We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Emberclaw, the final book in a romance epic fantasy duology in which long-banished dragons, revered as gods, return to the mortal realm—out from DAW on March 4th.
Arcady faces their greatest heist yet: posing as a noble student at the arcane University of Vatra. When the University announces the reinstatement of archaic trials of magic, the ever-penniless Arcady seizes the chance. If they win, they not only prove their worth, but the scholarship will give them more time to unlock secrets and reveal, once and for all, that their grandsire was not the Plaguebringer. Yet grief still leaves Arcady broken, and when they close their eyes, they dream of a certain dragon.
Everen, once the hope of dragons, is now hated by his kind. When he is eventually released from his prison, the Queen is clear: while he may help protect the island from wraith attacks, he is no longer a prince of the realm. As he struggles to find his place in Vere Celene, visions of the past, the future, and tantalizing glimpses of Arcady still haunt him. If he steers the wrong path through fate’s storm, he may never be able to create a future where both humans and dragons live in harmony.
Arcady soon realizes that to survive the rising threats from both their old life and their new one, they must use every trick at their disposal—even magic stolen from a dragon they thought dead. And as time runs out before an ancient danger awakens, Everen must fight his way back to Arcady, earn their forgiveness, and learn what it truly means to be an Emberclaw.
CHAPTER 2—MAGNES: THE CHANCELLOR
Death lurked on dark wings.
The scent of sickness was thick in the air: astringent bandages, old blood, and wounds long gone sour. The curtains of the Chancellor’s room were kept closed against the fire of sunset. The mage lights were dimmed, the atmosphere hushed, almost holy.
Magnes had grown almost fond of Yrsa of Swiftsea over the years. He might hate her for what she and the others had done during the Schism, to him and to Monarch Laen, but Yrsa had largely done right by Loc as Chancellor these past twenty-eight years.
“Magnes,” Yrsa rasped. “I’m sorry.” Despite the heat of late summer, Yrsa was swaddled in thick robes and blankets that did nothing to hide how much flesh she had lost the last few moons. Her face was little more than thin skin sagging over a skull. The hazel eyes were still bright and unblinking, whether from fever or the drugs the Master Healer had decanted down her neck. She heaved a wracking cough.
“For what, Yrsa?” Magnes asked when the worst subsided. “For being… weak enough to die.”
With his sharp hearing, Magnes caught each stuttering heartbeat in that frail chest, counting down the time she had left. The tumors dotted throughout her brain and organs had grown too large for surgeons to remove and too stubborn for healers to shrink with magic.
It was a shame that humans lived for such a short amount of time. Only Monarch Laen, the human Magnes had once bonded with, had lived nearly three centuries due to their shared magic. He’d watched so many pass on to whatever came after death—on the battlefield, by his hand, through illness, or simply old age and a body wearing out. He supposed time was relative. To a human, a sparrow living but three years seems short. A sparrow, in turn, lives so much longer than a moth. A dragon lived a long time, but not forever.
“You’re not weak. You’ve never been that,” he reassured her. Yrsa of Swiftsea had shifted the trajectory of the world nearly as much as a prophecy. “Still. I wish… I wish I could have held on longer. The Consul has… successfully extended the mandate twice—would they do it a third time in… two years?” She breathed hard from the effort of speaking.
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Emberclaw
Magnes had always admired Yrsa’s intelligence. Even through her illness, her mind had stayed as sharp as a dragon’s. It was Yrsa who dreamed up the ten-year term for the Consul and worked in a legal loophole to extend the mandate in times of crisis. It was Yrsa who liaised with the Stewards of the Court on many of the day-to-day runnings of the country. She had never shied away from the heavy work. The ugly work.
She coughed wetly, blood staining her teeth.
Yrsa’s skin was so translucent the veins were stark as a plague survivor’s Struck marks. Her eyes were brighter and sharper than he’d seen in months. He straightened. He hadn’t thought it would be so soon. He knew that tell-tale shine. Dying animals often had a last burst of strength at the end.
“Yrsa,” he said, softly. “I’m not afraid.”
“Do you want me to send for Carym and Ketrel?”
She shook her head. “Ketrel barely remembers me these days, and Carym will be too deep in his cups at this hour. It’s better, like this.” She smiled through cracked lips. “We had a good partnership, didn’t we? You, and I. And once, the others.” Another pause to cough. Blood splattered the blankets. Her breaths came short and fast, and he heard the hummingbird flutter of her heart.
“We were fearsome,” he said.
The last few months had been a delicate balance. Magnes had ensured the Citadel Court wouldn’t realize how weak the other Chancellors were. His faithful Eyes monitored the Veil. Jask remained a challenge: despite the Order’s best efforts, too many relics were finding their way south. His spies had helped plant seeds so the sightings of dragons on the night of the Feast of Flowers worked in his favor. Rumors were thick that the gods were foretelling the return of good fortune to Loc.
Yrsa’s wavering hand reached for his cheek, a fingertip resting against his skin. It was not the first time they’d touched, but this time, Yrsa’s seal surged, glowing purple. Her eyes widened as the magic flowed through her.
Once, her weather magic had been strong enough to call down tempests. The other side of the power of those blessed by the violet “god” was the latent ability to read the mind. Magnes had appeared as no less than three consorts at Monarch Laen’s side, working hard for generations to ensure that type of magic of the mind was well-feared and forbidden. Yrsa had never nourished it, but even if she had, Magnes should have been plenty strong enough to push her away, especially now that he had his long-missing claw and the power that came with it.
Yet there on the cusp of death, Yrsa saw flashes of countless thumb brushes against her wrist over the years. A well-timed whisper nudging her or the other members of the Consul in the direction of his choosing. She saw right to the truth of him.
Who he’d been. What he’d done. What he was. Not a god. Something far more real than that.
Magnes jerked back, but it was too late.
“No,” she breathed. “You couldn’t—you aren’t—” She struggled to sit up, remaining half in his mind despite breaking the physical connection. “Guards!” she cried out, voice surprisingly clear.
Magnes had long ago discovered each of the Chancellor’s greatest fears. Yrsa hated, more than anything, being played for a fool. And here, at the last, she had discovered that Magnes had used her for decades. Pulling the strings, shaping Loc in the way he thought was best. He had always been the one in control. This country was his. She opened her mouth—
Magnes pressed Yrsa into the bed, and her breath wheezed from scarred lungs. It would take no effort at all to break her ribs like kindling. He let himself unfurl, his human features fading to reveal orange eyes with slit pupils. Yrsa struggled, the whites of her eyes showing.
Magnes held a fingertip to the hollow of her throat, the nail darkening to a pointed talon. She dug into his mind, but there was no need to hide his secrets from her any longer. He felt every bit of her terror and pain as she tried to fight back. She’d resigned herself to dying, but not like this.
In his other hand, Magnes held a pillow, and he placed it, gently, over her face. He could use magic, but it might leave a trace. Simpler was often better. Her hands grasped his forearms, her brittle nails raking across his thicker preterit skin, legs kicking weakly beneath fur covers. He pressed harder.
It didn’t take long. All too soon, the feeble motions stilled.
Magnes raised the cushion. Yrsa’s face was awful: the tongue lolling, eyes half-open, blood vessels burst around her blank eyes. Carefully, he closed her mouth and slid the eyelids shut.
“Thank you, Yrsa,” he whispered to her corpse, bending over and brushing his lips against her forehead. “You did your job well.”
Gathering himself, he exhaled, drawing up his human illusion before folding his features into an expression of heartbreak. “Guards! Healers!” he called, tinting his voice with urgency and grief. “Come quickly!”
“I looked away but a moment, and They were gone.” He let his throat catch on the words as the humans streamed into the room. The Chancellors always referred to each other in the honorific pronoun in front of others. Only in private had formalities fallen.
He rose, backing away as the healers tried, fruitlessly, to bring the Chancellor back from the dead. He stayed until they covered her face with a sheet, and he led a prayer as the healers bowed their heads.
“Their body remains, but soon we will send Yrsa of Swiftsea’s soul to the gods,” Magnes finished.
“May They fly on swift wings,” the Master Healer said, spreading their fingers wide in a benediction to the five gods. “Chancellor Yrsa died in the presence of Your All-Holy Eminence, and I am sure it was a great comfort.”
“I leave the Chancellor in your capable hands, Healer Lordon.”
Magnes strode through the Citadel until he reached his tower, taking the steps two at a time. Once the door was shut behind him, he let his human form fall away once more. He bowed his head, his longer, darker, feathered hair falling into his face. He clenched his hands into fists. There was the barest white scar at the base of his pinkie finger, the sole sign that the digit had been missing for centuries. He opened the window, the cooler air swirling through the tower room, and forced his breathing to slow, his heartbeat to calm. Magic crackled along his skin.
He was meant to have more time, but already his mind spun. With luck, he could convince Loc to wait until the next election to select a new Chancellor, especially if he could find a distraction or delay.
After years of planning, everything was finally falling into place. A few more steps, and another delicate rebalance of the scales, and no one and nothing would be able to stop him.
Change was on the wind.
Excerpted from Emberclaw, copyright © 2025 by L.R. Lam.
