The shame of last night flickered through his body even now—how her yelp of pain when the shackle sparked had cut through him like a blade. How he’d seen the burn mark on her wrist and wanted to tear the Council apart for forcing that metal on her in the first place.
He kept a full arm’s length between them now as they walked through the Citadel’s outer gates, not out of coldness but pure self-preservation. His dragon stirred restlessly beneath his skin, drawn to her like metal to a lodestone, while the curse writhed deeper, testing the boundaries of his control with each step.
If he lost focus again, she’d be the first thing his curse reached for.
He hated that truth more than he’d ever hated anything. Hated the way the shadowfire seemed tohungerfor her light specifically, as if her lumen magic was the most exquisite feast it had ever scented.
Yet when Serenya glanced up at him, offering a small, soft smile—the first real smile she’d aimed directly at him since this forced partnership began—his chest tightened with something far more dangerous than mere attraction. The mate bondpulsated like a second heartbeat, ancient instinct whispering truths he didn’t dare acknowledge.
She shouldn’t trust him enough to walk beside him like this. She shouldn’t look at him as if he were more than the Council’s weapon. She shouldn’t be radiant in the morning light.
But she was. And he couldn’t look away.
As they crossed into the city proper, the familiar weight of observation settled on his shoulders. Citizens scattered from their path—some from ingrained deference, others from genuine fear of what he represented. The Shadow Scourge walking freely through Cinderhollow with a witch at his side was the kind of sight that would fuel gossip for weeks.
But it was the ward-shackle that made everything infinitely worse. Every emotion that flickered through Serenya’s mind brushed against his consciousness like a whispered secret. Her fatigue from a restless night. Her determination to maintain dignity despite their circumstances. The faint echo of nervous excitement at being outside again without some dire mission objective hanging over them.
Every spark of feeling she experienced glanced across his senses as if it belonged to him. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying. It was too much intimacy for a man who had spent centuries in careful isolation.
The Obsidian Lava Bridge rose ahead—a sweeping arc of black stone that spanned one of Cinderhollow’s controlled magma channels. Steam hissed upward through iron grates, and the air shimmered with heat waves that made the city beyond look like a mirage.
Vaelrik forced himself to focus on the physical world instead of the woman beside him. The bridge’s architecture. The flow of foot traffic. The scent of sulfur and burning metal. Anything but the way Serenya’s pulse quickened when their eyes met.
People openly stared now. A dragon warlord and a witch, walking together as equals rather than captor and prisoner. He sensed Serenya’s discomfort spike through their bond—irritation mixed with defiance, the particular cocktail of emotions he was beginning to recognize as uniquely hers.
The urge to reach for her hand hit him unexpectedly. To anchor her, shield her, soothe the anxiety he could feel radiating from her like heat from a forge. His fingers actually twitched with the need to touch her, to offer comfort in the most basic way possible.
But he kept his hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He couldn’t touch her again. Not until he knew he wouldn’t burn her. Not until he could teach his dragon to overpower the curse instead of feeding it.
Vaelrik cleared his throat, a desperate attempt at emotional distance. “After breakfast, we’ll return to the Citadel. Kyr wants a debrief.”
Serenya’s soft snort sent warmth curling through his chest despite his best efforts to remain detached. “Of course he does. Witches can’t be allowed too much free time—we might get ideas.”
The dry humor in her voice almost coaxed a smile from him. But beneath her playful tone, he knew what she was really feeling through their connection. She was still shaken from last night. Still trying to process their near-kiss and what it meant. Still trying to understand him, to categorize him as either threat or ally when he was clearly both.
As they stepped onto the Lava Bridge, volcanic heat rising through the grated walkway to warm the soles of their boots, Vaelrik made himself a silent vow. He would not lose control around her again. No matter how much his dragon wanted to claim her. No matter how much the mate bond sang in his veins.No matter how right it felt when she looked at him like he was worth saving.
Because the alternative—watching the curse consume her—was unthinkable.
Suddenly, the wrongness hit Vaelrik’s senses like ice water—a ripple of corrupted magic that didn’t belong in the volcanic heart of Cinderhollow. Beside him, Serenya went rigid, her pulse spiking through their shackle bond with sharp, focused awareness that made his chest tighten.
Danger.
Her lumen magic glimmered beneath her skin, responding to threats his curse recognized before his conscious mind could process them. The shadowfire answered like a beast lifting its head, ancient predator instincts surging through his veins.
Fog drifted across the Lava Bridge—impossible fog in this hellish heat—and Vaelrik’s heart slammed hard.
His body moved without permission from his rational mind, stepping closer to Serenya until the space between them vanished. The sweet scent of her skin filled his senses even as every instinct he possessed screamed warnings.
Not again. Not today.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t get close, wouldn’t risk the curse lashing outward and consuming her light. But the mate bond didn’t give a damn about promises made by logical minds. It cared about one thing: protecting what was his.
And she was his, whether either of them wanted to acknowledge that catastrophic truth.
The scent of Gloamrot reached him before he saw the shadow figures—refined, alchemical, deliberately crafted. This wasn’t the chaotic plague corruption they’d fought at Weeping March. Someone had shaped this darkness, focused it, and weaponized it.
“Vaelrik.” Serenya’s whisper carried fear held tight behind iron control, but he was already moving, already shifting into the space between her and whatever emerged from that unnatural fog.
