Alarik.
His name was a curse that echoed behind Kael’s teeth. The dreams burned in his mind like a brand. Every word Maris had written, every whispered mention of a figure too beautiful —too knowing —had broken something open inside him.
The bastard had been in her dreams.
Had wormed his way past every ward, every shadow, every illusion Kael had cloaked her in. Left behind riddles and questions. Touched her mind. And Kael had done nothing —he had been blind. Drowning in want when he should have been watching.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He was known as the most powerful magic wielder in Achyron and he would remind Alarik of that fact.
The first patrol of Alarik’s patrol at the border fort barely had time to scream. He hit them like a falling star.
Shadow poured from his body like spilled ink, thick and venomous. He didn’t need a blade, his power was enough. He tore through them with nothing but his hands, shadows solidifying into spears and razors and hungry mouths of black flame. The forest ignited behind him. Crimson fire licked the cursed trees, and the skies howled with fury as the Veil thinned around his rage. Nightmares shrieked in the distance, but none dared approach the storm that was Kael.
He wasn’t here for prisoners.
He wasn’t here for mercy.
He was here for blood.
A dozen more fell. A camp of Calanthe’s border scum, their faces painted in the soft white and silver of Alarik’s false peace. One tried to run. Kael didn’t even lift a hand —his shadows ripped the man in half mid-step, leaving ash where flesh should be.
He would send a message. Loud. Clear.
You do not touch what is mine.
The night reeked of copper and fire.
Kael stood ankle-deep in the bodies of Alarik’s men, shadows coiling like smoke serpents around his limbs. Blood soaked his tunic, speckled his cheeks like war paint, but he wantedmore. His heart was thunder in his ears. His vision, black-edged. This wasn’t strategy. This was vengeance. This was rage given form.
He’d always been ruthless. But this was something born in the marrow of gods. A final scream cracked through the trees, then silence. Not even the cursed creatures of the borderlands dared answer it. Kael exhaled slowly, shadows slinking back into his skin like lovers sated. His magic didn’t settle, it seethed, angry that its work was not yet done.
He moved through the smoldering ruins of the outpost, stepping over corpses, ignoring the twitch of severed limbs. A regal tent at the far end of the camp still stood, it bore the crest of Calanthe, a Basilisk — though one side had half-collapsed from heat the winged serpent was visibly etched into the still standing side. Inside, something caught his eye.
Troves of letters. The sight made Kael’s blood chill.
Neat, well-preserved scrolls. Written not in the flowing hand of Calanthe’s courtiers, but with the sharp, spidery script of a spy trained to move between kingdoms. Notes in multiple inks. Updates. Movements. Observations.
Her name.
Maris.
His fist clenched around the paper before he could even finish reading it.
The girl is showing signs of awakening. The blood in her is ancient. She is closer to it than even Kael seems to realize. I have not yet made contact, but the seer was right. She dreams strangely now… the magic stirs.
There was more.
He watches her closely. Possessive. Obsessive. If he loses her, we may undo the hold he has over his court. Their bond is volatile. Breakable.
Kael’s vision darkened. The page crumpled to ash in his palm.
It had been orchestrated.
Alarik had been waiting for him to bind himself to her. Watching from across the borderlands edge, seeding doubts, planting dreams. And Kael had walked into it like a beast to slaughter. He’d let his walls fall. Let Maris curl into his bed, his heart. And now they would use her to destroy him.
Not if he tore them apart first.
But just as he turned to burn the camp to the ground, a flicker of movement caught his eye, behind the tent’s sagging wall. A glimmer of faelight magic, too delicate for the brutish men who’d guarded this place.
