The vow crystallized in his mind with the force of a blood oath. He would not let his curse use her as fuel. He would not allow fate—or the Council—to write the end of this story in ash and screaming.
She was a witch with fire in her eyes. He was a cursed dragon clinging to the last scraps of control. And somehow, impossibly, they were now bound.
He spent the entire night pacing, wrestling with urges he didn’t trust and truths he didn’t want, while the curse inside him tasted the echo of her light and fell into a dangerous, treacherous quiet. A quiet that felt too much like hope.
When dawn finally bled across Cinderhollow’s volcanic skyline, painting the basalt walls in shades of crimson and gold, Kyr arrived with Council orders tucked in a leather portfolio that looked too official for comfort.
“The Weeping March,” Kyr announced without preamble, his face grim. “There’s been a breach in the containment lines. Deployment is immediate.”
Vaelrik stopped pacing, his body shifting into the stillness that preceded violence. “How bad?”
“Bad enough that they’re sending their most effective weapon.” Kyr’s slate-gray eyes held steady on Vaelrik’s face. “You leave within the hour.”
And her?The question burned on his tongue, but he didn’t voice it. Kyr would assume his concern was tactical. But it wasn’t.
Kyr left without ceremony, his boots striking stone with military precision until the sound faded beyond the heavy door. Vaelrik stood alone in the silence, already reaching for his armorwith movements that had been drilled into muscle memory over centuries of deployment.
The binding sigil on his wrist pulsed—a foreign heartbeat threading through his pulse. Serenya was waking somewhere in the Citadel’s depths, her consciousness stirring like a flame catching wind. The sensation should have irritated him. Instead, it settled something restless beneath his ribs.
He forced his attention to the familiar ritual of strapping on plate and mail. Dark steel carved with House Obsidian’s crest, each piece fitted to accommodate the violence his body was designed for. But his hands moved faster than usual, securing buckles and testing joints with an efficiency that had nothing to do with his eagerness for battle.
The truth sat like a stone in his throat. He wanted to see her again. Wanted to watch that sharp mouth form words designed to cut him down to size. Wanted to feel the way his curse quieted when she was near—not because it made him a better weapon, but because it reminded him he might still be something more than one.
Within minutes, he was crossing the Citadel’s courtyard toward the outer gates, telling himself he was simply being punctual. Professional. Ready to complete the mission.
The lie crumbled the moment she appeared.
Kyr escorted her through the morning mist that clung to Cinderhollow’s volcanic heat, and Vaelrik felt the binding sigil flare in response to her proximity. She looked like she hadn’t slept—dark circles beneath green eyes that still burned with yesterday’s fury, her red hair braided with the same runic thread but looser now, as if exhaustion had softened her usual precision.
“Good morning,” he said when she reached the gates.
Her gaze cut to him like a blade finding its mark. “Is it?”
The retort hit him with unexpected force. Not the words themselves, but the way she delivered them—tired defiance wrapped around a core of steel that hadn’t bent despite everything the Council had done to her. Despite being bound to a cursed dragon against her will.
He admired that more than she could know.
“We’d better get a move on,” Kyr interjected, his tone suggesting he’d rather be anywhere else than mediating between a witch and the Council’s most dangerous asset.
As they crossed the Citadel’s outer gates, corruption magic hit Vaelrik’s senses like a physical blow. The metallic sweetness of rot rode the wind from the direction of the Weeping March, threading through the humid air with a wrongness that made his shadowfire stir in recognition.
This wasn’t a random plague. This was an invitation.
The countryside stretched before them in shades of gray and green, but as they approached the marsh proper, the landscape began to twist. Humidity clung to his skin like fever, thickening the air until each breath felt weighted. Beneath it all pulsed the unmistakable signature of Gloamrot—but older now, colder, and disturbingly organized.
Fog crawled over the cracked road with unnatural density, frigid despite the marsh’s warmth. Within the mist, shapes writhed—humanoid silhouettes warped into impossible geometries. Limbs bending at extreme angles. Faces blurred as if sketched by an unsteady hand.
His curse throbbed in response, a sick recognition spreading under his skin. The shadowfire knew this corruption. Had been a part of it before, in the depths of Vornak. Whatever commanded this plague recognized him in return.
“Serenya,” Kyr’s voice cut through his growing unease, sharp with command. “Start planting your barrier sigils. We need containment before we advance.”
The order hit Vaelrik like cold water. Every instinct in his body recoiled at the thought of her moving closer to the corruption, placing herself between the writhing shadows and whatever slim safety the perimeter offered.
No.The word clawed up his throat, demanding voice. He wanted to countermand Kyr’s order, to position himself as a shield between her and anything that might reach for her with twisted fingers.
But orders were orders. The Council’s will flowing through Kyr’s mouth. And Vaelrik had been trained too well to break that command—even when every fiber of his being screamed against it. He bit his tongue until he tasted copper.
Serenya moved forward without hesitation, dropping to one knee in the mud with practiced precision. Her lumen sigils began to bloom—white-gold runes carved into the earth with strokes that spoke of years spent fighting corruption exactly like this. Each symbol ignited as she completed it, casting clean light that cut through the fog like a blade.
