He interjected, his tone brooking no argument. “We do have time. We don’t survive without proper nourishment and rest.” The words carried no heat, no command—just fact delivered with the weight of centuries of battlefield experience. “Plus, you’re shaking like a leaf in a storm, and I can barely stand. The Gloam will chew us up and spit out the bones if we stagger in like this.”
She opened her mouth to argue, fire sparking in her green eyes, then closed it. The fight drained out of her shoulders as reality settled in. They’d been running on adrenaline and desperation for days, and even dragons had limits.
She finally nodded once, the movement small but surrendering to practicality rather than his authority. It mattered, that distinction. She wasn’t yielding to him—she was acknowledging the truth.
“We’ll meet in the armory when the sun hits the western ridge,” he said, already planning their departure in his mind. “Pack only what you can carry and make sure to eat something.”
“And after the armory?” she asked, raising an eyebrow with a hint of her usual defiance returning.
“We make camp outside the city,” he replied. His gaze held hers, steady and absolute. The mate bond pulsed between them—agreement, tension, fear, trust all tangled together like threads in a tapestry. “The Gloam will be more stable at dawn. We approach at first light.”
Serenya exhaled shakily, some of the tension leaving her frame. “Fine.”
She turned to leave, and for a moment, he thought she might stumble. Vaelrik’s dragon surged with instinct—to lift her, carry her, shield her from every burden she carried—but he forced himself to remain still. She needed space as much as safety. Distance to process what they were about to face.
“Try to sleep some,” he added softly, unable to keep the gentleness from his voice entirely.
Her breath hitched at the tenderness, but she nodded and disappeared down the corridor without another word.
The moment she was gone, the weariness he’d been holding back crashed down like a collapsing mountain. His shoulders sagged, and the curse stirred restlessly beneath his ribs, feeding on his exhaustion. He made his way through the Citadel’s corridors toward his quarters, each step heavier than the last.
Once inside his chambers, he stripped off his tattered clothes and strode to his small washroom. He turned on the shower with mechanical precision, stepping under the volcanic-heated water and letting the scalding spray burn away the residue of corruption magic that still clung to his skin.
The heat soothed his aching muscles, but it couldn’t touch the deeper exhaustion. He felt that Gloamrot still humming beneath his ribs, an echo of recognition that made his stomach turn. His curse knew what waited in the Gloam. Recognized it like a long-lost relative.
But he also couldn’t get the memory of Serenya’s breakdown out of his head—the way she’d shattered in his quarters while grief tore through her. The shadow-plague had used her mother’s image as a weapon, turning her deepest loss against her. The cruelty of it made his dragon restless with protective rage.
He would do whatever it took to defeat whoever was behind this corruption. Would burn the world to ash if it meant she never had to face that kind of pain again.
Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the shower and dressed in clean clothes, trying to focus on the mission ahead. First, meet Serenya at the armory at dusk. Get properly equipped for whatever waited in the Gloam. Then head to the outskirts of Cinderhollow, make camp for the night, and keep watch whileshe rested. At dawn, they’d face whatever evil had awakened in that cursed place.
Once fully dressed, he made some soup in his small kitchen—simple fare of meat and potatoes meant to rebuild what his shadowfire had stripped from him during the day’s battles. He ate mechanically, each bite fuel for the fight ahead rather than pleasure.
Suddenly, a sharp rap sounded at the door, breaking through his thoughts. Kyr pushed in without waiting for permission, his storm-gray eyes—nearly a mirror of Vaelrik’s but brightened by agitation—scanning the room with military precision.
“You’re really doing this,” Kyr said. Not a question. A condemnation laced with the weight of their centuries-long friendship.
Vaelrik didn’t pause in his eating, simply met Kyr’s gaze with calm certainty. “Yes.”
Kyr shook his head, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair. “You’re taking her into the Gloam.” His voice cracked slightly, then hardened with desperation. “Vaelrik, that’s suicide. Something there wants you. Can’t you feel it calling?”
Vaelrik set down the bowl, finally giving Kyr his full attention. The curse stirred at the mention of the Gloam, a hungry recognition that confirmed his friend’s fears. But fear had never stopped him before.
“That’s why we have to go,” he said quietly. “To find out what and stop it before it comes here again.”
Kyr shook his head violently, his hands clenching into fists. “House Obsidian doesn’t survive if you don’t come back.Shedoesn’t survive if you don’t come back.”
Vaelrik stood, his full height adding weight to his words. “That’s precisely why I’m going.” His voice deepened into something ancient and resolute—the tone of a dragon who hadmade his choice and would not be swayed. “If we do nothing, the shadow-plague takes her. Or takes me. Or takes this city stone by stone.”
Kyr froze at the finality in Vaelrik’s voice.
Vaelrik continued, his tone gentling but losing none of its certainty. “There is no scenario where inaction saves anyone. The only path that leads to survival is the one we carve ourselves.”
Kyr swallowed hard, understanding the truth even as it terrified him. “Then let me come with you.”
“No.” Vaelrik’s refusal was immediate, immovable as granite. He stepped closer to Kyr, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The Gloam will try to use you against me. You are a weakness I can’t afford in that place.”
Kyr flinched as if struck, but he understood. In a place where corruption fed on bonds and twisted them into weapons, love became liability.
