The careful distance in his words couldn’t hide the heat behind them. Serenya felt her cheeks warm as forbidden images flashed through her mind.
“I haven’t explored that possibility because no female has wanted to get close to me since I was cursed,” he admitted with stark honesty. “You’re the only woman who’s been this close to me in a century.”
Their eyes met across the space he’d put between them, and Serenya saw vulnerability there so raw it made her chest ache. Beneath his controlled exterior was a man who wanted connection, who wantedherspecifically, and the realization sent warmth pulsing through the shackle bond like liquid fire.
But she also felt something deeper stirring within herself—a recognition that defied logic.
Why did she feel safest around the most dangerous man in the Ashen Realms? What did that mean about her, about them, about whatever was building between shadow and light?
The absurdity of it hit her suddenly. A man so powerful he could level cities, almost losing control because of her. No man had ever looked at her or been affected by her the way Vaelrik was—like she was something dangerous, irresistible, and essential. She had never imagined she would be the one to knock his control sideways.
Laughter bubbled up from her chest—sharp and breathless, breaking the charged tension like glass shattering. Vaelrik startled at the sound, clearly expecting anger or fear instead of amusement.
But her laughter softened the room somehow, melting the ice between them in a way that felt shockingly natural. To her surprise, Vaelrik’s mouth curved into something dangerouslyclose to a smile, transforming his hard features into something almost boyish.
It was unsettling how right it felt to share this moment of humor with someone who, just two days ago, had been her enemy.
“I should probably go back to my quarters,” she said finally. “And get some rest.”
She reached for the plague reports scattered across his table. “Can I take these to study more closely?”
“Go ahead,” he said, though disappointment flickered across his features at her departure.
“Good night, Vaelrik.”
“Good night.”
She headed toward his door before she could do something truly stupid—like stay and test the boundaries they shouldn’t cross. She needed to focus on their mission, on defeating the shadow-plague so she could get this damned ward-shackle off her wrist.
But even as she walked away, the warmth of his almost-smile lingered, and she couldn’t shake the dangerous feeling that leaving him was the hardest thing she’d done in years.
Back in her quarters, Serenya closed the oak door and leaned against it, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a caged bird. The stone walls felt too close, the air too thin, everything charged with the electric aftermath of what had almost happened.
“Get yourself together,” she muttered, but her voice sounded breathless even to her own ears.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, still feeling the phantom heat of how close Vaelrik’s mouth had been to hers. A pulsing warmth had settled deep in her body—something she’d never experienced before meeting him. Or maybe it had always beenthere, dormant beneath layers of anger and survival, waiting for storm-gray eyes and a voice like rolling thunder to awaken it.
The ward-shackle pulsed faintly, and she wondered if he could feel her racing pulse through their bond. The thought made her cheeks burn hotter.
This was madness. Complete, utter madness. She was a witch. He was a dragon. They were supposed to be natural enemies, not... whatever this was becoming.
“Focus,” she commanded herself, desperate for distraction from the way her body still hummed with awareness of him.
She spread the plague reports across her narrow bed, the parchment rustling like whispered secrets. Maps marked with red ink, witness accounts written in shaking hands, locations circled and crossed out—the scattered pieces of a puzzle that grew more sinister with each connection she traced.
Her finger followed the attack patterns, drawing invisible lines between settlements. The shadow-plague wasn’t spreading randomly, they knew that now. Each strike moved with deliberate precision, creating a spiral that curved inexorably toward one destination.
The Gloam.
Serenya’s blood chilled as she stared at the maps. The Gloam wasn’t just any corrupted wasteland—it was a wound carved into the earth itself. Once a thriving mining region, it had collapsed during the first dragon wars, creating a chasm so vast that even dragons feared to fly over it. The ground around it remained scorched black centuries later, radiating heat that defied seasons. Fog rolled upward from its depths instead of settling, carrying the stench of iron and decay.
But worse than its geography was what the Gloam represented: a rift where reality itself had grown thin. Magic distorted there. Compasses spun wildly. Even dragonswhispered that the Gloam spoke back to those who listened too closely.
And something in that cursed place was calling the shadow-plague home. Calling to whatever piece of the Shadow Sovereign lived inside Vaelrik’s curse.
Her hands shook as she traced the spiral pattern again. This wasn’t random corruption seeking weak points to exploit. This was ancient, patient intelligence that had been watching, waiting, and learning.
Learning about Vaelrik.
