Jeron's rage is meant for me alone.
And as I gather my power, I feel no remorse for what comes next.
Anees steps between us, palms raised. “Lord Braynor, this is madness. You stand before the crown prince of Draethys.”
“Crown prince?” Jeron's mouth twists into a sneer. “Not for long.”
The air crackles as a sphere of concentrated flame materializes between his palms. He hurls it toward my chest. Heat ripples the air as I pivot sideways, feeling the scorching wind of its passage against my face. It strikes the chamber wall with a thunderous crack, showering the council members with glowing embers. They scatter, skin gleaming in the sudden light.
I vault across the polished table, closing the distance between us.
“Dayn, stop!” Anees shouts from somewhere behind me.
Too late. My fist connects with Jeron's ribcage, wreathed in white-hot fire. The impact sends a shockwave through the chamber as his flesh sizzles beneath my knuckles.
His roar of pain reverberates off the stone walls, then his counterattack comes. I weave between his blows, but one catches my cheek.
“There will be no invasion,” I growl, slicing my palm open with my small dagger as I circle him. Ancient symbols form in my blood.
Jeron pants heavily, tracking my movements. “You will never be my king,” he snarls and lunges again.
Something strange happens within me. My fire burns… colder as the ancient spell is activated. It’s supposed to be a much older form of the Gaudian Pulse, but I have never experienced a sensation like this before. I’ve never felt the darkness swell in me like this.
Esme's blood. Her essence. It’s altered something fundamental. In my magic. In me.
No time for thought now. I lock eyes with Jeron and release the spell, my hatred providing the final catalyst. The council chamber erupts in gasps.
“Dayn!” Anees shouts.
I remain transfixed as black and gold energy ripples outward—a phantom of shadow and flame. It strikes Jeron, who stands momentarily confused, frozen in disbelief. Then comes the screaming: raw,primal agony as shadows penetrate his scales while golden fire consumes him from within.
In seconds, Jeron Braynor becomes nothing but ash scattered across marble.
“Dayn.” Anees reaches my side, his voice tight with shock.
The burn on my cheek throbs. Deep, but healable. Jeron wasn't so fortunate.
“What did you do?!” Brutus Meraxis's voice cracks.
“That was... heresy,” another elder whispers.
Murmurs cascade through the hall as nobles retreat, their eyes wide with newfound fear. I never intended to rule through terror, yet watching their reaction, I wonder: is fear my only remaining path to the throne?
Anees leans close, his voice barely audible. “By the ancient flame, Dayn. What did you just do?”
I stare at the scattered ash that was Jeron moments ago. “A miscalculation. The spell was meant to immobilize, not... this.”
“You've just incinerated a Braynor heir.” Anees's scales ripple with tension. “His father will?—”
“His father can wait,” I say, unable to tear my gaze from the dark smudge on marble. “Something in Esme's blood altered my magic. Not darkblood corruption, but something... unfamiliar.”
“The King must be notified immediately,” announces the Rogon delegate, skin gleaming with nervous sweat.
I incline my head. This debate about reclaiming the surface world has festered too long beneath our mountain.
Father arrives with the weight of centuries in his steps. His eyes fix on the ashen remains, pupils narrowing to slits. The council members retreat to the terrace's edge, maintaining a careful distance. Anees watches me with an unreadable expression that twists something in my chest.
Have I become a monster in his eyes? A stranger?
