“I won’t—” Serenya began.
“You will,” Thyren cut her off. “The binding sigil ensures neither of you can abandon the other.”
They moved with practiced efficiency, producing ritual knives and binding ink that shimmered with power. Serenyalooked terrified for the first time since entering the chamber. Witches lacked the raw physical might to resist a chamber full of dragons, and binding sigils—once invoked—overrode personal magic by design, stripping autonomy in a heartbeat.
Vaelrik felt only weary resignation as they removed his shackles and carved the connecting sigil into both their wrists—hers a delicate sunburst pattern, his a coiled shadow that seemed to writhe beneath the skin.
The magic ignited instantly. Her light collided with his shadowfire in a violent crackle that burned both of them, marking them as permanently linked. Serenya swore with impressive creativity. Vaelrik gritted his teeth and endured.
“A precaution,” Serect said smoothly. “So neither of you can escape the other.”
“A mistake,” Vaelrik corrected, testing the magical bonds that now wrapped around his consciousness like chains forged from starlight and shadow.
But the shadowfire hummed softly beneath his skin, as if it had already chosen her against his will.
THREE
SERENYA
“Commander Kyr will escort you immediately to begin stabilization,” Archon Serect announced, his molten voice cutting through the charged air like a blade.
Oh, wonderful. More dragon rituals to ruin my life.
Serenya flexed her left wrist where the binding sigil still burned beneath her skin—a delicate sunburst pattern that pulsed with foreign darkness. Every few heartbeats, she felt Vaelrik’s shadowfire testing the boundaries of their connection, pressing against her lumen magic like a caged beast checking for weak spots in its prison. The sensation wasn’t painful, exactly, but it reminded her with each pulse that she was no longer her own person.
She was tied to the Council’s weapon whether she wanted it or not.
“This way,” Kyr commanded, his slate-gray eyes holding the kind of authority that suggested further arguing would be both pointless and potentially hazardous to her health.
Just an hour ago, she’d been crouched in the Gloamspire Library, meticulously maintaining ward-sigils to keep the shadow-plague from seeping through the ancient stone. Herbiggest concern had been whether the outer perimeter would hold through tomorrow’s dawn. Now she was indefinitely bound to a dragon shifter whose curse could potentially tear her apart from the inside out.
Lucky me.
The Council hadn’t even allowed her a moment to process what had just transpired—how her entire life had been upended in the span of minutes. Dragons never cared about emotional fallout, only outcomes. The Ashen Realms ran on three primal forces: drakebrand magic flowing through dragon blood, sigilcraft shaped by witch intellect, and the corruption called Gloamrot that twisted everything it touched. Now she was expected to bridge two of them without losing herself to the third.
Did they even care what this might cost me emotionally? Or physically?
Of course not. As long as it served their political agenda, her wellbeing was irrelevant.
Serenya followed Kyr through corridors carved from black basalt, the volcanic stone radiating heat that made her fitted black blouse cling uncomfortably to her skin. Her silver necklace—a simple chain holding a protective sigil her mentor Mirel had given her—felt suddenly inadequate against the magical forces pressing in around her. She’d braided her dark red hair back with runic thread that morning, a practical choice that now felt prophetic. At least it wouldn’t catch fire if Vaelrik’s control slipped.
Behind them, Vaelrik moved with the predatory grace of something that had learned to contain violence rather than avoid it. She was acutely aware of his presence—the way his boots whispered against stone, the controlled rhythm of his breathing, and the heat that seemed to radiate from him even in human form. Her traitorous mind cataloged details she didn’twant to notice: the way his dark tunic stretched across his broad shoulders, how his black hair fell across his forehead when he tilted his head, and the dangerous stillness in his movements that suggested he could explode into lethal action at any moment.
He was attractive in the way storms were beautiful—magnificent, powerful, and absolutely capable of destroying everything in their path.
Focus, Serenya. He’s the Council’s enforcer. The Shadow Scourge.
But even that reminder couldn’t quite silence the treacherous awareness humming beneath her skin.
They finally reached a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands, and Vaelrik stepped forward with fluid efficiency to open it. Despite everything that had just transpired between them—the forced binding, the mutual hostility, the way reality had tilted sideways when their magic connected—he held the door open with courteous precision.
“After you,” Vaelrik said, his voice carrying that dry undertone that could have been mockery or genuine politeness.
Serenya paused at the threshold, meeting his smoky gray eyes with defiance she didn’t entirely feel. “Do I really have a choice?”
Something flickered across his features—too quick to interpret, gone before she could catalog whether it was amusement, regret, or simply acknowledgment of their shared captivity.
“Not really,” he admitted with brutal honesty. “But I can hold the door or let it slam in your face. Small courtesies in the face of larger injustices.”
