He watched her disappear behind her door, then stood motionless for several heartbeats, listening to her move through the room beyond. The ward-shackle pulsed with her settling presence, a constant reminder of their bond.
Walking back to his own quarters, Vaelrik’s mind churned with dangerous possibilities. This forced arrangement was making him more protective by the hour, more aware of her pain, her exhaustion, and her stubborn courage. The mate bond and the magical shackle were amplifying each other, creating a feedback loop he wasn’t sure he could resist much longer.
His dragon wanted to claim her. Complete the bond naturally. Tear the shackle from both their wrists and replace it with something chosen rather than imposed.
But his curse still burned beneath his skin, waiting for any moment of lost control to consume everything he touched.
How could he protect her from the Council’s machinations when the greatest threat might be himself?
The ward-shackle pulsed again—Serenya’s senses and magic calling to him across the stone corridors.
He pressed his forehead against his door and wondered how long he could maintain this careful distance when every instinct demanded he go to her and end this charade.
Back in Vaelrik’s quarters, he had been pacing for an hour like a caged predator, the volcanic heat radiating from the floor doing nothing to settle the restless energy coiled in his chest. The ward-shackle pulsed against his wrist in steady rhythm, broadcasting Serenya’s presence somewhere in the Citadel like a second heartbeat he couldn’t ignore. Between the magical binding and the mate bond clawing at his ribs, getting her out of his mind had become impossible.
A sharp knock rapped against his door.
Vaelrik paused mid-stride, frowning. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Kyr rarely disturbed him this late unless the Council had issued urgent orders, and emergency summons usually came with bells and running soldiers.
He opened the heavy door, expecting his commander’s weathered face—and found Serenya instead.
She stood in the dim corridor, still wearing the practical clothes from their battle, her dark red hair catching the volcanic light like embers. The ward-shackle around her wrist glowed faintly, responding to his proximity with warm pulses that made his curse stir with dangerous interest.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said without preamble. “And judging by how much this thing has been pulsing, I figured you were still awake.”
She gestured to the shackle, and Vaelrik felt heat climb his neck. The bond worked both directions—she could sense his restlessness as clearly as he sensed hers. The thought of her lying awake, feeling the echo of his pacing through their magical connection, sent possessive satisfaction and guilt coursing through him in equal measure.
“Come in,” he said, stepping aside.
His quarters felt smaller with her in them. The black basalt walls seemed to lean closer, the volcanic heat thickening as she moved deeper into the space with fluid grace that made his dragon take notice. She belonged here, his instincts whispered. Her light belonged in his darkness.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” The words came out rough, his voice betraying the effect her presence had on his carefully maintained control. “I don’t have much here, but there’s water and supplies to make a sandwich at least.”
“That sounds perfect,” she replied, and the simple acceptance sent warmth spiraling through him.
While he moved to the small kitchenette carved into the far wall, Serenya settled at his table where he’d left scattered reports of recent plague outbreaks. Her fingers traced the parchment edges with scholarly focus, and he found himself stealing glances as he prepared their simple meal.
She occupied his space without apology or hesitation—no deference, no fear, just easy confidence that disrupted him more than any battlefield ever had. He’d spent a century alone by choice, by curse, and by duty. Other people grated against his control like steel on stone. But her presence felt different. Natural. Like a missing piece clicking into place.
He brought the sandwiches and water over, setting them before her with movements more careful than necessary. The ward-shackle pulsed as their proximity increased, sending heat rushing through his veins.
“These reports,” Serenya said, lifting one of the documents, “show the plague isn’t moving randomly anymore.”
Exhaustion etched itself in the curve of her shoulders, but her mind remained sharp as a blade. Vaelrik watched her silently, unsettled by how easily she’d made herself comfortable in his domain. The curse beneath his ribs stirred restlessly, drawn to her lumen glow like iron to lodestone.
“Something’s making it more advanced,” he agreed, settling into the chair across from her. “But what, I don’t know. My curse seems to recognize it though.”
Her green eyes flicked to his face, studying him with the intensity of someone accustomed to reading dangerous magic.
“I noticed that when the shadow child sang its lullaby. You went into some kind of trance.”
The memory sent ice through his veins. “Until you broke it with your magic.”
“These reports are concerning,” Serenya continued, taking a bite of her sandwich. “Gloamrot usually follows weakened light-lines, the same way wildfire follows dry brush. But now...”
She traced patterns on the parchment with one finger, connecting dots that formed a spiral pointing inward.
“Now it’s testing defenses more systematically. Still backing away when resistance is strong, but for how long until it evolves past that?”
