She remembered the fire. The choice. The yes that changed everything.
But this... this was something else.
The world swam—no, it burned—then sharpened, awareness pressing into her like a second heartbeat.
Veyna lay on cold stone beneath a bruised sky. Magic pulsed beneath her skin—wild, residual, alive.
Her breath came sharp and uneven, tasting of smoke and magic.
Something inside her had changed, and she wasn't sure it was finished.
Her limbs felt amiss—familiar in shape, foreign in weight. Like they remembered something she hadn't lived.
The absence of pain unsettled her. There should have been fire in her bones, broken ribs, something screaming inside her. But there wasn't. Just a dull ache without origin—like her body had been taken apart and stitched back together, not quite in the right order.
Her joints protested when she moved, but not from impact. It felt deeper, stranger—like her very structure had shifted beneath the skin. Her breath came in shallow bursts, not from injury but from not knowing what she was anymore.
What did he do to me?
Her breath caught. She scanned the haze, heart pounding.
Shapes took form—and froze her in place.
At the edge, wreathed in the light of the retreating storm, the dragon stood still.
Watching.
Not attacking.
Waiting.
Her gaze met his—and something shifted.
As if shaken from a trance, he moved. Heat shimmered from his scales as he stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He circled once, breathing a thin ring of flame to warm and mark the stone, then coiled into it—wings folding tight, head lowering in guarded calm.
Not a threat—but a wary offering of peace.
She could feel his ease.
It pulsed—steady, low.
Connection.
The bond.
It thrummed low beneath her skin, not pulling—just there. Constant. Watching.
A flicker of alarm rose sharp in her chest—not from the storm, or the dragon, but from whatever had taken root inside her.
She didn't understand it.
She didn't want to.
Instinct took over. She scanned the wreckage.
Her legs trembled as she forced herself upright, moving through scorched splinters and shredded cloth. No quiver. No arrows—just wreckage. Her breath caught, realizing they were truly gone. But there—half-covered beneath a torn panel of windcloth—her bow.
She pulled it free with both hands, relieved by its familiar weight. The runes still shimmered faintly along the limbs. At the center, the ancient glyph glowed dimly—warm, steady. Still alive. Somehow, it had survived. Unlike everything else.
She slung it over her shoulder, the movement slow but practiced. It wasn't much—not without her arrows—but it was something. A tether to who she'd been. Before the bond. Before the fall. Before fire bloomed inside her.
She scanned the ledge—splintered wood, torn cloth, a flickering Core.
For a moment, she just stared.
The skiff was ruined—ripped apart, scattered across the ledge in pieces.
I should be dead.
The thought settled hard in her chest.
Everything around her was broken.
And yet—she wasn't.
The bond stirred—gentle, responsive. Not commanding. But aware.
It wasn't pain. It wasn't comfort. It was presence. Foreign.
Invasive in its quiet.
Her chest tightened. "Stop," she whispered.
Zephiron shifted—just slightly—his head tilting, eyes fixed on her.
She couldn't read him, not entirely. But there was something in the movement that felt…curious.
The silence thickened between them, laced with something unspoken.
Above, thunder murmured.
She wasn't ready—for him, for this, for what she was becoming.
Her people had warned of this kind of change—feared it, whispered about it like a curse.
"Go," she whispered. "Please."
He tilted his head. A flick of the tongue. Then—something shifted in him.
Not sound. Not words.
A warning.
His body tensed, wings drawing in slightly, gaze cutting past her toward the horizon.
Scent in the wind. Something coming. Something hunting.
The weight of his words burned through her—too much, too fast. Not sound. Not language. Just meaning, pressed into her mind. Her breath hitched.
Gods be wary.
She pressed a palm to her ribs, as if that could hold something steady inside her.
Calm. Breathe. In-two-three. Out-two-three.
Taren's voice, anchoring her.
"My brother…" Her throat closed. "He's going to die now. Because of this. Because of you."
The answer came—quiet, steady, and not what she expected.
You were hunter. Then hunted. That is life.
No anger. No judgment. Just truth.
She turned away. Her hands clenched.
"Please…let me be myself—by myself!"
Magic surged.
The sky cracked open.
Lightning slammed down—white-hot and blinding. The air ripped open with sound.
Stone split beneath her feet. Sparks rained. The ground heaved sideways, throwing her off balance. She hit hard, breath knocked from her lungs.
Across the ledge, Zephiron reeled back with a roar—not of rage, but surprise. Lightning had scorched a jagged line across his side, steam rising from where scale met heat. His wings flared instinctively, shielding his head.
When her vision cleared, the cliff between them had ruptured—split wide by the strike.
Zephiron stood across the divide, wings spread, talons scorched into stone. Smoke curled from his body, breath fast and heavy.
Veyna pushed herself up, limbs shaking, boots scraping against fractured stone.
Their eyes locked—raw, shaken, something unspoken crackling between them.
Then—her vision twisted.
Colors warped. The air thickened, tinged in orange. The ground swayed beneath her—not unsteady, but lower. Closer.
She wasn't standing. She was moving—slow, deliberate, alert. Wind curled across skin that wasn't hers. Scaled. The stone beneath her felt warm, sun-soaked, alive.
A figure blurred into view—half-formed and wavering.
It moved with a careful, unfamiliar grace. Too steady. Too still.
At the neck, something shimmered—scales, catching light like metal.
And then the eyes—
Her breath caught.
Burning orange-red. Brighter than she could bear, and far too familiar.
That's me.
The realization hit all at once. The way she moved. The shape of her stance. The glint of something inhuman claiming her skin.
She stumbled back.
There were stories. Warnings. Of transformation untethered. Of power without control.
She didn't want to name it—didn't want to admit what she was becoming.
But denial couldn't shield her senses. Something primal stirred beneath her skin, tugging her attention away from thought and toward something else.
An intense scent hit her hard—burnt feathers and iron. Instinct turned her toward its source.
Nearby, a bird lay charred. Feathers curled to ash. The air reeked—metallic and smoke.
Her breath caught. The smell hit harder now—thick and cloying.
She took a step back. Then another.
The bird's blackened carcass stared up at her with hollow sockets.
She recoiled, stomach twisting.
The hunger followed—closer now, crawling beneath her skin. She needed something. Anything to drown it out.
She spun and fled to the scattered skiff, boots crunching over wreckage. Her hands shook as she tore through the debris—searching, digging—until her fingers closed around the pack.
She dropped to her knees. Yanked it open.
Skyroot and storm-fruit. Familiar. Safe. Hers.
She picked one up, fingers curling around its smooth skin—too smooth.
Her gaze caught on her hands—no cuts. No splinters. Her hands—unharmed.
It should have felt like mercy. Instead, it clung like a chain—quiet, heavy, unshakable.
She shook her head, forcing the thought away, and bit down.
Ash.
The taste turned her stomach. She gagged, spat it out, coughing as her throat clenched around the bitterness.
Her body had rejected what it once welcomed.
But worse than the rejection—
Was the memory.
Taren, smiling faintly as he handed her the same fruit during a night watch.
"Can't slay a dragon on an empty stomach," he'd said—voice thin, but teasing. Trying.
The ache behind her ribs sharpened.
She touched her lips—too warm.
Her fingers stilled.
In the dim light, her skin shimmered faintly, as if something inside her had caught fire and refused to go out.
That life felt distant now. Faded.
And yet the hunger remained—raw, electric. A thread pulled taut beneath her ribs, tightening with every breath.
She still had to save Taren.
But she had new problems now.
Big ones.
Problems with claws and fire and cravings she didn't understand.
But this one—this sharp, gnawing need—was the first. The one clawing loudest for her attention.
She didn't know what she was becoming.
But she knew what it wanted now.
Meat.
Her gaze drifted—drawn back to the bird.
Her mouth watered.
She jerked her head away, but her fingers twitched. Her breath hitched.
What am I becoming?
Somewhere beyond the ledge, the world waited—unaware that she was no longer the girl it knew.
And she wasn't sure if that girl still existed.
Then—a low hum stirred the air, rising fast.
A pressure—rising.
She looked up.
A black ship split the clouds—sharp-edged and looming.
The storm's light slid off its hull in shivering waves.
It didn't fly.
It hunted.
Pirates.
Her gut dropped.
No time.
She reached for her neck—
Her fingers brushed smooth, ridged skin.
Scales.
Her breath caught.
The chain was gone. The Vaelstone—gone.
She pulled her hand back like it burned.
The bow on her back felt heavier now.
Empty.
Useless.
She drew a breath and squared her shoulders, lifting her gaze to the sky once more.
There was no skiff. No arrows. No way off the island.
They could track her from the air.
They could land, surround, and drag her away before she ever found a path out.
She was grounded—stranded on a fractured ledge with nowhere to run.
No skiff. No retreat.
And close-quarter combat? Her worst skill.
Her worst skill.
But not impossible.
She'd trained for the edge of survival—
Just never thought it would wear this shape.
High above, a glider detached from the ship, slicing through the clouds in utter silence.
Veyna stood rooted, limbs still trembling from the blast, breath just starting to steady.
Across the fractured ledge, Zephiron moved—eyes widening, wings flaring, sides scorched.
Their eyes locked.
She stepped forward—then stopped.
The gap was too wide.
Without hesitation, Zephiron leapt into the air and soared across the rupture in a single, graceful beat of his wings. He landed beside her, claws scraping stone, breath harsh and hot.
She could feel the bond stir, low and warm, as they stood together—guided not by words, but by something deeper.
Zephiron settled at her side, his body radiating tense heat.
Together, they watched the glider finish its descent.
Boots touched stone.
A lean man dismounted in silence, cloak catching the wind.
Young, but moving like he'd done this a hundred times.
He strode forward, cloak snapping in the wind. Not hurried. Not cautious.
As if he already knew the ending and had stopped pretending it might change.
Veyna braced. Zephiron mirrored her, muscles taut.
The man's gaze swept over her—then halted.
His eyes fixed on her collarbone.
Then he smiled—wry, certain. "I was starting to believe you were just a myth."
A shrug. "Shame. I just lost a bet. 'Kael,' they'll say, 'You owe me a week's rations.'"
Her breath caught.
She knew that name.
Kael. The Black Maw. Eryx.
Names spoken like warnings—passed in half-whispers between Dragon Hunters who never dared fly too close.
She'd heard the stories.
A skyship that drank lightning—ripped it from storms or any passing ship.
A crew with a strange fascination with dragons, known not just for what they did, but for how well they did it.
And Kael—the one who smiled.
Her instincts flared like fire.
He knew what she was.
The bond surged.
Zephiron's emotions slammed into her—pain, warning, rage held tight.
But beneath it, something deeper flickered—distant, raw.
Was that… loss?
Flee!
Her limbs froze.
"I—" she choked. "I can't—"
Then his presence brushed against hers—steady, grounding.
He hadn't left. Even though he could have flown away at any time.
She was grateful she wasn't alone.
The bond surged. Wind screamed in her ears.
Her body lifted—weightless. Unbound.
She didn't fly.
She floated.
Zephiron launched beside her, a streak of bronze and fury.
As she rose, weightless and unsure, he surged upward—wings beating hard.
Then—talons gripped her shoulders, firm but careful, lifting her higher with a sudden burst of power.
He guided her—rising with her, keeping her steady and fast.
Below, the ledge shrank—just jagged stone and ruin now, fractured and still.
The markings around it were faint, half-hidden in shadow.
Only now did she notice they weren't still.
They flowed—softly, subtly—as if the stone itself were breathing.
Behind them, Kael's voice tore through the wind—sharp, certain.
"You won't get far, Wyrmblood! He'll find you!"
Veyna clenched her jaw—then looked back.
He stood at the broken edge, distant but steady, his cloak snapping in the wind. Watching.
She met his gaze for a breath—uncertain what she saw in it—then turned away, faster now.
The skies had turned against her—she was hunted again.
And through the bond, Zephiron didn't offer comfort.
Just presence.
And in that presence, she felt the truth she already knew.
You were hunter. Then hunted. That is life.
Only now, it wasn't just his truth.
It was hers.