The parchment crinkled in Aurelia’s grip as the silver-violet light from her fingertips traced the cracked seal of the dispatch.
The symbol stamped into the lead disc was unmistakable: a three-headed dragon coiled around an eclipsed sun. It was the ancestral standard of the Val-Kharis dynasty—the celestial bloodline that had forged the First Throne and bound the original Veil before hubris and forbidden aether drove their continent into the mists of the eastern horizon eight centuries ago.
"How many hulls?" Aurelia asked, her voice calm, though beneath her breastplate the Six Shards pulsed with a strange, predatory tremor. They recognized the dragon's signature; it was the same ancient resonance that hummed in the deep basalt of the Sunken Tombs.
"Twelve dreadnoughts," Lady Vespera answered, stepping up to the slate table and placing a series of black iron pins across the charted waters of the Forbidden Reach. "Not galleys, Your Grace. Floating fortresses carved from petrified leviathan-bone, clad in black dragon-iron. The scouts report their sails are woven from spun ash, and they move against the wind without oars."
"Dreadnoughts of the First Era," Malakor muttered, circling the table with unhurried, predatory steps.
He leaned both heavy forearms on the edge, the dark steel plates of his vambraces clattering against the slate. His scarred jaw tightened, a dangerous, eager light igniting in his amber eyes. "The chronicles of the Iron Patriarch said those ships were powered by captive abyssal fire. One broadside from an ancient dragon-mortar can level a coastal redoubt in seconds."
"And they aren't firing on our watchtowers," Vespera noted, her brow furrowing with suspicion. "They anchored off the Isle of Cinders two days ago. They sent a single skiff through the reef at midnight, bearing an emissary under a flag of parley. He demands audience with 'The Bearer of the Crown of Ash and Starlight.'"
Aurelia rose from the throne of white granite, the heavy folds of her wolf-fur trimmed mantle cascading over the marble steps. She walked to the high terrace doors, looking out past the slate roofs of the capital toward the glittering western harbor where the morning sun was just beginning to burn through the coastal fog.
"They didn't come to conquer," Aurelia said softly, feeling the deep, ancient vibration of the Seventh Crown thrumming in her marrow. "They felt the Leviathan settle in its cradle. They felt the Six Shards lock together. They came because the exile of their bloodline is over, and they believe the throne belongs to them."
"Let them step onto these stones and claim it," Malakor growled, stepping up behind her until his massive chest pressed against her back.
His presence was an unyielding wall of heat that banished the sea breeze drifting through the terrace. One heavy, leather-bound hand came up to rest on the small of her back, his fingers curling possessively into her belt, while his other hand brushed against the hilt of his two-handed great sword.
"The Val-Kharis emperors may have built the first throne," he rasped into the silver hair at the base of her neck, his voice a low, lethal promise, "but they abandoned it to rot when the world cracked. You bled across five kingdoms to rebuild it. You cleansed the serpent's skull with your own hands. If some ghost in a velvet coat thinks he can take this crown from your brow, I will tear his dragon-fleet into kindling and drown him in his own bay."
Aurelia turned in the circle of his arms, looking up into the fierce, untamed devotion of his gaze. She raised a pale hand, her fingers tracing the jagged scar running from his temple down to the corner of his lips.
"We will hear what this emissary has to say, Malakor," she murmured, a wicked, imperial smile curving her mouth. "We will let him see the Vanguard. We will let him look upon the Six Shards."
She stepped into his space, her eyes glowing with pure, unyielding majesty.
"And then we will teach the ancient empire what happens to dragons who cross into our sky."
Malakor’s lips parted in a savage, wolfish grin as he leaned down, sealing her decree with a bruising, ravenous kiss that tasted of impending war.