“It doesn’t matter.” Ronan was already walking for the door, heat rolling off him in steady waves as flame-shadow crawled along the walls. “I don’t trust you.” He didn’t spare Callum a glance. “It’s been a pleasure. Do not pursue me again.”
Callum’s reply dropped like an executioner’s blade. “King Obrann has the sword of Ryuu.”
Ronan stopped. Entirely. A single breath locked in his lungs.
Because Callum had just admitted he had—
“Your lost heirloom,” Callum continued, quietly.
Ronan turned, fists clenched until the bones strained. The green in his eyes held for a beat, then burned into a molten gold. “How…did he come bythat?”
An unwanted ache grew in his gut, betrayal flaying him raw at the memory offeelingit vanish. That invisible tug against his soul, that screamed to be followed. And now, that same pull again.
Calling to him like a beacon.
His sword waking and warning, promising a war.
Callum held his stare, saying nothing.
Elysian moved first, charging forward with a snarl, a blur of winter’s fury. “Thief.”
Callum only lifted a hand to the back of his neck, calm as he eased back to the table, fingers resting on the chair’s rail. “I know where it’s kept. I can get past the wards.”
Ronan’s lip curled, a slow, dangerous thing. “Prove it.”
Callum stepped around the chair cautiously.
“What is it?” Ronan asked, arching a scarred brow. “Afraid I’ll bite?”
“Let’s not pretend this is about teeth,” Callum’s throat bobbed. “If I was afraid of you, I wouldn’t have come alone.”
“Men who come alone usually have a reason.”
His jaw flexed, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek. “Some reasons don’t belong in other’s mouths.”
Ronan rolled his sleeves past his forearms, the movement slow, unhurried, showcasing the heir mark vivid against the faded ink along his skin.
“Whatever you’re guarding,” grinning, he crept forward, “it’s already loud.”
Color drained from Callum’s face, freckles standing out like spilled embers across snow.
Ronan chuckled. “Should we cool the room for you?” He dragged a finger along the sweat slicking his neck, the rivulets folding into every hard line of muscle. “Flame runs in both our veins. Theatrics won’t impress me.”
A flicker of hesitation, then Callum nodded. The heat eased, retreating like a beast being called off, leaving the air heavy but bearable.
He lifted a hand toward Ronan. “May I?”
A snap of Ronan’s wrist granted permission. He didn’t bother to guard himself.
Stones, sorcerers, kings, none had ever brought Ronan D’Vyre to his knees.
“I’ll need your shields lowered,” Callum said, clearing his throat. “If they’re up, what I show you won’t break through.”
From the corner, Elysian stiffened. “Ronan—” But Ronan had already extended his hand.
Callum guided Ronan’s palm to the center of his brow with the reverence of a man touching a blade’s edge. “It may feel intrusive.”
Ronan’s jaw slid tight from anticipation. “Do it.”
