Page 10

Chapter Ten

V ael’Zhur lifted his head from the wreckage, muscles quaking, breath sawing ragged through fanged teeth.

The castle was in ruins. His castle. Stone shattered, tapestries burned, windows gone to shards and smoke. The great hall that once echoed with forgotten music now reeked of blood, ash, and sorrow. His claws were slick with it. His fur singed. His body howled with the wounds of a rage he could no longer contain.

He had tried—gods, he had tried—to keep the beast chained. But the moment Ceryn disappeared, the moment he felt her betrayal echo through the orchard like a snapped string?—

He became ruin.

Marble crumbled beneath his feet. Ghosts had scattered. Even Elodia had vanished, her magic unable to soothe him. He had hunted through corridors like a storm given flesh, flung invaders from the ramparts, crushed men with his bare hands. Screams had faded. Silence had followed.

And still, the rage burned.

But now—through the red haze, something new pierced him.

Horns.

Shouts.

The pound of boots and spear shafts against the earth.

The ground trembled with their coming.

An army.

He rose to his full, monstrous height atop the parapet, smoke coiling around him, golden fur streaked with blood and soot. His eyes blazed as he looked down.

And saw him.

Aldaric. The architect of all this ruin. The coward. The leech. The man who used Ceryn to infiltrate what centuries of force and deceit had never broken.

Fucking bastard.

So this was the endgame. Weaken the beast with grief. Blind him with heartbreak. Then strike with steel.

Let them come. Let them all come. They would die like the rest.

He stepped forward on the ruined stone ledge, wind clawing at his mane. His roar split the sky—a sound of ancient wrath, wild and unbound. Below, men stumbled, some breaking rank. Even from this distance, he saw the whites of their eyes, smelled the stink of their terror.

But Aldaric stood at the rear, untouched. Commanding. Watching.

Of course. He never led. Only followed. Always from the shadows.

“Coward,” Vael’Zhur growled, voice booming across the clearing.

His claws dug into the crumbling stone.

“If you want the orchard, come claim it. If you want the fruit, face me alone. You want to be me?” His voice dropped to a snarl. “Then fight me. Unless you fear what you’ll become.”

Aldaric’s lips curled into a smirk. And then, to Vael’Zhur’s surprise, he stepped forward.

The army parted for him like reeds before a blade. He wore black armor chased with crimson and silver, too pristine, too ceremonial. A dagger gleamed at his hip, bone-handled and curved. The air around him shimmered with some kind of charm, blood magic old and bitter.

“I accept,” Aldaric called up. “But not as a coward. Not as a man.”

His eyes glinted.

“I’ve tasted the fruit.”

Vael’Zhur stilled. Something cold and ancient slid down his spine.

“We meet on even ground now,” Aldaric said. “Beast to beast.”

The warlord climbed the fractured stair of the gatehouse as if it were his throne. And then they met—on the shattered stone, beneath the broken sky.

Vael’Zhur lunged first.

Steel rang against claw. Magic clashed with muscle. Aldaric was fast—unnaturally so. The fruit had changed him. Strength bloomed in his limbs, his strikes precise and brutal. They tore through the wreckage of the castle, breaking columns and splintering stone, shaking the bones of the earth.

But Aldaric wasn’t just strong—he was prepared.

His dagger flashed once. Vael’Zhur blocked it. Twice. Then—A slash. Too fast to see. Too late to avoid. It kissed his side. The pain was instant. Not deep. But searing. Wrong.

He staggered, limbs faltering. His vision swam.

“Poison,” he rasped, clawing at the wound.

Aldaric grinned. “A gift from my mother. A distillation of Sylaine’s final breath.”

The witch. The curse. The bloodline.

“You wear her rage like a crown,” Vael’Zhur growled.

“And you wear her curse like a shackle,” Aldaric shot back. “But not for long.”

Vael’Zhur roared and struck again, but the poison was working fast. His limbs grew heavy. The strength that had carried him through centuries began to falter. He fell to one knee, claws gouging the rubble, trying to stay upright.

Aldaric raised the dagger, savoring it. “The orchard dies with you.”

Then—

A cry. Behind them.

“No. It dies with you, Aladar.”

Aldaric froze. His name. His true name. Spoken aloud. Spoken with knowledge. With intention.

He turned, face blanching—And Ceryn was there. Behind him.

The dagger plunged through his back, straight into his heart.

His eyes widened. “How?—?”

“You should never have used me,” she said, her voice trembling with fury. “You should never have touched my family.”

She twisted the blade.

“And you should never have hidden your name.”

Light burst from the wound—silver and white, cracking through him like a shattering mirror. Aldaric—Aladar—screamed. The sound was wrong, ancient, full of unraveling magic. His body bowed inward, collapsing beneath the weight of his truth. His name. His end.

Then he was gone.

Ash. Bone. Smoke. Nothing.

Ceryn stood alone in the aftermath, the cursed dagger clutched in her shaking hand.

Vael’Zhur collapsed fully now, weakened, panting. The rage burned dimmer, the beast quieted.

And in the silence that followed, he whispered, broken and in awe?—

“You remembered.”

* * *

C eryn dropped the dagger.

It hit the stone with a soft clatter, its power spent, its curse fulfilled.

Aldaric—or rather, Aladar—was gone. The air no longer felt suffocating with blood magic. The orchard, the castle, the world itself seemed to take a trembling breath.

And at the center of it all—Vael’Zhur lay broken.

He had fallen hard, the weight of battle and poison dragging his massive body to the fractured stones. Blood darkened the golden fur at his side. His breathing came in ragged shudders, and yet… his eyes were open.

Not mad. Not monstrous.

Just tired.

Ceryn dropped to her knees beside him, cradling his head in her lap, her hands trembling as they cupped his jaw.

“Auren,” she whispered. “Please… stay.”

He blinked slowly, golden eyes flickering. The slitted pupils had softened, no longer wild with rage.

“Ceryn...” His voice was hoarse, ruined from roaring. “You came back.”

“I never left you. Not really.”

She pressed her forehead to his, uncaring of the blood, the soot, the fur. Her fingers stroked his mane, tangled and scorched. He was immense, too large for the moment, too wild for the fragile tenderness she poured into him—but still, she held him like something sacred.

“I love you,” she said, voice barely a breath. “I love all of you. The man, the beast, the broken places. You are not a curse to me. You are the only truth I’ve ever known.”

A shudder rippled through him, deep and visceral.

Something shifted inside his chest—a loosening. The red haze that had gripped his mind like claws began to peel away. The poison that pulsed through his limbs dulled, not by antidote, but by her words, her voice, the way her hands touched him with reverence instead of fear.

The orchard responded.

Its light flickered, and then calmed. Trees ceased their trembling. The silverfruit no longer pulsed with fury, but glowed soft and steady. Like a heartbeat. Like hope.

He closed his eyes. For the first time in centuries, clarity returned.

And with it—peace.

“The madness…” he rasped. “It’s slipping away.”

She kissed his brow, fierce and sure. “Then let it go. I’ll hold the rest of you.”

A low sound, not quite a sob, escaped him. One of his massive arms came around her, claws retracted, trembling slightly as he pulled her into him, holding her like a lifeline. She pressed her hand to the wound at his side, and the orchard shimmered again, a soft exhale of magic that sealed the worst of the poison’s damage.

He wasn’t human. He would never be again. But he was whole.

The sound of boots on stone echoed behind them.

Ceryn turned, instinctively shielding Vael’Zhur with her body—though she had no strength left to protect anyone.

But it was Rorik.

He entered the space with slow, reverent steps, his dark armor stained from the skirmish, his face drawn with awe. He took in the scene—the Beast cradled in the arms of the woman who had undone a tyrant.

And then—Rorik dropped to one knee. Head bowed. Fist to heart.

“My sword is yours,” he said, voice steady. “My loyalty, freely given.”

Vael’Zhur stirred, shifting just enough to see the man kneeling before him.

“I don’t want your oath,” he said, quiet but firm.

Rorik looked up, startled.

Vael’Zhur’s voice deepened, strong again.

“You’ve served enough masters. Too many who did not deserve you.”

Silence fell like dust around them.

Then Rorik’s expression broke, cracked open with something Ceryn didn’t expect—relief.

“Then let me choose one who does,” he said softly. “One who remembers what it means to protect, not rule. I would be honored to serve a creature who fought to stay kind… even when the world called him monster.”

Vael’Zhur—Auren—studied him. Then nodded once.

“Not as a subject,” he said. “As an ally.”

Rorik bowed his head again. “As you wish… my king.”

Ceryn leaned down, brushing her lips across Vael’Zhur’s brow.

“Not a beast,” she whispered. “Never again.”