TheFireDemonsmiles at us, a knowing smile—as though he’s already seen how this ends and is simply waiting for us to catch up.
“Come,” he says, his voice a low, silken murmur that seems to curl through the air like smoke.“Ifyou wish to earn your prize, we must prepare you properly.”
I hesitate.EveryinstinctIhave tells me to turn around—to run back out into the barren wastelands, to take my chances with thirst and heat and hunger rather than stay here under that burning, watchful gaze.
But the ache inside me flares again, hot and insistent, curling low in my belly and stealing the breath from my lungs.
Goddess…Ican’t turn away and run—not whenIfeel likeI’mcoming apart from the inside.
I glance atTheron.Hisjaw is tight, his shoulders rigid, his tarnished silver eyes fixed on the demon with open distrust.Butwhen he looks at me, something softens—just for a moment.
“It’s all right, baby—I’llbe with you,” he says.”
I feel a twinge of relief—or at least a lessening of fear as he takes my hand and entwines our fingers in the old familiar way.
“All right let’s go then,”Isay, beforeIcan lose my nerve.
TheFireDemon’ssmile deepens.
“Excellent.Thisway, if you please.”
He turns and glides toward a doorway at the far end of the room, not quite walking, not quite floating—his flames trailing behind him in soft, flickering ribbons that leave no smoke or ash, only heat—oppressive, stifling heat.
Theron’s fingers close more tightly around mine.
“Elowen…” he murmurs.
I squeeze his hand.
“I know,”Iwhisper.“Butwe have to do this.”
His grip tightens, like he wants to pull me back—like he wants to drag me out of here and never look back.
But he doesn’t.Helets me pull him forward, towards the fate we have chosen.
Together, we follow the demon.
54
ELOWEN
The room he leads us into is…not whatIexpected.
It isn’t a bedchamber—there’s no bed, no soft linens, no sense of comfort or privacy.
Instead, it feels like a ritual space.
The walls are dark stone, polished smooth but veined faintly with something that glows deep within—like embers buried beneath the surface.Theair is thick with heat, far stronger than in the outer room, and carries a faint scent of spice and smoke that clings to the back of my throat.
Heavy drapes hang from the ceiling, sheer and gauzy, shifting slightly as if stirred by a breezeIcan’t feel.Firelightglows behind them in soft pulses, casting the entire chamber in a low, flickering amber.
At the center of the room is a chair.No…not just a chair—a throne.
It’s carved from some dark, gleaming material that looks almost like obsidian, its surface smooth and curved, the edges softened as though shaped by heat rather than tools.Thereare no arms and the seat is wide—far wider than it needs to be for one person—and cushioned in deep red velvet that seems to drink in the light.
It’s obviously meant for two.
The realization sends a flush of heat rushing through me that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
