Vaelrik’s hands clenched into fists, knuckles white with the effort of containing his dragon’s murderous instincts. The Council’s most trusted elder was a traitor. And tomorrow, he would stand before the citizens of Cinderhollow and play the role of savior.
Not if Vaelrik had anything to say about it.
SEVENTEEN
SERENYA
The square in the heart of Cinderhollow overflowed by dawn—witches, humans, and dragon shifters assembling in a sea of bodies that pressed against the volcanic stone like a living tide. The crowd’s energy crackled with nervous tension, voices rising and falling in anxious murmurs.
“Why a public assembly to explain emergency protocols?” she heard an elderly woman whisper to her companion.
“Why today?” a young witch added from somewhere behind her, suspicion threading through her tone.
“What aren’t they telling us?” rumbled a dragon guard, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’d seen too many Council directives that ended in bloodshed.
Serenya felt the tension thickening like storm pressure, the air itself seeming to vibrate with unspoken fear and barely contained panic. Her curse scholar’s instincts screamed warnings—because sheknewArchon Serect wasn’t calling this meeting to reassure anyone. He was calling it to control the narrative about the shadow-plague, to position himself as their savior in defeating it while painting her and Vaelrik as useful but ultimately disposable tools.
She and Vaelrik walked into the square as a united front, their bond humming with shared purpose and barely contained fury. Obsidian armor glinted darkly on Vaelrik’s broad frame, each piece fitted to his body like a second skin that emphasized the predatory grace in every movement. He moved through the crowd like a force of nature—controlled, lethal, and absolutely unmoved by the stares and whispers that followed in their wake.
Kyr walked ahead with two Obsidian soldiers, their formation creating a wall of House Obsidian loyalty that surrounded her and Vaelrik despite the Council’s obvious disapproval of their mate bond. The message was clear: House Obsidian stood with their warlord, regardless of political consequences.
Serenya had chosen her clothes deliberately—practical dark pants and a simple blouse, her dark red hair braided with runic thread in an understated style designed to make the Council elders underestimate her. Let them think she was just a useful witch playing at politics. Let them dismiss her as Vaelrik’s pretty distraction.
They would learn otherwise soon enough.
The half-mate mark thrummed beneath her blouse, her skin warm where Vaelrik’s Obsidian sigil was half-etched across her heart. The incomplete brand pulsed in response to his proximity, their bond singing with recognition and desire that she forced herself to ignore for now. There would be time for that later—after they exposed Serect’s treachery.
Witches stiffened as she walked past, their magical senses picking up the change in her power. Her lumen magic had started to transform after Vaelrik claimed her, becoming something deeper and more resonant, threaded through with heat that shouldn’t exist but somehow felt perfectly natural. She could feel their confusion, their fear, and their grudging respect.
Dragon shifters watched with open suspicion mixed with barely concealed terror. They knew something had happened to her and Vaelrik in the Gloam, could smell the residue of corruption magic on them like smoke from a distant fire. But they didn’t know why, and that uncertainty made them dangerous.
The citizens sensed the undercurrents of power and politics swirling around them, but Serect wanted to shape their understanding before Serenya or Vaelrik could reveal the truth about the shadow-plague and his role in creating it.
Archon Serect rose on the obsidian dais, his crimson-black robes heavy with gold thread that caught the volcanic light and made him look like a figure carved from flame itself. When he spoke, his voice was a weapon coated in honey—smooth, persuasive, and designed to slide past reason and lodge directly in the listener’s trust.
“Citizens of Cinderhollow,” he began, his golden eyes sweeping across the assembled crowd with practiced warmth. “I stand before you today to address the isolated shadow-plague attacks that have threatened our realm.”
Serenya’s jaw tightened.Isolated.The bastard was already minimizing the threat, making it sound manageable rather than the coordinated assault they’d witnessed.
“Through Council vigilance and careful planning,” Serect continued, his tone radiating confidence, “we have successfully contained these incidents. The unique partnership between our enforcer Vaelrik and the witch scholar Serenya has proven... effective in combating this ancient corruption.”
Partnership.Not mate bond. Not choice. Not the deep, soul-searing connection that had shattered their shackles and rewritten the very foundations of dragon-witch relations. Just a convenient political arrangement between useful tools.
Serenya felt Vaelrik’s fury spike through their bond, his shadowfire stirring in response to the casual dismissal of what they’d become together. His hand twitched toward the weapon at his side, but he held himself in check with the iron discipline of a man who’d spent centuries being used by politicians.
She swept her gaze across the assembled Council members and Citadel guards, cataloging their positions with the tactical awareness Vaelrik had been unconsciously teaching her. Her blood turned hot as understanding dawned.
They were standing in strategic positions throughout the square—not for crowd control or general security, but in a specific containment formation. Designed to demonstrate that the Council held ultimate power over everyone present, including her and Vaelrik.
This gathering wasn’t about reassurance or transparency. It was about leverage and control.
She caught Kyr’s eye and saw her realization reflected in his slate-gray gaze. He’d spotted the formation too and understood what it meant. His hand rested casually on his weapon hilt, ready to move if the political theater turned into something more dangerous.
Serenya’s hatred for the Council—and especially for Archon Serect—burned bright and clean in her chest. First, he’d forced her into bondage as Vaelrik’s containment solution, and now that they’d chosen each other willingly, he was still trying to control them, to dictate how they handled the shadow-plague crisis he’d helped create.
But they already knew how to handle it. They needed to return to the Gloam and take down the Shadowbinder—permanently this time.
“The threat,” Serect continued, his voice carrying easily across the packed square, “while concerning, remainsmanageable through proper protocols and the continued cooperation of our specialized assets.”
