Ink's POV
Everyone talks about dragons like they're dead things.
Like myths. Like warnings.
But I feel mine breathing every night under my skin. It coils in my chest when I'm angry. Paces my ribs when I'm cornered. She doesn't sleep much lately.
Neither do I.
From the edge of House Sagitta's southern wall, I can see the full sweep of Zodiana — the twelve zodiac clans glowing in neat, predictable constellations. Aries to the east, Scorpio at the center like a cold black star. Neat. Ordered. Like we're all just dots in someone else's sky.
I hate it.
I was never made for someone else's pattern.
"Your hair's on fire again."
I don't turn, but I feel Leah behind me. Her voice — low, amused, familiar. I glance down. Sure enough, the ends of my braid are flickering orange-gold, little embers curling in the night air.
I swipe it out with a palm. "It does that."
"You okay?"
I hate that question. It's always a trap. A test. What they really mean is Are you manageable? Are you safe? Are you still something we can shape into a wife and not a weapon?
"I'm fine," I lie.
She moves beside me, close but not touching, like she always does. Leah has this way of standing — like she's ready to fight or run, but never relax. It makes sense. She's Aries. Battle-born. Burn-first, regret-later.
Still, she watches me like I'm the battlefield.
"You don't have to pretend," she says.
I shrug. "I'm not pretending. I'm controlling it."
"That's worse."
I glance sideways. Leah's wearing her house colors — crimson and gold, the colors of war — but she's softer than she looks. That's the problem. She's in love with me and she thinks I don't know.
Or maybe she knows I know, and she's just waiting for me to feel the same.
But I don't.
Leah is comfort. Safe. Predictable. Loyal to a fault.
And I was born to burn safe things down.
"They want us to marry next cycle," I say flatly.
Leah doesn't flinch. "I know."
"Do you want it?"
She hesitates — and that's all the answer I need.
She wants it.
Gods.
She probably dreams about it.
"I'm not marrying anyone," I say. "I won't be leashed just because the council's afraid of what I'll grow into."
"You're not being leashed," Leah says, too calm. "You're being protected. We all have roles. You're strong. Too strong. You scare people."
"Good."
She exhales like I exhaust her. Maybe I do.
"You're not alone in this," she says.
And that's when I feel it.
The shift.
The pressure in the air, like thunder rolling in slow and mean.
I look toward the Scorpio gate.
Scarlett is arriving.
Of course she is. Late, dramatic, wearing obsidian and something scented like danger. The crowd parts for her like the ocean. Eyes follow her like prayers. She walks like she owns the dirt under our feet.
I clench my fists.
Leah sees it. "Don't let her get to you."
"Too late."
Scarlett makes everything worse. She stirs the dragon. She doesn't ask permission. She doesn't blink when I breathe fire — she leans closer. And I hate her for that.
I hate that she looks at me like I'm not a threat — like I'm a challenge.
I hate that she once said, "If I can't have the throne, maybe I'll take the dragon instead."
And I hate that I almost let her.
"Don't talk to her tonight," Leah says.
I don't answer.
Because I'm already turning, already walking toward the Scorpio tower, already too far gone.
The dragon inside me is awake now.
And she wants blood.