POV: Sera
I don't sleep.
The entire night, I lie in Nova's guest chambers, staring at the ceiling while my power hums beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. The symbols on my arm glow faintly—bronze shifting to gold, then back again. The bond is calling. Kael'thor said so. The ancient tie between us is reforming, and I have no idea what that means for either of us.
By dawn, I'm exhausted and wired simultaneously.
The door opens without warning.
Two figures enter—one wrapping the very air in shadow, the other moving like an earthquake. I'm on my feet instantly, my golden light flaring defensively.
"Easy," the shadow-walker says, and his voice is smooth as silk wrapped around a knife. "We're not here to hurt you."
He steps fully into the morning light filtering through the windows, and I see him clearly for the first time. Midnight-blue skin that seems to absorb light. Three eyes—all silver, all burning with sharp intelligence. He's beautiful in a predatory way, like a knife that's been polished until it gleams.
"Vexen," he introduces, offering a slight bow. "The King's spymaster. I'm here to keep you alive, which means I need to know every possible threat you face."
"And I'm Draeven," the massive one says, his voice like boulders grinding together. He's enormous—crimson-red skin crisscrossed with white battle scars, four arms flexed casually. His golden eyes study me with the intensity of a warrior assessing an opponent. "War Master. I'm here to make sure you can defend yourself when the threats I can't eliminate try to kill you."
I back up instinctively. "Defend myself? I can barely control my power."
Draeven's laugh is a rumbling sound that shakes the walls. "Exactly. You have power but no control. You're weak. In this Citadel, weakness makes you prey."
"And every mutant who wants the King's favor will try to use you," Vexen adds smoothly, moving to examine the chamber with casual interest. "Or kill you. Both are possible. We're here to make the second option considerably more difficult."
My hands clench. Part of me wants to collapse. Another part—a stronger part—wants to show them exactly what I can do.
I lift my chin. "Then teach me not to be weak."
Draeven's grin widens, showing teeth that could rend steel. "Good answer. Training starts now."
The training arena is massive.
It's carved directly into the Citadel's lower levels, with stone walls that glow faintly with bioluminescence. Other mutants watch from elevated platforms, their eyes tracking me with various degrees of interest and hunger. My stomach twists, but I don't let it show.
"Rule one," Draeven announces loudly enough that the entire arena can hear, "you are not here to win. You are here to learn."
He attacks without warning.
One moment he's standing across from me. The next, he's moving with impossible speed for something so massive. His lower arms grab for me while his upper ones strike toward my face. I dodge—barely—and his claws whistle past my ear close enough that I feel the air move.
"You're slow," he growls, pressing the attack.
I summon my golden light and try to push him away with pure power. The energy explodes from my hands, but it's wild, unfocused. Draeven absorbs the impact and barely steps back.
"Sloppy," he continues. "You have power but no finesse. You're throwing it around like a child throwing rocks."
He comes at me again, and this time I do something different. Instead of trying to match his strength, I activate my power and look at him. I see what he wants—a worthy opponent, a real challenge, someone who makes him feel like a warrior instead of a butcher.
I shift my dodging pattern, make myself slightly harder to predict. Not because I've suddenly learned combat, but because I'm reading his desires, understanding his fighting style on an instinctual level.
Draeven's eyes flash with something that might be approval.
"Better," he says.
For hours, we fight. I lose every single exchange. I'm thrown to the ground repeatedly. My muscles scream with pain. But with each round, I understand more. My power isn't just about manifesting desires—it's about perceiving them. And once I perceive them, I can adapt to them.
By midday, I'm not winning, but I'm not completely helpless either.
Vexen watches from the sidelines, his silver eyes missing nothing. During a break, he approaches me while Draeven helps me to my feet.
"Your father's weapon is more sophisticated than we initially thought," Vexen says without preamble. "It doesn't just kill mutants. It specifically targets beings with Catalyst markers. Which means it can kill you."
"Wonderful," I gasp, wiping blood from my lip where Draeven's claws caught me.
"What's wonderful," Vexen continues, "is that it takes time to charge. Five minutes minimum. If you can perceive the weapon firing, you might have time to escape the blast radius."
"Might," I repeat.
"Might is better than definitely dying," Vexen says with his sharp smile. "Which is what will happen if you don't learn to control your power under pressure."
He leaves me with that cheerful thought.
Draeven drags me back to the arena.
"Again," he commands.
We train until my vision blurs. Until my muscles don't respond properly. Until I'm running on pure desperation and the knowledge that people are counting on me not to be weak. The pain becomes distant. The fear transforms into focus.
And somewhere in that crucible of exhaustion and suffering, something shifts.
My power stops being separate from me. It becomes part of my reflexes, part of my movements. I stop consciously activating it and instead let it flow naturally—reading Draeven's intentions, predicting his strikes, responding with power that's becoming more controlled with each exchange.
Draeven finally stops and steps back.
"That's enough for today," he says, and there's something almost like approval in his tone. "You're learning. Faster than most."
I collapse to one knee, gasping. Every inch of my body aches. But I'm still standing. Still fighting. Still becoming.
Nova is waiting in the chambers when I stumble back, and she takes one look at my bruised and bloodied state and groans. "They really did a number on you."
"Necessary," I tell her between gulps of water. "I need to be stronger."
She helps me clean the wounds, treating each one with careful gentleness that contrasts with Draeven's brutality. When she finishes, she sits beside me and her expression turns serious.
"The weapon your father brought," Nova says quietly. "Zhal'kara has been analyzing the readings. It's not just designed to kill you, Sera. It's designed to kill Kael'thor too. Specifically him."
My blood goes cold. "Why would my father—"
"Because the King is the only one who can complete the bond with you," Nova explains. "If he dies before the bond finalizes, it breaks. The ancient pact never activates. The treaty never becomes binding. And the war between humans and mutants continues indefinitely. Which means your father maintains his power. Which means he wins."
I stand abruptly, my golden light flaring in anger and fear. "Then we have to stop him."
"We will," Nova assures me. "But Sera... there's something else you need to know."
She takes my hand and pulls me to the window. Below, in the Crimson Waste, something is happening. The ground is glowing—not red anymore, but deep purple, then gold. The crystalline formations are pulsing in rhythm with something deep beneath the earth.
"What is that?" I whisper.
"That," Nova says, and her voice shakes slightly, "is the original Catalyst palace waking up. The one from before the war. Zhal'kara thinks your power is activating ancient defenses. Calling to ancient magic that's been dormant for two hundred years."
The glow intensifies, and suddenly I can feel it. The connection running from my chest down through the stone, reaching into the deepest parts of the planet. Something massive and ancient and royal stirring beneath the Waste.
Something that remembers me.
"Sera," Nova says carefully, "the last Catalyst was the queen. And the bond you share with Kael'thor—it's not just romantic. It's prophetic. When you complete it, you're not just becoming his consort. You're triggering a magical awakening that's going to change the entire world."
"Is that bad?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"It's catastrophic," Nova says plainly. "Either it saves both species by forcing genuine peace, or it destroys everything in the fallout. And your father understands that. So he's not just trying to kill you to maintain his power."
She meets my eyes.
"He's trying to kill you to prevent the apocalypse."
The chamber door explodes inward.
Kael'thor stands in the frame, his four eyes blazing with fury and fear. His bioluminescent markings cover his entire body, and he's radiating power so intense the air itself seems to vibrate.
"The weapon is active," he says, his voice carrying the weight of a death sentence. "Your father is making his final move. He's not negotiating anymore."
Behind him, I see Vexen and Draeven, both already armored for war.
"The palace is waking," Kael'thor continues. "The ancient magic is responding to your power. Which means the bond is approaching completion. Which means—"
A sound like thunder shakes the entire Citadel.
Somewhere below, something impossibly large shifts in its sleep.
"Which means," Kael'thor finishes, stepping toward me with an intensity that steals my breath, "the war starts now. And you're the only one who can stop it."
He extends his hand.
"Are you ready to be a queen?"