Chapter 1 - The Medallion and the Flame
The heavy metal of the medallion felt unnaturally cold against the scorching heat radiating from the beast’s pelt. Rowan Thorne stared at the engraved image of the crowned woman within the black shield. His fingers, still raw and bleeding where the leather restraints had bitten into his wrists, trembled.
“Rowan,” a voice whispered through the roar of the surrounding flames. It wasn’t Marcus, nor was it the panicked mutterings of the court nobles. It was a voice that seemed to echo directly inside his mind—deep, resonant, and carrying the weight of centuries.
The winged tiger dipped its massive head lower, its single amber eye boring into Rowan’s soul. Around them, the marble courtyard of Blackwinter Court remained frozen in terror. Captain Marcus Hale’s hand hovered over the hilt of his broadsword, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“My Queen,” Marcus called out, his voice cutting through the crackle of magical fire. “The beast is standing over the prisoner. If we do not act now—”
“Silence, Captain,” Queen-Regent Helena Ashbourne interrupted. Her voice possessed the cold, unyielding authority of tempered steel. She had not moved an inch from her elevated platform beneath the silver canopy. Her iron crown caught the orange flickers of the firelight, casting long, skeletal shadows across her face. “No one touches the beast. And no one touches Rowan Thorne.”
Prince Lucian took a half-step forward, his embroidered velvet cloak swishing against the floor. “Mother, have you lost your mind? That creature broke through our wards, slaughtered our vanguard’s morale, and now it stands over a convicted traitor. It should be put down by the royal archers immediately!”
“Quiet, Lucian,” Helena commanded, her gaze locked not on her son, but entirely on the scene unfolding at the punishment block.
The tiger exhaled a long breath of superheated air that smelled faintly of ozone and ancient stone. With a sudden, fluid motion, its massive jaws closed gently around the leather buckle binding Rowan’s left wrist. With a sharp snap, the thick leather parted like dry parchment. The iron cuffs fell away, clattering against the scorched marble.
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Rowan gasped, pulling his free hands to his chest. He stumbled back, his knees weak from hours of kneeling on the unforgiving stone. The tiger did not lunge. Instead, it turned its scarred face toward the open sky above the eastern arcade, let out a low, bone-rattling vibration that shook the foundations of the citadel, and folded its bronze-plated wings tightly against its flanks.
It was waiting for him.
