
Thorne threw himself behind the altar. Kaelen rolled away from the crack.
A chunk of stone struck Graves across the chest. He fell, the ward-rod clattering from his grip.
From below—a roar. Fire erupted through the crack, struck the ceiling and spread across the stone.
Kaelen crawled towards Thorne. "We must leave—"
"No. We must go down."
"Down? Have you lost your mind?"
"Your grandfather is almost drained. If we do not reach him before the sun-stone empties him, the dragon heart will consume all of Erathil."
Thorne seized her arm. "Your mother's journal. The missing page. I found it hidden in my chamber."
He pulled a torn sheet from his pocket.
"Break the connection. Free him. Let the dragon heart sleep."
"Let it sleep? How?"
"By giving the heart what it truly wants—not dragon blood, but dragon fire. Living fire. The kind only you can produce."
Kaelen shook her head. "That burst just now—that was instinct. Survival. The collar breaking triggered it. But I cannot call it at will. Cannot direct it. The fire comes and goes like lightning. Not until eighteen."
"Then we shall find another way."
"There is no other way—"
"There is always another way."
Another roar from below. The crack widened.
"We must go. Now."
Thorne pulled Kaelen towards the crack. She paused at the edge, staring down into the darkness and fire below.
"The pull comes from below—grandfather's magic, drawing us down."
Thorne hesitated, his grip tightening on her arm. "Kaelen, we do not know what—"
"He is there. I can feel him."
Thorne peered over the edge. Heat rose in waves, warping the air. "You feel him?"
"Yes. He knows we are coming. If he is strong enough to reach us from below, he is strong enough to catch us."
Kaelen met his eyes. "Trust me."
Behind them, through the smoke and heat, Graves struggled to his feet. "Stop—you will kill us all—"
Flame roared through the chamber, swallowing his words.
Thorne and Kaelen jumped. Into the darkness. Into the Sunken Vaults.
. . .
Kaelen and Thorne fell through fire and darkness, the heat intensifying as they descended. Rhaedor's magic slowed their fall. They landed soft—too soft for stone.
Kaelen opened her eyes. Black stone walls rose around them. At the centre was a man suspended in the air.
Tubes ran from his body to a vast stone—the sun-stone, a conduit carved from ancient dragon bone, connecting to the Cradle itself. The tubes beat slower now. Dimmer. Each breath takes more from him.
Rhaedor Virelle.
Kaelen met his burning gold gaze—dragon eyes. Recognition flared—instant, absolute.
His lips did not move—the tubes had stolen his voice—but his words filled her mind, flickering and weak.
Granddaughter.
You came.
The tubes throbbed harder, draining faster. Each word cost him.
The connection held Kaelen fast.
Thorne called out, but his voice reached her from a distance. "Kaelen. Kaelen."
She struggled to her feet, still locked in her grandfather's gaze.
What did they do to you?
What I chose. I poisoned Zhorander to prevent what was coming. Twenty years bound to this stone. Twenty years feeding the heart. Keeping it asleep.
His voice weakened, each thought dimmer than the one before.
"The dragon heart."
Yes. Dragon hearts do not die. Once awake, they hunger. When starved, they break free.
He closed his eyes.
I am almost empty. When I am gone, the heart will wake fully. Burn everything.
Kaelen looked at the sun-stone—its surface flickering, dimming at the edges where the light should have been brightest.
Hours. Perhaps less.
"Elena's journal said the heart wants living fire. Not drained blood."
Elena understood. The only way to keep the heart asleep is to give what it craves. A willing sacrifice. Living dragon fire—not taken, but given.
Your mother refused. She would not sacrifice you. So the Council executed her and planned to take you by force.
The sun-stone feeds on what is given freely. I have lasted twenty years because I gave myself willingly. To protect you.
His body shuddered. The tubes throbbed brighter.
But I am almost empty. You must choose now, Kaelen. Give your fire freely. Or let the heart wake and consume everything.
The tubes flared—feeding on what little remained to give him words.
"If I give my fire, what happens to me?"
You will burn. Not die. But burn. Forever bound to the sun-stone, feeding the Cradle. Keeping the vessel sealed. Keeping the heart within asleep. Just as I have.
"For how long?"
Until another of our bloodline is born. And makes the same choice.
Kaelen looked at Thorne. "There has to be another way."
Touch the stone. See what I have seen. What your mother saw. The sun-stone holds memories—every soul bound to it leaves an imprint. Then you will understand.
The words barely reached her now—fragments, dissolving.
I have held on to tell you this. But I am at my end now.
A voice echoed through the chamber—not Rhaedor's, not Thorne's.
"Then let the Cradle break."
Kaelen spun round. The air at the chamber's edge shimmered, light bending and twisting into form.
A figure materialised—translucent, flickering like smoke.
Verrian Dain.
No sword. No armour. But around his translucent neck—her pendant, solid and real despite his ghost-form, glowing with stolen warmth.
Kaelen lunged forward. "My pendant."
Her hand passed through cold air—through him.
"How—" She withdrew. "How are you doing this?"
His hand passed through the stone altar. "Shadow-walking. My body remains at Shadowland. Only my spirit walks here."
He drifted towards Rhaedor. "Let the Cradle shatter. Let the heart wake. Let Erathil fall. A realm without Councils. Without bindings. Without sacrificing children to feed ancient stones."
"You did this. You stole the pendant. You woke him."
"I did. Because this—" he gestured to Rhaedor, "—is what your precious Council does. They bind. They control. They sacrifice whoever they must to maintain their power."
"And you are different?"
"I make no apologies. I want power—enough to burn the old world and forge a new one. I will not lie and call it justice."
He raised his hand before her, the invisible thread of the pendant's power humming between them. "Come with me, Kaelen. Let the heart wake. Let the barriers fall. Together, we will rule what remains."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you will burn here. Bound to this stone. Just like your grandfather. For what? To protect a realm that murdered your mother?"
Kaelen met his translucent gaze. "My mother died protecting my choice. Not yours. Not the Council's."
"Then make that choice wisely." His form began to fade, smoke unravelling at the edges. "I shall be waiting at the Peak. Come to me willingly, or come bound to that stone for eternity—either way, the Cradle will break."
The smoke dissolved into nothing.
His voice lingered a moment longer. "Choose well, Kaelen Virelle."
Then silence.
My mother died protecting my choice.
Now I make it.
Rhaedor's words echoed in her mind: Touch the stone. See what I have seen.
She moved towards the sun-stone, hand outstretched. The moment her fingers brushed its surface, heat surged through her.
The world dissolved into white light.
. . .
The Sundered Peak.
Wind howling round her. The sky splits open—dragon fire falling from the heavens.
Within the fire—a heart. Vast, still beating, older than the realm itself.
The heart crashes into the mountain's peak. The impact shook the world.
Figures in robes—the first Council—approach. They forge a vessel around the heart. The Cradle. Binding the heart. Sealing its power.
Tubes descend from the Cradle, running down through the mountain's core, through stone and darkness, connecting to—
The sun-stone. Far below, in what will become the Vaults.
Her mother stands at the Peak, journal in hand, staring at the Cradle.
The Cradle cracks. The heart wakes. Fire consumes everything—the Peak, the realm, the world.
Her mother's voice whispers:
"The Cradle was forged at the Peak. Only at the Peak can it be broken."
. . .
Kaelen gasped, stumbling backwards. Thorne caught her.
"What did you see?"
"The Peak." Her grip tightened on his arm. "The Cradle sits at the Sundered Peak. The tubes run down through the mountain. We have been feeding the heart from below, but the Cradle has always been there—at the Peak."
Footsteps echoed from the chamber entrance. Councillor Frost stood at the edge of the crack, peering down.
Frost's voice carried into the Vaults. "You saw it, did you not? Your mother had the same vision when she touched the sun-stone."
He shifted his position above them. "The Cradle cannot be reached from here. Not from the Vaults."
Thorne peered down into the crack. "What do you mean?"
"The sun-stone is merely a conduit. The Cradle lies at the Sundered Peak. Where dragon fire first touched this realm. Where the Cradle was forged to contain the heart."
Kaelen looked back at her grandfather—at the tubes draining him, at the pulsing sun-stone growing brighter with each passing moment, its edges darkening as the heart consumed what little remained.
"Then we must reach the Peak. Now. Before he is drained completely."
Frost called down one last warning. "Verrian will be waiting at the Peak. He knows what you intend."
Kaelen did not look back. "Then let him wait."
. . .
End of Chapter 20
. . .
Next in Chapter 21: The Race to the Peak
Thorne leads three thousand warriors into the Blightlands whilst Verrian tests his generals with lies and ancient magic. Three forces race towards the Sundered Peak, but in the Ember Corridor, Malachar's mercenaries fall one by one to horrors that feed on souls.