“If the Council thinks they can break your spirit—or chain you beyond this shackle—they’re mistaken.”
Serenya’s green eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the raw conviction in his words.
“I’ll burn my way through every throne in this room before I let them collar you more tightly,” he continued, meaning every syllable. The shadowfire beneath his skin stirred restlessly, responding to the fierce protectiveness that clawed at his chest.
Her laugh startled them both—breathless and disbelieving. “Why are you trying to protect me?”
The question hit him like a punch to his gut. But she was right. Dragons didn’t protect witches. Dragons conquered, commanded, and consumed. They certainly didn’t offer to commit treason against the Council for a woman they’d known for two days.
But looking at her—sun-warmed skin marked with fading ash from their battle, defiant chin lifted despite the magical shackle binding her magic to his curse—he couldn’t summon anything resembling indifference.
“Because you deserve it,” he said simply.
The words hung between them like a confession. She studied his face with the sharp focus of someone accustomed to dragons threatening witches, exploiting them, treating them like disposable resources. Never dragons threateningforwitches.
The mate bond thrummed beneath his ribs, demanding he claim her, protect her, burn down anyone who dared harm what belonged to him. But he couldn’t tell her that. Not when she already wore one shackle because of him. Not when the truth might terrify her more than the Council’s machinations.
“And I don’t like seeing people get used,” he said instead, the half-truth bitter on his tongue.
“Like you,” she said quietly.
The response hit too close to home, exposing the parallel he’d tried not to acknowledge. Two weapons. Two prisoners. Two souls the Council intended to wield until they shattered.
He nodded, throat tight with words he couldn’t speak. She probably sensed them anyway—the ward-shackle had connected more than their magic. Every emotion, every desperate need to shield her from harm pulsed between them like shared heartbeats.
They exited the chamber together, footsteps echoing through corridors that felt less like halls than arteries in some vast beast. The volcanic heat pressed against them, but Vaelrik barelynoticed. His entire focus had narrowed to the woman beside him.
“Despite you being dangerous, unstable, and cursed beyond anything I’ve seen in sigilcraft,” Serenya said, her voice thoughtful, “you’re also a captive weapon. You must resent the Council as deeply as I do.”
He’d known she could sense his feelings through their shackle bond, but hearing her voice them aloud sent heat spiraling through his chest. The curse also recognized her insight, responding with dangerous satisfaction.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I do. But what choice do we have right now?”
We.The word slipped out before he could stop it, carrying implications that made his dragon stir with possessive hunger.
Their partnership had shifted in those few exchanged words. Not into trust—they weren’t naive enough for that—but into mutual recognition of shared captivity. Both prisoners of dragon politics. Both tools the Council intended to use until they broke or died.
Serenya pulled at the ward-shackle circling her wrist, her distaste for its weight radiating through their bond like physical pain.
“I hate this thing,” she muttered.
His dragon roared silently in response, wanting nothing more than to tear the metal from her skin and make her comfortable. But the shackle was forged from dragon-blessed obsidian, reinforced with binding runes that would require dismantling the spell work itself. Attempting to remove it by force would likely sever her arm.
“Let me walk you back to your quarters,” he offered, the words rougher than intended.
They walked side by side through the Citadel’s winding passages, tension crackling between them like lightning seekingground. The mate bond grew stronger with every shared breath and every synchronized step. Their battle in the Weeping March had shown him how perfectly they moved together—light and shadow, structure and chaos, her magic guiding his power with devastating precision.
The ward-shackle was just a literal representation of what his soul had already recognized. What he’d been trying to deny since the moment she’d touched him in the Council chamber yesterday.
She was his mate. His balance. His salvation.
And now their magic and senses were connected through dragon-forged metal, making denial impossible. Every emotion she felt echoed through him. Every flutter of her pulse against the shackle sent heat racing through his veins.
They reached her door—plain wood that looked fragile compared to his basalt fortress—and she turned to face him. The corridor’s dim light caught the copper threads in her dark red hair, making her appear touched by flame.
“Rest well,” he said, his voice carefully controlled despite the chaos beneath.
“I doubt that,” she replied with characteristic honesty. “But I suppose I’ll see you soon enough.”
