Page 73 of Severed Heir

“I don’t care about a damn dragon race. Someone knows about Klaus.”

Below us, Delair emerged from the mist, her wyvern a streak of steel. She moved so fast her shadow trailed behind. “Only two ribbons, Arch?” she called sweetly. “Want one of mine? We could share later.”

“I’m looking for Klaus,” I muttered, scanning the sky.

A herd of griffins swept past in tight formation, golden and gray wings slicing through the rain. Their riders wore full Malvoria armor, swords gleaming like polished bone.

At their lead was Charles Blanche.

“What the hell…” Delair’s voice dropped. “Why is Malvoria ruining our race?”

“I need to find him!” I shouted. “Klaus!”

“Archer!” she called again, but I was already a wingspan away.

“If Malvoria is here, we shouldn’t get any closer,” she yelled from behind me. “I’ll inform my father—”

I didn’t hear the rest. I had never flown so fast.

“Ciaran, find Naraic,” I said, every breath sharp with panic. “Everyone knows Klaus is a Seeker.”

Ciaran skimmed the treeline, weaving through the storm.

We crossed into Summer.

And there he was.

Klaus was midair, locked in a brutal swordfight with the cloaked woman from the viewing platform. She rode a smaller wyvern, scarred and scaled like something that had survived war. She laughed, a high, jagged sound, sharper than steel.

“Little Seeker,” she sneered, thrusting out her palm. “You’re coming with me.”

A blinding flash cracked the sky. Behind Klaus, a portal tore open, swirling with a sickening force.

Klaus snapped his fire ather. “No thank you.”

“You’ll be mine now,” she hissed, magic clawing toward him.

I launched a rope of shadow, wrapping it tight around her throat. “Back. Off.”

“Archer!” Klaus shouted, voice caught between relief and panic. “Thank the Gods. This lunatic wants me to write for her. Like I’d ever freelance for a Seeker cult.”

Only Klaus would joke during a death match.

“Be serious!” I snapped. “You need to fly—now!”

My vision blurred. The bond pulsed in my ribs, sharp as a blade.

Then I saw him.

Charles dove low on his golden griffin, blade drawn. It caught the light, gleaming like a warning. With one clean, devastating strike, he hit Klaus with ice.

Not normal ice. It shimmered gold, unnaturally bright, as if laced with something ancient and cruel.

“Klaus!” I screamed. “Fly! Now! Malvoria’s here—they’ll kill you!”

“No,” Klaus rasped, swaying midair on Naraic’s spine. “It’s my brother. He wouldn’t—” But his pupils blew wide, black as the void, like something had been ripped out of him.

Charles’s ice didn’t wound; it stripped. I’d seen it once before during a closed-door demonstration at the Academy. They called it threading. It wasn’t meant to kill, but to erase, to unspool a quell from the inside out until nothing remained.

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