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Morrin snorts. "That’s not what I saw."

I glare at him, but he’s unfazed. "You’re drawn to her."

I scoff, shifting against the pillows. "She’s a siren. It’s her magic."

I go still, my grip tightening around the silk of my robe.

No.

That can’t be. I have only felt this once before. And it nearly destroyed me.

Long ago, when I was younger, more foolish, I let someone in. A man I thought understood power, understood me. A king—not the one who sits on the throne now, but his father. He was cunning, ambitious, and he knew exactly how to weave his way into my trust. We shared something I thought was real, aconnection forged in whispered secrets and quiet promises. He swore he would protect magic, protect me, that we would rule together.

And then he betrayed me.

It was a slow unraveling at first—little things. Hesitations. Questions about my power. Then, one night, the truth came to light. He never wanted me. He wanted my fire. My strength. My throne. He lured me in only to try and break me from within.

I remember the moment his blade found my side, the shock of it. The cold, calculated look in his eyes as he stood over me, believing he had won. But he underestimated what I would do to survive.

I ripped his heart from his chest and let his blood spill into the streets before his people, a lesson they would never forget.

I have not let anyone close since.

Yet now, here I am, fighting a war alongside a siren whose touch lingers longer than it should, whose voice makes something dangerous stir in me. And worst of all—I do not know if it is magic that calls me to her, or something worse.

Something real.

But the thought lingers, burrowing beneath my skin, refusing to be ignored.

Morrin watches me for a long moment before clicking his tongue. "Be careful, Nyxara. She may be bound to you, but that doesn’t mean you can control what she makes you feel."

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, willing the tension away. But it remains, thick in my veins, coiling deep in my chest. And I hate that.

Chapter

Seven

VAELA

It’s been nearly a week since I healed Nyxara, and I’m still here, which, frankly, is impressive.

I expected her to slit my throat in my sleep by now—or at the very least, toss me back into my cell and pretend I don’t exist. But instead, she’s done something far more frustrating.

She’s ignored me.

For days, I’ve wandered these endless stone halls, making myself at home in my gilded prison. I’ve studied the way the enchanted staff moves around me, noting how they hesitate slightly before entering a room I occupy, how their eyes dart toward me, calculating, wary but never outright afraid.

Smart.

Even with my powers bound, I’m still a threat, and they know it.

I run my fingers absently over the pearls sewn into my bodice, the smooth surfaces warm under my touch. I haven’t created a new one in quite some time, but perhaps that will change soon.

My lips curl.

Nyxara has been avoiding me, but I know she’s watching. She’s keeping her distance, but I feel her presence like a storm on the horizon, waiting to strike.

Good.