Despite herself, she almost smiled. Almost. Instead, she stepped past him into quarters that felt more like a containment cell than a living space.
The room was carved entirely from black basalt, walls seamlessly flowing into floors that radiated heat from volcanic vents beneath the stone. Weapons lined every available surface with ritualistic precision—obsidian blades that caught firelight like captured starlight, war axes with edges that looked sharp enough to split atoms, and racks of spears engraved with House Obsidian’s coiled crest. Scorch marks spiderwebbed across the far wall in patterns that suggested his shadowfire had been unleashed here—repeatedly and without full control.
This wasn’t a home. This was an armory disguised as living quarters, designed to contain a creature too powerful to trust unguarded. The realization steadied something in her chest. She might have been dragged here against her will, but Vaelrik was just as caged. His curse had twisted him into something the Council relied on but feared understanding. They called him their enforcer but Serenya saw something closer to a weapon the world didn’t know how to unmake.
For a moment, she almost felt pity for him. Then she remembered the smoke rising from her childhood home, her mother’s final screams, and the certainty that dragons destroyed everything they couldn’t control.
Kyr entered behind them, followed by another Obsidian guard whose presence filled the remaining space with military tension. Both men positioned themselves with the unconscious efficiency of soldiers who’d learned to guard something that could kill them faster than they could blink.
“The stabilization ritual—” Kyr began.
“Can wait a minute,” Vaelrik cut him off, his voice carrying enough authority to make both guards straighten. “She needs to understand what she’s walked into before we begin tampering with forces that could incinerate us all.”
Serenya felt the binding sigil pulse again, a reminder that understanding wouldn’t change anything. She was here, tied tohim by magic and Council decree, whether she comprehended the implications or not.
But at least he’d given her those few precious seconds. In a day of vanishing choices, even small mercies felt like victories.
Serenya drew three slow breaths, feeling the volcanic heat press against her lungs like a physical weight. The binding sigil pulsed at her wrist—a rhythm she was already learning to hate.
“That’s fine,” she said finally, meeting Vaelrik’s gaze with manufactured calm. “I don’t need understanding. It won’t change what’s inevitable, will it?”
Something flashed across his face—surprise, perhaps, or recognition of her pragmatism.
“We’re bound together now,” she continued, her voice neutral despite the tremor in her chest. “Whatever happens next, I’ll deal with it. Just like I’ve dealt with everything else in my life.”
Like learning to survive when the world decided witches were expendable.
She lifted her chin. “I’m ready.”
The nervous Obsidian guard—younger than Kyr, with hands that shook as he unrolled a ceremonial scroll—cleared his throat. His voice cracked on the first words.
“Stabilization sessions require sustained physical contact and... and channeling of lumen sigil energy directly into the curse bearer’s core.”
Serenya’s spine went rigid. More physical contact. Of course they hadn’t mentioned that detail in the Council chamber. Her consent was unimportant to them, clearly.
Dragons take what they need. Witches adapt or die.
The guard’s eyes darted between her and Vaelrik like a man caught between two apex predators. “The ritual specifies palm-to-chest contact for optimal magical resonance and?—”
“Get on with it,” Vaelrik interrupted sharply.
But Serenya caught the tension in his shoulders, and the way his jaw tightened when the guard mentioned physical contact. He wasn’t comfortable with this either. The realization should have been reassuring; instead, it made her stomach twist with something that felt dangerously close to sympathy.
Vaelrik said nothing about her obvious discomfort—whether from consideration or simple acceptance of their shared captivity, she couldn’t tell. He simply watched her with that unsettling stillness, as if she were a puzzle he was trying to solve. His posture radiated control, but she sensed something coiled behind his calm—a dangerous pressure she’d felt when touching him during the binding ritual.
His gaze wasn’t lecherous or mocking. It was evaluative, clinical almost, but layered with something that made her ribs feel too tight. Something had rattled him in the Council chamber, and he was working extremely hard not to acknowledge it.
“Remove your tunic,” Kyr commanded, his tone matter-of-fact.
Vaelrik moved with efficiency, pulling the dark fabric over his head in one smooth motion. Serenya tried not to stare—truly, she did—but controlling her eyes proved impossible when faced with the expanse of bronzed skin stretched over muscle that looked carved from granite. His chest was a topographical map of old violence: thin silver scars that caught firelight like spider silk, the ridge of what looked like claw marks along his ribs, and the sprawling ink of his House Obsidian drakebrand across his left bicep.
Focus. He’s still a dragon.
But her mind cataloged more details about him anyway. The way his muscles shifted when he breathed, the faint ripple beneath his skin that suggested his shadowfire constantly tested the boundaries of his control, and the careful way heheld himself—as if sudden movement might shatter something fragile.
“Step forward,” Kyr instructed her. “Place your palm over his heart.”
Just hurry this up. Maybe you can escape to your own chambers soon.
