The ride back to the Iron Peaks was a raw act of self harm. Draven rode his massive, black scaled steed, Valerius, with brutal urgency, pushing the beast and himself past the point of sense. The air in the mountain passes was thin, hot, and smelled sharply of sulfur and iron ore. Draven didn't feel the cold of the high altitude, only the deep, restless heat of his own fury. He drove Valerius over crumbling ridges and along high, sheer cliffs that no sane creature would attempt at that speed. He needed the danger. He needed the wind to rip the sight of the Ebon Citadel from his memory, but the image of Isolde... pale and rigid in the black dress remained burned behind his eyes.
Damon's final words at the wedding were a constant, poisonous whisper in his mind. "Keep her safe, Fire Heart. For when I come to collect her, I will take the rest of your kingdom as well." The Prince of the Night hadn't been threatened, he had been amused. That chilling arrogance was the worst kind of disrespect.
Draven was the son of Kira, the most volatile Fire Dragon to ever guard the Peaks. He was not built for quiet strategy or political games. He was built for crushing walls and breaking threats. His fury was his lineage, and it demanded action now.
The memory of his mother was a fresh scar. Kira. She had the wild beauty of a natural storm. Ten cycles ago, she was lured into a false negotiation at the western border. The Vampires had been treacherous, hiding ranks of Pureblood guards behind the treeline. The Chief's official report always stated she fell to a group of three mercenaries. That was the lie necessary for political silence. The truth, which Draven had dragged from the dying mouth of a scout, was that a high ranking Turned Vampire officer, known for his cold efficiency, had executed the final blow. He had been sent by the Blueblood command in Noctis to shatter the Dragons' morale.
Draven remembered his father, Chief Kaelus, standing over the body. The Chief, a Water Dragon, was calm, strategic, and cold. He preached patience and long-term planning. Draven only saw the cooling remains of the woman he loved and the blood on the earth.
He saw the reason why he hated every pale, cold creature that walked out of the shadows. His hatred was not about borders, it was about the blood that had been spilled and the debt that was unpaid. He would never forget the rank insignia of that Vampire officer, or the cold, silver look in his eyes just before the man was killed by the Dragon counter-attack.
He reached the main stronghold, a massive place of dark brown and black stone built into the mountain itself. Draven didn't bother with the main stables. He jumped down from Valerius near the training yard, the landing jarring his bones. He tossed the reins to a bewildered young guard and walked straight toward the massive, battered training pillars.
The training yard was filled with the heavy, rhythmic sounds of Dragon soldiers hitting rock. The lead commander, Vorlag, a powerful female with deep scars and amber eyes, saw the fire in his face and stepped forward immediately.
"My Prince, your father expects a full debriefing in the main planning hall," Vorlag said, her voice low and steady.
Draven didn't answer. He walked past her to the rack and grabbed the heaviest practice weapon there, an enormous, two-handed claymore. It was dull, thick, and designed to test the strongest Dragon, but in his hands, it felt too light.
He needed more. He needed to be lethal.
He activated his power. The doubling of his already immense strength was a raw, immediate physical explosion. His muscles surged tight, his vision became razor sharp, and the sound of his own blood pumping seemed to fill his ears. Every Dragon in the yard stopped moving. This was not practice, this was an eruption.
Draven slammed the claymore into the nearest training pillar... a thick cylinder of black basalt encased in iron plating. The impact was deafening. The iron plating tore, screeching like a dying animal, and the basalt rock beneath exploded into a cloud of fine, grey dust. He roared, a sound that finally let out a fraction of the rage burning inside him, and struck the remaining pillar again. The double-power of his swing was devastating.
The pillar cracked deeply, splitting the massive stone down its core.
He stood panting, sweat dripping from his mahogany hair, the intense molten gold fading from his eyes, leaving the furious amber.
"The bat of a Prince now thinks he owns a weapon," Draven rasped, dropping the bent, useless claymore to the ground. "He has sealed his borders with a human girl. He believes he has peace."
"And what is the command from the Chief?" Vorlag asked, moving to stand beside him.
"My father commands patience. I command justice for my mother" Draven snarled. "I will not start a border war we may not win. I will attack the Vampire Prince where he is weakest. His pride. His personal security."
He looked at Vorlag, his expression settling into a dangerous, focused intensity. "I am returning to Noctis. I will not be part of the official diplomatic contingent. I will go alone, and I will wear no Dragon mark. I need a legitimate, unquestionable reason to be inside the Ebon Citadel's human wing. I need access to Isolde."
Vorlag frowned, the scars on her face tightening. "Prince, that is infiltration. If Damon, or worse, his sister Nyx, sees through your disguise, they will execute you and use your death as the reason to invade us."
"If they execute me, they guarantee the war, and that is a political outcome my father still avoids," Draven countered, his voice low and guttural. "No. I will get close to her, I will remind the human girl that she is a woman of fire, not a creature of ice. Damon looked at her like a possession. I will show him she is a prize worth fighting for."
Draven's rage solidified into a cold, reckless plan. He knew he was the worst emissary for a political mission, but the very volatility he carried was the only thing that could break the calculated calm of the Vampire court. He would use his hatred, his pain over his mother death, and his raw, forbidden interest in Isolde to shatter Damon's control.
"Find me the way in, Vorlag," Draven commanded. "I need a disguise that is simple, untraceable, and utterly beneath the notice of a Vampire Prince." He turned and walked away, the destruction of the training yard silent behind him. He had paid his respects to his mother's memory with violence. Now he would pay her debt with the ruin of the Prince of the Night.