He just looks at me—like he’s searching for something—and then he nods.
Just once.
I don’t realize how shocking that is until much later.
Not until the coach arrives. Or maybe it simply appears?
All I know is one minute I am standing outside the keep, a small army of servants and guards surrounds us, and the next it just appears in a cloud of flames and smoke.
The vehicle is massive.
Not elegant like a royal carriage—no delicate trim or glittering polish.
This is a war-wagon disguised as transport, all dark obsidian plates and glowing ward-runes etched along the side.
And the beasts that pull it?
Not horses. Not exactly.
Though there is a resemblance.
If horses and Greek mythology had a fiery baby.
Four immense creatures—like massive Clydesdales with jet black coats—snort sparks with every breath, their manes literal tongues of fire, rippling and alive.
Their hooves struck the red-black earth with echoing force, each impact sending ripples of flame across the rust-colored plain.
They are terrible. Frightening.
Beautiful.
As is the world I find myself in.
And I am very aware that I have absolutely no business being here, or riding in a chariot drawn by such mythical beasts.
But Thorne doesn’t blink. He doesn’t question it.
He merely holds out his hand to help me up, as if this were a ride in Central Park and not a journey across the scorched wilds of a world in danger.
“I honestly didn’t think you’d let me come,” I admit once we were inside, the heavy doors shutting behind us with a hiss of enchanted steel.
“I wouldn’t,” he replies.
I turn to look at him. “Then why did you?”
His eyes flick toward mine, then back out the window, where the fantasy savannah-like terrain unfurls in waves of cracked burgundy to black soil and towering, petrified trees that looked as though they’d once been struck by lightning and never stopped burning.
“You asked me and I could not refuse you,” he says simply.
My breath caught.
That is not a normal answer for a Demon Lord of Fire.
Not for him.
Not for Thorne.
“You’re serious.”
