‘Good. We’re not far now.’ He turned away, jaw tightening for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. ‘Why are you making a new face?’ he asked, his tone quiet but curious. ‘You glamoured yourself as a wyverian when we first met at my camp, can’t you just use that one again?’
Dawn paused, her hands stilled mid-air. ‘Oh… yes. I must have forgotten.’ She offered a casual shrug, then continued walking as though it meant nothing. ‘Well, too late now. I might as well carry on with this one.’
Kai’s dark eyes narrowed, sharp as blades. He knew she was lying, could feel the falsehood slip from her tongue like smoke. But he said nothing.
Because deep down, he suspected the truth. She had done it deliberately. She needed the hours, the quiet stretch of time, to prepare herself not just physically, but emotionally. To build a new mask was not merely a task of magic, but one of grief.
Dawn feared hiding her true face. Whatever had happened to her had carved scars far beneath the skin, wounds Kai now saw, not with his eyes, but with his heart.
So he would not press her. He would let her shape her illusion, piece by piece, and mourn what it meant to wear the features of another. Let her make her face. Let her steel her heart.
‘So this was your grand strategy, was it? Find the dragons, bring them back, and turn Hagan into ash. What do you expect us to do once we reach Kairus?’
‘That rather depends,’ she said, inspecting her nails.
‘On what?’
‘On whetherthe dragons are still there,’ she replied evenly. ‘They may have flown further south by now, to the Desert Kingdom. If so, we’ve a much longer road ahead of us.’
‘Then we may as well rest while we can.’ Kai made his way to a collection of sun-bleached rocks and chose one tall enough to cast shade, its shadow a welcome relief from the punishing glare of the sky.
‘Why are you helping me?’ she asked softly, her voice touched with something fragile. Worry, perhaps.
Kai said nothing. Instead, he unsheathed his swords, resting them against the boulder before sitting down, the stone’s heat seeping through the leather of his trousers. He watched her silently as she conjured shawls for them both—white, gauzy things that shimmered faintly with magic. Then she knelt before him, her movements sure, and gently draped one over his head. Her fingers adjusted the fabric with surprising care around his black twisted horns.
He ignored the way his muscles coiled as she leaned closer. Ignored the way her amethyst eyes shifted to his mouth, and the unfamiliar thought that crossed his mind, wondering what she might taste like.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, voice low, her hand resting now against his chest. He couldn’t remember when it had landed there.
‘Yes, you do,’ she whispered, barely audible. And then she moved away, her touch vanishing with her. Kai frowned, unsettled by his own reaction. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. She was a mission. A necessity. Nothing more.
‘We both want the same thing, commander,’ she said without looking back. ‘To stop Hagan.’
Kai gave a silent nod.
He would let her believe that was his truth. And in part, it was, of course it was. Hewanted Hagan dead. But that wasn’t the reason he stood by her side.
He helped her because he knew Dawn was keeping secrets, half-truths and silences that made trust impossible. But more than that, deeper than suspicion, was the quiet, gnawing reason he could not speak aloud: the thought of returning to his army turned his blood to ice.
How could he face them?
He had failed them all. He had let their future queen die. He had harboured a witch within the camp, hidden from every watchful eye, and allowed himself to be led astray, spirited away like a fool.
He was a disgrace.
He could not bear to meet their eyes with empty hands and hollow victories. So he would find the dragons. He would bring them back as proof, of purpose, of redemption.
He would give them something to believe in again.
Or he would not return at all.
He remained where he sat, watching as Dawn continued to weave the final threads of her glamour. At last, she declared it complete. He didn’t acknowledge the quiet sorrow that lingered in her eyes as she allowed her true face to fade, replacing it with that of a wyverian woman. Her features shifted—sharper, more angular, her form growing taller, more willowy, like the women of his own kin. Her clothing transformed too, black and austere, draped in the familiar style of his homeland.
It should have offered him some sense of comfort, some illusion of familiarity. And yet, as always, her transformation unsettled him. Each time she cloaked herself in someone else’s skin, he felt the same quiet ache, the urge to strip the glamour away and see her again. Her real face. Her sharp, knowing stare that laid him bare with every glance. Those purpleeyes that spoke before her lips ever did. That mouth, so often armed with truth, with barbed honesty, now hidden behind a stranger’s guise.
‘Let’s go,’ she said. Even her voice had altered, lilting and refined, yet it grated against him like sand in a wound.
He stiffened at the sound, foreign and cold.
