Izan doesn’t eat. Barely pauses his review of the intelligence reports scattered across a secondary desk in the chamber’s corner.
I eat methodically, forcing myself to chew slowly despite the tension still coiling in my stomach.
“The scholars want access to you.” His voice breaks the silence. He doesn’t look up from his reports. “The Flight’s academic division. They’ve been studying the Vireth bloodline for centuries—mostly from historical texts. A living practitioner is unprecedented.”
“I’m not a research subject.”
“No.” Now he looks up. “You’re not. Which is why I’ve denied their requests.”
I pause, a piece of bread halfway to my mouth. “You’ve denied them.”
“Repeatedly.” A hint of dark amusement flickers across his features. “They’re persistent. Academics usually are.”
“And if they go over your head? To the council?”
“Then I’ll remind the council what happens when they challenge my jurisdiction.” His gaze holds mine with that unwavering intensity. “My decision stands.”
“Then what am I?”
The question escapes before I can stop it. Dangerous ground—I know it even as the words leave my mouth. But this day, this chamber, the way my magic responds to his fire—it’s eroded my usual caution.
Izan sets down his report. Rises from his desk with deliberate movement. Crosses the chamber until he stands before me, close but not touching.
“I don’t have an answer to that.” His voice has gone quiet. “You don’t fit.”
“Neither do you.” The admission costs me more than I want to acknowledge.
I set down the bread I’ve been holding. “You terrify me. Your power, your capacity for violence, everything you represent—it should make me want to run. Every lesson I’ve ever learned says you’re dangerous.”
“I am dangerous.”
“Yes.” I don’t break eye contact. “But not in the way you should be. Not in any way that follows logic.”
The silence that follows carries mass. His eyes search my face. I recognize the impulse—I’m doing the same thing.
“Tomorrow.” His voice roughens on the word. “I’ll take you to an active node. Let you work your magic properly, identify the coordination point. We’ll end this before the Blood Regent can complete his trap.”
“And after?”
“After, we figure out what this is.” He gestures between us—a small motion that encompasses the tension and awareness. “Whatever it is. Because I’m done pretending it doesn’t exist.”
I’m alone with the floating maps and the samples of blood magic and the aftermath of a conversation that changed everything and nothing.
I spendthe night in the quarters he assigned me.
A proper bed—soft, clean, larger than any I’ve slept in since childhood. A window that looks out over Pyraeth, the city glowing in shades of orange and red far below. A bathing pool fed by hot springs, the water steaming gently in an attached chamber.
Clean clothes laid out, dark and practical, clearly chosen with function rather than display in mind.
Luxury. Or as close to it as I’ve ever experienced.
I lie in the dark and listen to the stronghold breathe. Distant sounds filter through the walls—guards changing shifts, the subtle hum of wards maintaining themselves, the creak of stone against stone.
And footsteps. Pacing. In the chamber adjacent to mine.
His chambers. Not the strategy room—his actual living space. The door he didn’t point out when he showed me the stronghold. The quarters he didn’t mention, separated from mine by a wall that suddenly feels far too thin.
He’s pacing. The same restless energy I sensed in him during our conversation, that intensity finding outlet in movement. Back and forth. Back and forth. The rhythm is uneven—stopping, starting, stopping again. A man fighting with himself.
