Kyr waited inside, his weathered face grim as he stood beside a steel examination slab. One of the shadow-assassin’s helms rested on the metal surface like a severed head, its surface still radiating malevolence that made the air taste of iron and rot.
“Took you long enough,” Kyr muttered, though his eyes held genuine concern. “This thing’s been making the lab assistants nervous. Half of them refused to stay in the room with it.”
Serenya didn’t blame them. Even from across the room, she could feel the corruption magic writhing through the metal like living infection. Her lumen sigils prickled beneath her skin in response, instinctively preparing defensive barriers.
“What have you learned?” Vaelrik moved to stand beside the slab, his presence immediately commanding the space. Even in the sterile lab environment, he radiated predatory power that made the shadows seem to bend toward him.
Kyr gestured toward the helm with obvious distaste. “The metal’s been alchemically treated. Not just enchanted—transformed at a molecular level. Whoever forged this knew exactly how to wield corruption magic.”
Serenya forced herself to approach the slab. The closer she got, the more her magic reacted—white-gold light bleeding through her skin like her body was rejecting proximity to such concentrated darkness.
She leaned over the helm, studying the intricate sigil work carved into its surface. The runes pulsed faintly with residual Gloamrot, their patterns twisting in ways that hurt to look at directly. But beneath the surface corruption, she recognized something that made her blood run cold.
“This isn’t natural Gloamrot,” she whispered, her fingers hovering inches from the carved metal. “This is purposeful. Someone crafted these sigils with specific intent.”
The patterns were unlike anything she’d seen in natural Gloamrot infections. Where the plague usually spread chaotically, consuming everything in its path without discrimination, these runes showed calculated precision. They’d been designed not just to corrupt, but to target.
“There’s more.” Kyr’s voice carried an edge that made Serenya’s stomach drop. He moved to a nearby table and lifted a curved blade that gleamed with the same oily darkness as the helm. “Their weapons carried no tracking sigils for Vaelrik’s curse. They found him through natural resonance—shadow calling to shadow.”
Serenya’s breath caught as understanding crashed through her. If the assassins could track Vaelrik naturally through his curse, then he couldn’t hide from them.
“But look at this.” Kyr angled the blade so light caught its surface, revealing additional sigil work etched along the fuller. “These runes are specifically designed to cut through lumen magic. Through witch wards.”
The weapon gleamed with corruption magic crafted for one purpose—killing witches. Killing her.
Serenya’s hands trembled as the full implications hit her. Someone had sent assassins equipped specifically to neutralize her. They’d wanted Vaelrik alive but uncontrolled, his curse unleashed without her light to contain it.
“They aren’t trying to kill him,” she said, her voice barely audible. “But they want me dead so he’d be destabilized. Vulnerable.”
The ward-shackle pulsed sharply against her wrist, and through their bond she felt Vaelrik’s curse lash in response—hot, furious, protective in a way that caused her chest to tighten. He tried to hide the reaction, but their connection betrayed every emotion coursing through him.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, turning toward him. “For yelling at you on the bridge. You knew before I did that they were specifically targeting me. Your dragon recognized the threat even when I couldn’t see it.”
Vaelrik’s jaw ticked, his gray eyes holding depths she couldn’t fully read. “You don’t need to apologize. We need to focus on who sent them and what they want.”
Serenya was already mapping the sigil sequences in her mind, tracing patterns that felt sickeningly familiar. The corruption magic fused with drakebrand techniques, the precision of the targeting runes, the way shadow had been weaponized against light...
A single name surfaced from her curse studies—a legend she’d hoped would stay buried.
“Rowen Corvane,” she whispered.
Kyr’s head snapped up. “The exile? He’s been dead for decades.”
“Supposedly dead,” Serenya corrected, her pulse hammering. “But these patterns match his theoretical work. Dragon blood fused with corruption magic to harness drakebrand power. It was considered impossible. Heretical.”
The silence that followed felt heavy as volcanic ash.
“If Corvane is alive...” Vaelrik’s voice carried a lethal quiet.
“Then he’s been orchestrating everything,” Serenya finished. “Drawing you toward the Gloam. Using your curse as a beacon. And now that I’m stabilizing you, I’ve become a liability to whatever he’s planning.”
Kyr stepped closer to Vaelrik, his expression hardening with military precision. “Witches are unpredictable,” he said, his voice low but carrying clearly through the lab. “Easily manipulated. She could be compromised, feeding you false information to serve her own agenda.”
The words hit Serenya like physical blows. After everything—after she’d nearly died defending civilians, after she’d stabilized Vaelrik’s curse at the cost to her own safety—Kyr still saw her as a threat.
Anger flared through the shackle bond so intensely it stung Vaelrik’s senses. His eyes flashed with dangerous light, embers bleeding through his gray irises as his curse responded to her fury. One spark from him could level the room.
Kyr went pale, finally understanding the volatile connection he’d just triggered.
