The Citadel guards stared at the destruction—scorched walls, charred debris, and the lingering haze of shadowfire and lumen sigils still crackling faintly in the air. Vaelrik’s voice cut through their stunned silence, sharp and commanding.
“Tell the Council the breach has been handled,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.
The guards nodded, their boots scraping against the basalt floor as they hurried away. But Serenya stood rigid, her hands clenched at her sides, the metallic tang of Gloamrot still clinging to her tongue. The corridor smelled of burned stone and corruption, but all she could focus on was the hollow roar still ringing in her ears and the ghostly echo of her mother’s lullaby twisting through her mind. Her knees nearly buckled, the weight of grief pressing down on her chest like a collapsing mine shaft.
A strong hand steadied her before she could hit the ground. Vaelrik. Her shackle pulsed with his presence, the thrum of his shadowfire grounding her like an anchor in a storm. Or was it his dragon instincts? She couldn’t tell, not when her own emotions were unraveling faster than she could contain them.
“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, his voice low and laced with something she couldn’t name. Not judgment. Not pity. But something deeper, something that made her chest ache with a strange, unfamiliar warmth.
She forced a breath into her lungs, but the air turned sharp and painful, scraping against the raw edges of her grief. Pressing both hands to her face, Serenya tried to steady herself, but the tears burned hot behind her lids, threatening to spill over.
“I need—” Her voice splintered, broken and raw. “I just need to get out of here.”
Away from the ash. Away from the ghost of her mother, haunting her in ways she hadn’t felt since that day in Eris Hollow.
She expected Vaelrik to argue. To command. To tell her to pull herself together, to remind her of her duty. Instead, his reply was immediate, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it—deep and resonant, wrapping around her like a cocoon.
“Come with me.”
She lowered her hands slowly, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “Where?”
“My quarters,” he said, his storm-gray eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “No eyes. No interruptions. Just us right now.”
Normally, she would have challenged him. Questioned his motives. Kept her distance and built her walls higher. But right now, she was clinging to her composure by threads thinner than spider silk, and his offer was the only thing keeping her from crumbling entirely.
She nodded once, her voice too fragile to speak.
Vaelrik fell into step beside her, close enough to be a shield but not so close that he touched her. His restraint almost undid her all over again. Each time her knees swayed, the shackle pulsed with his instinct to steady her, to gather her up and carryher away from the nightmare she’d just faced. But he didn’t. He kept his distance, but his presence was a silent promise of protection.
By the time they reached his heavy door, the adrenaline had worn off, and the grief hit her like a tidal wave. She braced a hand against the basalt wall, swallowing a broken inhale.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered before she could stop herself. “I shouldn’t fall apart like this.”
His reply was so gentle she almost didn’t recognize it as his voice. “You don’t owe the Citadel your strength every second of the day.”
She looked up at him—and the heat in his eyes wasn’t pity. It was something too dangerous to name.
He opened the door, stepping aside to let her in. “Come inside,” he said, his voice steady and grounding. “I’ll make you some tea.”
She stepped into his quarters, and the world finally stopped tilting. The room was sparse, but it felt safe in a way Serenya couldn’t explain. For several heartbeats, she stood motionless in the center of the room, the quiet pressing around her like a warm cocoon. No guards whispering. No screaming children. No shadows clawing at the edges of her mind. Just Vaelrik’s presence filling the small space—solid, steady, and simmering with emotions she could feel through the shackle bond but couldn’t yet understand.
Her breakdown came once the silence settled. Subtle at first—just trembling hands and a tight chest—but then a soft, choked sob escaped before she could swallow it. She turned her back, ashamed. But Vaelrik stepped closer—not touching, simply offering his steadiness like an anchor placed within reach.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured.
And that was all it took for the grief to break fully. She slid to the edge of his bed, buried her face in her hands, and let the tearsfall—quiet, fierce, and long overdue. Vaelrik knelt before her, his presence solid and unwavering, his hand resting lightly on her knee.
She felt the curse reach for her lumen magic, the shadowfire curling beneath his skin like a predator, but then his dragon instincts must have pushed back, quelling the curse’s hunger. Because the shackle didn’t spark and didn’t burn—she felt only warmth, steadiness, and the unspoken promise that he would always be there for her.
She cried for what felt like minutes, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs until she finally steadied herself. When she lifted her gaze to meet his, she saw the raw protectiveness in his eyes, and the way he looked at her as if she was something precious, something worth shielding even from himself.
Her hand found his, covering it gently. Their eyes locked, and she saw the truth of him—not the Council’s weapon, not the Shadow Scourge, but a man who had spent centuries alone, refusing to let himself want anything until she walked into his life.
The knock at the door came like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile peace between them. Kyr’s voice was urgent, clipped, and tinged with irritation. “The Council wants both of you. Immediately.”
Her stomach dropped. So much for tea or rest after the breach. Peace never lasted long in Cinderhollow.
The Council chambers were a storm of chaos when Serenya and Vaelrik arrived. The room buzzed with the low hum of anxious voices, the air thick with the scent of melted candle wax and the faint, metallic tang of fear. Maps sprawled across the long obsidian table, their edges curling from the heat of the volcanic vents below. Blackened markers dotted the maps like scars, each one a testament to the shadow-plague’s relentless march across the Ashen Realms.
