The bells of the Cathedral of Embers began before sunrise.

Their sound rolled through Dragon Rite Citadel like iron dragged across old bones, low and resonant enough to vibrate through the mountain itself. One by one, torches ignited along the upper bridges and prayer halls while initiates in dark ceremonial robes moved through the rain-slick courtyards toward the central cathedral terraces.

No one spoke loudly on rite mornings.

Especially not after the events surrounding Silvermoon.

The Citadel felt wrong now.

Too quiet in some places.

Too alert in others.

Even the dragons circling the upper skies seemed restless beneath the storm clouds gathering over the mountain peaks.

Lyra followed the long procession through the eastern cloisters in silence, her hood drawn low against the cold rain. Water dripped steadily from the carved gargoyles lining the cathedral walls—ancient dragon forms twisted together with armored saints from the First Covenant era.

Everywhere she looked, dragons watched from stone.

From arches.

From pillars.

From the vaulted ceilings high overhead.

Dragon Rite Citadel had never worshipped dragons openly.

That was what separated the Riders from the old cult kingdoms destroyed centuries earlier.

And yet the entire mountain had been built around them.

Every prayer whispered here eventually curved back toward dragonfire.

Toward fear.

Toward power.

The Cathedral of Embers stood at the very heart of the Citadel, carved directly into the mountain’s central spine where volcanic heat still breathed faintly beneath the stone foundations. Massive bronze doors towered three stories high, engraved with scenes from the Dragon Wars—riders kneeling beside crowned beasts beneath burning skies.

As Lyra crossed the threshold with the other initiates, warmth engulfed her instantly.

Thousands of candles illuminated the cathedral interior in rivers of gold.

The sheer scale of the chamber stole breath from newcomers every time.

Colossal dragon statues lined both sides of the hall, each carved from black volcanic stone polished smooth by centuries of incense smoke and ritual flame. Their wings arched high overhead like the ribs of sleeping gods while chains of silver lanterns hung between them, casting shifting shadows across the cathedral floor.

At the far end stood the Ember Altar.

Ancient fire burned there continuously.

No one alive remembered who had first lit it.

Some claimed the flame itself came from dragonfire gifted during the First Covenant.

Others believed it had burned since before mankind learned language.

Lyra felt the heat of it even from across the hall.

And something inside her tightened immediately.

The initiates separated into formation rows beneath the towering statues while priests in crimson-and-gold ceremonial robes moved silently between them. The air smelled of smoke, wax, and rain-damp stone.

Cassian stood near the front among the elite riders.

Even surrounded by nobles and decorated initiates, he remained impossible not to notice.

Silver-threaded black armor.

Straight-backed composure.

The unmistakable stillness of someone raised beneath impossible expectations.

But this morning his attention kept drifting toward Lyra.

As though he regretted it each time.

Seraphine Vale stood beside him now, arms folded loosely as she observed the cathedral with cool detachment. Unlike Cassian, she made no attempt to hide her curiosity whenever her gaze landed on Lyra.

A low murmur spread suddenly through the chamber.

The High Priests had entered.

The cathedral fell silent immediately.

High Priest Malachar walked at the center of the procession beneath hanging chains of golden incense burners. Age had hollowed his face into sharp lines beneath pale ceremonial markings etched across his forehead and throat. Long silver robes swept across the stone behind him while attendants carried dragonbone staffs on either side.

Lyra felt unease immediately.

Malachar looked at her only once.

But the old priest’s expression changed the moment he did.

Not hatred.

Recognition.

And fear.

It vanished quickly beneath practiced control, though Lyra still caught it.

So did Seraphine.

Interesting.

The rites began shortly afterward.

Ancient prayers echoed through the cathedral in the old rider tongue while the initiates knelt beneath towering dragon statues. Flames flickered wildly as incense smoke curled upward through shafts of pale morning light filtering from the cathedral dome.

“From ash we are judged,” the priests chanted.

“From fire we are bound.”

The initiates repeated the words together.

Lyra’s voice sounded smaller than the others.

The prayer continued.

“May dragons know the truth within us.”

Something deep in the cathedral groaned softly.

A strange sound.

Stone settling perhaps.

But several priests faltered briefly.

Malachar continued without pause.

One by one, initiates approached the Ember Altar to place their hands above the sacred flame while priests blessed them in dragonfire smoke. Most ceremonies passed uneventfully.

Until Lyra’s turn arrived.

The atmosphere shifted before she even reached the altar steps.

She felt it immediately.

The heat changed.

Not hotter.

Sharper.

Like something waking.

Several nearby candles extinguished themselves all at once.

Whispers spread instantly through the rows behind her.

Lyra climbed the altar steps slowly beneath hundreds of watching eyes. The ancient flame burned inside a massive black iron basin carved with dragon glyphs so old their meaning had nearly vanished from surviving texts.

Up close, the fire looked strange.

Gold beneath the surface.

Not orange.

Not red.

Gold.

The moment Lyra stepped fully before the altar—

—the nearest dragon statue cracked.

The sound exploded through the cathedral like splitting bone.

Gasps erupted everywhere.

A jagged fracture spread down the enormous stone dragon looming beside the altar, cutting directly across its face. Dust rained onto the floor as several initiates stumbled backward in panic.

Then another crack echoed overhead.

A second statue fractured.

This time across the throat.

The cathedral descended instantly into chaos.

Priests began shouting prayers.

Several attendants extinguished incense burners accidentally while backing away from Lyra. One younger initiate physically crossed himself and fled toward the side aisles.

The Ember Flame surged violently upward.

Golden fire twisted high above the basin.

And every dragon statue facing the altar turned toward her.

Not literally.

Not moving.

But suddenly the entire cathedral seemed constructed around a single terrible truth:

Everything here recognized her.

Lyra stepped backward instinctively.

The ancient fire reacted immediately.

It leaned toward her.

A collective breath vanished from the chamber.

Even Cassian rose to his feet.

“Stop the rite,” someone whispered urgently.

High Priest Malachar stared at Lyra with visible horror now.

The old man descended the altar steps slowly, gripping his dragonbone staff so tightly his knuckles whitened beneath age-spotted skin.

“What are you?” he whispered.

Lyra’s pulse hammered painfully.

“I don’t know.”

The cathedral trembled again.

Somewhere far below the mountain, dragons roared.

Not violently.

Answering.

The sound rolled upward through the cathedral foundations like distant thunder from another age.

Malachar recoiled outright this time.

“No,” he murmured under his breath. “No… it cannot be.”

The Ember Flame exploded higher.

Golden light flooded the altar chamber.

And for one impossible second, Lyra saw something inside the fire itself—

—not flame.

Eyes.

Ancient.

Watching her.

Then the nearest dragon statue shattered completely.

Stone crashed across the cathedral floor in a deafening avalanche as initiates screamed and scattered backward. Dust engulfed the altar steps while priests shouted protective prayers over one another.

Cassian reached Lyra first.

He grabbed her arm hard enough to steady her as another crack split across the cathedral ceiling overhead.

“We need to move.”

But Lyra could barely hear him.

Because the whispers had returned.

The same whispers from her dreams.

Dragon voices layered together beneath the sound of fire.

Not words exactly.

Recognition.

Memory.

And hunger.

The Ember Flame lowered suddenly.

Not extinguishing.

Bowing.

Every priest in the cathedral saw it.

The sacred fire bent toward Lyra Vale like a living thing acknowledging its sovereign.

Silence crashed over the chamber.

Absolute.

Terrified.

Even Cassian released her arm slowly.

High Priest Malachar looked as though he’d seen the end of the world.

Then he spoke words no one inside Dragon Rite Citadel had uttered aloud for centuries.

“The blood of the First Covenant…”

A terrible realization spread visibly across his face.

And this time, when the priests looked at Lyra—

—they did not look at her with disgust.

They looked at her with fear worthy of scripture itself.