I opened the cabin door and stepped through without thinking.

There was no awareness of the ship, the crew, or the wind off the waves. Not even of my own nakedness. The Siren’s Song was gone. Like it had never existed.

The floor beneath my feet wasn’t wood.

It was stone. Jagged, blistering hot. Not warm, not sunbaked. Fire-forged. Like the hearth of some ancient furnace, smoldering beneath bare skin.

The ship around me rippled, as if made of oil and smoke. Beams twisted, sails folded in on themselves. In a breath, it all collapsed inward, swallowed by darkness.

Then came the sound. Not close. Not far. Just… deep. A roar of rushing water, so massive and furious it felt like the groan of a god. The air steamed and burned, every breath slicing down my throat. Sulfur clung to my tongue. The taste of rot and fire. I wanted to gag. My stomach heaved. But my body wasn’t listening.

I turned to flee, but the door I knew I had come through wasn’t there.

Only a wall. Rough-hewn stone, slick with heat. Symbols covered it, etched by ancient hands. Symbols that might have once meant something, now warped and melted into meaningless shapes. Melted memory. History scraped away by time and pressure.

Red, angry light oozed from the lichen that clung like rot to the walls. Shadows slithered and danced along the tunnel ahead, not quite shapes, not quite creatures, but always watching.

And I followed.

I didn’t want to. But I followed.

The sword was in my hand.

I didn’t remember reaching for it, but there it was. The dragon’s claw that had once cradled the ruby was now curled around my wrist. Not just holding. Gripping. Guiding. It tugged me forward with the silent insistence of something ancient and hungry.

The tunnel walls narrowed, sweating, steam erupting from the cracks. The stone had bled under pressure, cooling into streaks and veins that glowed with some inner fire. Carvings, now eroded into ghost-runes, followed my steps. They whispered as I passed in a language too old, too broken to understand.

Then the tunnel opened.

A massive cavern stretched out before me, its ceiling lost to steam and shadow. A river boiled through its heart. Whitecaps of scalding water churned like a thing enraged. The rock along its banks glowed red, pulsing like molten skin. Everything sizzled and screamed, yet somehow, I felt none of it. My feet were burning. Smoke curled from my soles. Flesh blistered.

But there was no pain. Only the sound. And the smell.

Burning flesh. Mine.

The scent clung to the air, thick as sin.

The walls throbbed with red light, pulsing in time with something beneath the surface. I wasn’t breathing. Not really. But my heart matched the rhythm of the cavern. A massive, slow beat. Not mine. Something else.

The ruby in the hilt flared.

The claw tightened.

Talons dug into my wrist, piercing skin. Blood dripped in slow, steady lines. It sizzled when it hit the stone. A sacrifice, maybe. Or a greeting.

Something was here.

Not in the room. Not physically.

But close. Watching. Knowing.

It didn’t speak. It didn’t need to.

It wanted out.

It begged for release. For freedom.

It wasn’t just power. It was need.

I stared at the boiling river. The sound of it crashing through the cavern. Hot as a dragon’s breath.

Hot as—

The ship lurched.

My head slammed into the wooden wall, and I snapped awake with a strangled cry. My skin was cold with sweat, but I could still smell sulfur. I could still feel the sting of the stone against my feet, the weight of the sword in my hand.

I looked down.

The beads on my wrist still glowed faintly, warmth fading like the tail end of a fever. The dream bled into the waking world with too much detail. Too much presence. It hadn’t felt like a dream at all.

An ancient cave. A river of heat. A place that could be real.

The Dragon Rapids. They were real.

Maybe the cave was, too.

The gods speak in riddles when they speak at all. Maybe this wasn’t them. Maybe this was something else. Something that was older than gods and deeper than prayers. I  pulled the sword out from under the mattress.

The dragon’s claw. The red jewel.

The heartbeat.

Could this be the Heart of the Dragon? The one the legends spoke of?

Maybe my father didn’t want the sword. Maybe the sword wanted him.

No.

Wanted me.

There was a presence in that dream, in that ruby. It had touched me. Claimed me. And now that I had felt it, I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real. It had needs, just like I did. It was longing for freedom, the same way I longed for escape.

Maybe that was what scared me the most.

We understood each other.

And we had only just begun.