CHAPTER 93: ANAKAI

Ah, but let us pause here, dear reader, and speak of things older than memory. Of truths carved into the bones of the world before men learned to write them down.

The magical beasts had always existed.

’Anakai’ as they were once called, meant born of magic.

Long before kingdoms rose from ash and ice, before crowns were forged and borders drawn, the beasts roamed freely, creatures born of raw elemental magic, wild and untamed, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. The ones that roamed the fire realm were,

The Rakhai, fire foxes whose fur flickered like embers in motion, their tails splitting as they aged until the oldest among them bore seven, each one a streak of living flame.

They were mischievous but wise, spirit guides for travelers of the flame, vanishing into smoke when threatened, leaving only the scent of burnt cedar. The ancients called them the Keepers of the Path, for they led the lost home and punished the wicked with fire.

The Dravik, little dragons with wings of molten bronze and eyes like cooled obsidian. They nested in volcanic vents, fed on magma beetles, and served as messengers for the Fire Lords of old. Clever, loyal, fiercely territorial, their fire breath burned blue-white, the hottest flame known to mortal or beast.

To see a Dravik was to know that something divine was watching.

The Pyrrion, fire horses whose hooves struck sparks on stone, flames running down their manes like rivers of light.

Revered as steeds of the sun’s champions, they embodied pride and endurance. It was said their hearts beat in rhythm with the world’s core, and to ride one was to feel the pulse of creation itself.

The Azhara, fire birds that soared through ash storms, leaving blazing trails across the skies. Legends claimed that when an Azhara died, its ashes burst into a thousand fireflies that formed constellations.

They represented rebirth and freedom, the promise that even in death, something beautiful remained.

The Raugar, fire lions, massive, regal predators that ruled the Infernal Plains. Their roars shook molten ground, their fur glowing from within, veins of heat pulsing beneath the skin. The flame tribes believed their eyes were the last light before death, the "Final Fire," the thing you saw when your time had come.

The Zahkar, Ifrit—fire demons, humanoid beings of molten stone and infernal pride. Once angels of warmth, they fell when the First Flame was corrupted by human greed. They wielded fire not as light but as punishment, burning with righteous fury. Some still remembered their former grace and guarded the weak in secret, though they would never admit it.

The Vormae, salamanders, amphibious serpents of liquid flame that slithered through lava rivers. They could solidify their bodies into obsidian armor when angered, becoming nearly invulnerable. The Rakhai revered them as ancient protectors of the earth’s burning veins, the guardians of the deep fires that kept the world alive.

And there were others. So many others.

Serpents, creatures born of heat and magic, each one a fragment of the gods’ first breath.

They were older than memory. Older than the first spark of civilization.

They existed alongside their counterparts from the north.

And they had been held at bay by the gods themselves.

Pyronox, the Flameborn. Aenithra, the Frostmother.

The dragons had not merely blessed humanity with magic, they had protected them. Their presence alone was enough to keep the beasts contained, to hold the wild magic in check, to ensure that the creatures did not spill into human lands and devour everything in their path.

But then the dragons disappeared.

And the beasts, no longer restrained by divine will, went rogue.

For centuries, humanity relied on protection spells, ancient wards carved into stones and woven into the very fabric of the land, powered by the lingering remnants of dragon magic.

Eris herself carried the burden of keeping them at bay with her guidance.

The spells held. Mostly. They kept the beasts at bay, confined them to the wilds, ensured that only the bold and skilled, the fighters, the mages, the hunters, had to face them.

But now?

Now the spells were failing.

And no one knew why.

And not even Eris. Because she had been too busy tearing apart her court and palace down to focus on what really mattered.

Only Caelen had fought beasts like this with no magic and survived. .

That was the real reason he was celebrated as a hero and not just because he opposed Eris.

The mercenary’s voice cut through the silence again, pulling Eris’s attention back.

"Anakai are getting bolder," he said. "Closer to settlements. I heard a caravan got hit near the old ruins last month. Vormae came out of the lava channels and dragged two wagons straight into the molten rock before anyone could react."

"Vormae don’t attack caravans," someone protested weakly.

"They didn’t used to," the mercenary agreed darkly. "But now? Nothing’s following the old rules."

From another table, a hunter muttered, "Saw a Raugar pack last week. Right at the barrier stones. Those spells are old. Probably fading."

"More than fading," another voice added.

"Failing."

Eris’s fingers tightened around her cup.

Across the table, Soren’s gaze met hers.

Something was wrong.

And they both knew it.

The rooms at the Sentinel’s Watch were small, sparse, functional. Stone walls.

Narrow beds. A single window that looked out over the courtyard and the dark line of trees beyond.

Eris lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

The dragon inside her stirred restlessly, coiling and uncoiling like a serpent that sensed prey nearby. It pressed against her ribs, hot and insistent, filling her chest with a heat that no amount of cool air could ease.

She pressed a hand to her sternum, willing it to settle.

It didn’t.

Outside, something howled, distant, inhuman, a sound that belonged to no creature she’d ever heard before. It echoed across the frontier, carried on the wind, and every guard on the walls tensed at the sound.

Eris closed her eyes.

And the dragon stirred again, as though answering.

Ah, but dawn in the frontier is not the gentle, golden thing of civilized lands. No, here, dawn arrives like a wound opening, raw and red, bleeding light across a landscape that has forgotten what softness feels like.

The trees grew taller here, older, their trunks blackened by centuries of fire and survival. Ancient fire-oaks twisted toward the sky like the gnarled hands of giants, their bark scarred and cracked, their roots digging deep into soil that had drunk more blood than rain.

The road, once well-maintained and smooth, became rugged, uneven, little more than a dirt path carved through wilderness that resented every step taken upon it.

The air smelled different. Sharper. Wild. It carried the scent of smoke and pine and something older, something primal that made the hair on the back of one’s neck stand on end.

The horses knew it too. They grew nervous, ears flicking back, hooves dancing sideways as though the ground itself might betray them. The knights had to murmur soothing words, stroking manes and checking reins, calming beasts that could sense what humans could only guess at.

Danger.

They’d been riding for less than an hour when the first patrol appeared.

Solmire border guards, two men, fully armed, moving with the wary efficiency of soldiers who’d learned that hesitation meant death. They wore scorched leather armor, fire-resistant and practical, their swords already drawn, eyes scanning the trees as though expecting something to lunge from the shadows at any moment.

When they saw the procession, they stopped, saluted sharply.

One of them, a captain with a scar running down the side of his neck, approached cautiously.

"Your Majesties." His voice was rough, respectful but strained. "Stay on the main road. The beasts have been active."

Soren leaned forward slightly, his tone calm but commanding. "What kind?"

The captain hesitated, then: "Rakhai packs. Dravik scouts. We had a report of Syvrak, the serpent, near the old ruins two days ago. Burned through a hunting party before they could retreat."

"A Magma Serpent this far from the volcanic belt?" Eris’s voice came from inside the carriage, sharp and disbelieving.

The captain’s jaw tightened. "Yes, Your Majesty. It shouldn’t be possible. But we’ve seen it."

Soren exchanged a glance with the carriage window, then nodded to the captain. "We’ll be careful."

"See that you are," the captain said grimly.

"The barriers aren’t holding. Whatever’s out there... it’s not afraid anymore."

The tension was palpable as they continued their journey.

Mira sat rigid, her hands clutched in her lap, eyes wide as she listened to the sounds outside, branches snapping, strange calls echoing through the trees, the low growls of things that shouldn’t exist but did.

Jorel rode close to the carriage now, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword, his jaw set in grim determination.

And Eris... Eris felt it.

The dragon inside her responded to the wild magic in the air, stirring, stretching, pressing against her ribs as though it wanted to break free and join whatever was out there.

She pressed a hand to her chest, forcing it down.

Soren noticed. Of course he did. His gaze flicked to her, concern flickering in those ice-blue eyes.

"Are you alright Your Majesty?" he asked quietly.

"Fine," she lied.

He didn’t believe her. But he didn’t press. Not yet.