I am. Gods, I am. I’m terrified of what I’m becoming, of what I’m allowing, of the way my defenses crumble in the face of his shattering honesty.
“I’m terrified,” I admit. “But not of you.”
He closes his eyes. Inhales. When he opens them again, the liquid fire has banked to steady ember-gold. His grip on my hand loosens. The hand in my hair gentles.
“We should finish the analysis.” His voice is still rough, but controlled now. “The cascade won’t stop itself.”
I rise on my toes and press a kiss to the corner of his jaw.
His entire body goes rigid. The air between us ignites—a visible shimmer of heat that warps the firelight around us.
“For luck,” I murmur against his skin. “In case the cascade closes faster than we expect.”
Then I step back, turn away, and walk to the map table with my heart hammering and my magic singing.
Behind me, Izan makes a sound that might be laughter or might be despair. I don’t look back to see which.
FIFTEEN
IZAN
The first cultist dies before he finishes reaching for his weapon.
My claws tear through his throat in a spray of arterial red, and I’m already moving to the next target. The ritual site is a converted forge in the lower districts, reeking of blood magic and old iron.
We strike a site that Alerie says has intel that we need. A site that has been activated recently and needs to becleaned.
Three more cultists. Two by the altar, still chanting over their interrupted ritual. One scrambles for the back exit, knocking over shelves of component materials in his haste.
I don’t let any of them reach it.
The chanting ones die mid-syllable, dragonfire consuming their borrowed authority before they can complete whatever working they’d started. The runner makes it six steps before my claws find the soft tissue between his shoulder blades.
Power builds in my core, and I release it in controlled bursts that strip away their stolen strength. The blood-oath enhancements shatter. The cultists stumble, suddenly human, suddenly vulnerable.
I kill them with efficiency born of centuries of practice.
When it’s done, I stand in the center of the forge, cataloging the evidence. The channels in the floor don’t radiate outward toward the surrounding district—they converge inward, toward a focal point that should contain someone.
Her.
My hands clench before I consciously register the implication.
They were building containment. For a witch. For a specific witch.
The rage that surges through me isn’t strategic. It’s primal. Volcanic. I tear the altar apart with my bare hands, obsidian claws rending enchanted stone until nothing remains but rubble and ash. The violence doesn’t satisfy the fury scorching through my ribs. Nothing will satisfy it except finding every person who participated in this cell and reducing them to cinders.
She’s safe,I remind myself.In the stronghold. Behind wards. Surrounded by guards.
The logic does nothing to calm the dragon screaming beneath my skin.
“Enforcer.” Corveth emerges from the shadows near the entrance, expression carefully neutral. Blood spatters his armor—not his own—and ash grays his dark hair. “The perimeter is secure. No witnesses.”
I wipe blood from my claws against a dead cultist’s robes. “Begin the extraction protocols. I want everything they have—documents, samples, any intelligence we can recover.”
“And the bodies?”
“Burn them. Leave enough to send a message.”
