Chapter 2 CHAPTER TWO

My heart slammed into my ribs with enough force to bruise, a frantic, trapped rhythm that echoed in my ears above the roar of my own blood. Every instinct I possessed—every piece of survival advice passed down through generations of witches—roared at me to turn and run. But my feet felt like they had taken root in the ancient stone beneath my boots. I couldn't move. I couldn't even draw a full breath.

The dragon lord stepped down off the rocky ledge with an effortless, predatory grace that didn’t belong on a creature so impossibly large. Up close, the sheer heat radiating off him was staggering. It wasn't just warm; it felt like standing in front of an open furnace door, a wave of dry, searing air that instantly chased away the mountain chill and wrapped around me like a heavy blanket.

"I—I didn't mean any harm," I stammered, hating how small and trembling my voice sounded in the vast silence of the pass. I clutched my satchel tightly against my stomach, shielding the wrapped Heartroot with my entire body. "Please. You don't understand. My mother is dying."

His golden eyes narrowed, the vertical slits in his pupils contracting into sharp, dangerous needles. He looked me up and down, taking in my dusty skirts, my blistered hands, and the silver trowel still clutched in my trembling grip.

"Every trespasser has an excuse, witch," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that resonated straight through the soles of my feet. "And every fool thinks their reason is special. The Accord is clear. It has been clear for fifty years. No race crosses another's border. Doing so is an act of war. You have brought war to my mountain."

"It's just a plant!" I cried out, desperation finally tearing through the paralysis of my fear. "I didn't come to spy on your people! I didn't come to steal gold or magic! My mother has Morva Ashar! Stage two—she started coughing ash yesterday! If I don't brew this cure and give it to her today, she won't survive the night!"

A flicker of something dark and ancient passed over his sharp, chiseled features, but his expression remained largely unreadable—a mask forged from granite and military discipline. He took another deliberate step closer, closing the remaining space between us until I had to tilt my head far back just to look him in the eye.

The scent of cedar, burning smoke, and electrical ozone swept across the narrow space between us, flooding my nose and lungs so intensely that my head swam. It was overwhelming, almost heady, causing a strange, unbidden shiver to ripple down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. His golden eyes flared brighter, his nostrils flaring slightly as he took a deep, deliberate breath of the air surrounding me. For a fraction of a second, his lethal composure cracked, his eyes widening in what looked almost like shock before hardening back into pure, icy authority.

"Ash Vein," he repeated softly, the words rolling off his tongue like a death sentence. "And you think stealing from my territory gives you the right to risk a war between our kingdoms?"

"I'll accept whatever punishment you give me!" I begged, heat stinging the corners of my eyes as tears finally broke through my defenses. "Throw me in your darkest dungeon. Execute me. Cut off my hands. Do whatever you want with me—just let me take this plant to her first! Please! I swear on my magic, on my lineage, on House Sandor itself, I will return the moment she swallows the third dose!"

Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, suffused with the suffocating pressure of his power. For several agonizing seconds, the wind ceased entirely. I watched the golden light dancing in his eyes, convinced he was going to open his mouth and reduce me to a heap of glowing embers where I stood. I could almost hear the crackle of fire waiting behind his teeth.

Then, he exhaled a long breath that smelled faintly of dying embers.

"You will take the cure to your mother," he said, his voice flat, cold, and utterly uncompromising.

Relief flooded through my limbs so fast that my knees nearly buckled. I caught myself on my walking stick, a sob escaping my throat. "Thank you—oh gods, thank you—"

"Do not thank me yet, witch," he cut in smoothly, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped even closer. The possessive light in his golden eyes burned with an intensity that pinned me in place. "You have broken the highest law of Elantia. Letting you walk away untouched is treason to my own kind. So here is my command: you will take that root to your village. You will save your mother. And the moment the task is complete, you will turn around and walk straight back to the border."

I blinked, my brain struggling to catch up through the fog of exhaustion and terror. "And... and if I don't? If I stay in the Flatlands?"

The dragon lord leaned down, bringing his sharp face inches from mine. I could feel the radiant heat of his skin against my cheeks, could see the tiny flecks of amber encircling his slit pupils.

"If you do not return willingly by tomorrow morning," he whispered, each word spoken with terrifying, deliberate certainty, "I will come down into the Flatlands myself. I will tear your village apart stone by stone, I will burn your fields to ash, and I will drag you back here in chains. The price for breaking dragon law is your life. From this moment on, witch... you belong to the Sky Mountains. You belong to me."

Before I could process the sheer magnitude of his threat—or the bizarre, dangerous electric spark that shot straight through my veins at the word belong—he straightened up to his towering full height and gestured toward the steep, winding path leading back down toward the boundary.

"Go," he growled softly. "You have until sunrise."