“Move,” the oark snarls, lifting the whip again, “or the next one marks that pretty face of yours.”
“No,” I say, my voice as steady as steel, giving him nothing.
He raises the lash a third time.
But before it can fall—
“Stop.”
The word cuts through the courtyard—low and lethal, sharp enough to still the air itself.
The oark freezes.
I turn.
Keiren strides into the arena, shadows clinging to him like a living thing. Power rolls off him in cold, absolute waves. His sapphire gaze locks onto the guard, burning so fiercely the whip slips from the oark’s fingers and hits the mud with a dull clatter.
“You dare,” Keiren says quietly, “touch what belongs to me?”
“M-my liege…” The oark collapses into the mud, thick fingers clawing at the ground as he bows low. “Mercy, Your Grace. Mercy—”
Keiren seizes the creature by the throat and hauls him upright with one arm.
Up close, the oark is massive—nearly six feet of knotted muscle and tusked brutality—yet Keiren lifts him as if he weighs nothing at all.
“Oh, you knew exactly what you were doing,” Keiren says, voice cold with fury. “And you enjoyed it.”
The guard’s boots kick uselessly in the air, hands scrabbling at Keiren’s wrist as his face purples.
“My lord—please—”
Keiren’s grip tightens.
I move without thinking, my voice pleading. “Keiren…”
His eyes flick to me—sharp, burning.
“He hurt you,” he snarls. “He will never lay hands on anyone again.”
“I know,” I say, stepping closer. “And he deserves punishment—but not this. Please.”
For a heartbeat, I’m certain Keiren will kill him.
Then his jaw clenches.
Slowly, he releases the oark.
The creature collapses into the mud, coughing and sobbing.
“Take him to the dungeons,” Keiren orders, and his other guards rush forward, dragging away what was moments ago a raging threat, now nothing but a cowering mess.
Silence falls.
Keiren turns to me, his gaze dropping immediately to my arm, my torn trousers. His jaw tightens.
“You’re hurt,” he says. “Come with me.”
“I’m fine.”
