He slashes, fast and precise, but the thing twists midair with an unnerving snap, dodging like it knows the strike was coming. It hits his arm, burning straight through his sleeve.
Zeriel grunts but doesn’t give it the satisfaction of a flinch. In the same motion, he drives his arm into the wall, pinning the thing hard enough to make the wood groan. It shrieks, limbs thrashing.
I scramble for another lamp, hands shaking as I spark it alight. The sudden flare reveals the nightmare in full: those “limbs” are slick, writhing tentacles, each tipped with a gnashing mouth of needle teeth.
“Stand back,” Zeriel’s voice cuts sharp as he drags his blade across his arm, scraping the creature off in one clean motion.
It rebounds instantly, skittering toward me with unnerving speed. Ignoring the burn tearing through my shoulder, I bring the heavy lamp down in a brutal arc.
The lamp connects with a crunch, flames spilling across the creature's body. It writhes, its keening rising to an unbearable pitch. The flames catch, feeding on whatever makes up its translucent flesh.
Zeriel is on it before I’ve drawn another breath. His blade drives clean through the center mass, pinning it to the floor. The thing convulses, tentacles lashing wildly, but he doesn’t flinch. The fire spreads, eating into it until its thrashing slows… then stills. What’s left slumps into a smoldering puddle, the air thick with the stench of scorched chemicals.
I stand there shaking, shoulder and fingers throbbing where its tentacles touched me, blistered skin already tightening.
“What in all hells was that?” The words scrape out of me.
Zeriel crouches, keeping his hands clear of the remains. His eyes narrow, the set of his mouth hard. “A construct,” he says finally. “Magical, something taken and altered for a purpose.”
“What?”
“What else?” he asks, the words terse. “I believe it’s dark alchemy. The kind that’s rare even in the empire’s black markets.” His gaze locks on mine, steady, unyielding. “I’d wager Blaise. And I don’t wager lightly.”
The name chills me, even with the burn still eating at my skin. “You’re saying Blaise sent this?”
“I doubt anyone else would dare.” His voice is ice.
The answer sinks into me, heavy and cold, settling low in my stomach. Blaise—his smile all sharp edges, his gaze like a knife pressed to the skin—wouldn’t hesitate. I’ve seen enough in him to know that. And if this thing really came from his hand, then it wasn’t just meant to kill me. It was meant to make a point.
When Zeriel’s gaze flicks to me again, there’s nothing cold about it now—just a dangerous heat, aimed outward, not at me.
He rises and closes the distance between us in two strides. “Let me see.” His fingers brush my clothing aside, careful, deliberate, revealing the blistered punctures beneath. I feel a thrum of his inner energy brushing against me at the contact, but it’s far weaker than before. Barely perceptible.Maybe because he hasn’t used his magic for hours?
“These need treatment,” he says, firm. “If we don’t act, it’ll worsen.”
I nod and gesture toward the ensuite bathroom. Pain flares as I move, and he steadies me with an arm, guiding me there while snatching up a bedsheet. The sheet tears in his grip like paper, and he uses the strip to clean away the blackened edges of the wounds before fishing out a tin of salve from his pack.
I stand by the basin as he approaches me, and up close, I catch the heat of him, the quiet focus in his face. There’s nothingcareless in the way he works—each touch measured, every movement chosen to minimize pain and damage. Which, I realize, is perhaps the first time I’ve truly appreciated anything about him.
“Your arm,” I murmur, spotting the angry welt where the thing latched on.
“Superficial,” he dismisses without looking up. “I’ll deal with it in a bit.”
When he finishes, his gaze cuts back to the scorched ruin on the floor. “We’ll clean that tomorrow. And you don’t stay there tonight.”
I let out a breath. Of course he’s back to issuing orders. At least I don’t mind in this instance. “Where, then?” I mutter.
“My room,” he says flatly. “I’ll secure the windows. And I don’t sleep deeply.”
I glance at the third spare bedroom, but to be honest, I doubt I’d get a wink of sleep on my own after this.
“Fine,” I murmur. “It’s not like we haven’t shared space before. Thrilling arrangement though it is.”
He shuts the window in my room with a sharp snap, then strides into the corridor, eyes flicking side to side like we’re marching into an ambush instead of just moving a few doors down.
His quarters are as bare as I expected. A window with bars. A cabinet. A desk shoved against one wall. And… one double bed. Like in my room. I’m not sure why I thought it might be different.
I hesitate. We’ve ridden the same saddle, shared a room and even that terrifyingly narrow dance platform. But we’ve never shared a bed. The thought lands with a thud in my gut.
