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He must sense the shift in my posture. Carefully, he shifts us so we’re semi-upright, leaning against the column.

Our clothes are a tangled mess on the dusty ground.

He retrieves his coat, draping it over my exposed skin, then fetches a rag from his pouch.

Gently, he presses it to the gash on my leg. I bite my lip as fresh pain flares.

“Let me see,” he murmurs. He tears another strip from his ruined shirt, forming a tighter bandage. My eyes blur with fresh tears—pain and an overwhelming swirl of gratitude for this fleeting tenderness.

“Thank you,” I whisper, leaning my head on the stone. My body still trembles from the aftermath of that raw coupling. My chest feels hollow. “I hate that I can’t hate you.”

He exhales, head bowing as he ties the bandage. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’ll earn it if I can.” He lifts his gaze, black eyes glistening. “For now, we survive. That’s all that matters.”

I nod, letting my fingers brush the side of his face. A bruise colors his jawline. My heart clenches with the reminder that this monstrous siege took everything from us—trust, illusions, alliances. All we have left is each other, ironically. The catacomb hush throbs with unspoken emotion.

Footsteps echo in a distant tunnel. We freeze, instincts flaring. Slowly, Vaelorian tugs his coat around me more securely, then stands, retrieving his sword. I struggle to my feet, ignoring the stab of agony, and retrieve my dagger. Our eyes meet in silent agreement: we can’t stay here.

He offers me his arm. I hesitate a moment, recalling how he once left me behind in the swirling illusions. But something in his gaze anchors me. I take his arm, leaning on him for support, ignoring the swirl of bitterness that tries to reassert itself.

We snuff the lantern, letting our half-Vrakken and Vrakken night vision adjust. Darkness envelops us, but we sense each other’s warmth.

My leg throbs, and my lips still tingle from his desperate kiss.

My cheeks burn, recalling how violently we collided in this hidden crypt, how it felt to yield to the collision of anger and passion.

A part of me regrets nothing. Another part aches with confusion about what comes next.

We move through the catacomb corridors, steps echoing in the gloom.

Vaelorian leads, wings half-furled, scanning for illusions or hidden foes.

Each breath rasps in my throat. My entire body feels battered—both from the fight and from the intensity of what we just shared.

Yet a flicker of grim determination lights my chest. If we reach the fortress interior, maybe we can slip away or regroup with any surviving loyalists. The chaos above might still rage.

I speak softly, my voice carrying in the hush. “What’s left of House Draeven?”

He tenses, jaw clenching. “We hold the keep, but large sections are lost. The Council is scattered; many died. My mother tries to salvage what forces remain. The dark elves have a foothold, aided by traitors from within.”

My stomach twists at the memory of Helrath dying. “Is Helrath…?”

Vaelorian’s face contorts with sorrow. “Gone. Killed by Mahir’s treachery.” His voice turns hoarse. “I saw him fall. Couldn’t save him. I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes, mourning the warrior who believed in me. My fury at the world ignites anew. “Then we avenge him,” I whisper. “Mahir, the Council, or the dark elves—whoever’s responsible, we make them pay.”

Vaelorian’s wings rustle in agreement. “We will. First, we survive.” He guides me down a sloping passage, the catacomb walls narrowing.

Our steps stir dust from the ancient bones embedded in the alcoves.

My skin crawls, imagining the centuries of Vrakken entombed here, unaware of the cataclysm above.

After a few turns, the tunnel widens into a small crypt chamber. Vaelorian halts, pressing a hand to the wall. “There should be a hidden passage leading up. My father once mentioned it—a route to the old armory.” He taps on the stones, listening for hollows.

I watch warily, the dagger clutched in my good hand.

My leg throbs, but the bandage holds. My thoughts drift to the fierce intimacy we shared only minutes ago.

My cheeks flame with equal parts shame and raw satisfaction.

My entire life has been shaped by men wanting my body as a commodity, yet with him—it’s different, even if he’s lied before.

The heartbreak remains, but the pull between us refuses to vanish.

He finds a loose stone, prying it free with a grunt. A hidden lever reveals itself, and he yanks it. With a groan, part of the wall slides open, stale air pouring in. A cramped staircase looms beyond.

We share a glance. He reaches for my hand, but I stiffen. My anger simmers, refusing to vanish with a single desperate coupling. “Let’s just go,” I say, pushing past him carefully. My wound protests, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

He sighs, nodding, allowing me space. “I’ll follow you. Slow down if your leg hurts.”

I grit my teeth, scaling the steps. Each stride is agony, but the smoldering desire and heartbreak in my chest keep me upright.

I won’t appear weak. The corridor spirals upward, the air warming slightly.

Faint echoes of distant combat reach my ears, reminding me the siege might still rage.

Or maybe it’s calm, the fortress fully fallen. Fear grips me.

At last, we reach a small door. Vaelorian eases it open a crack, peering into the gloom.

Then he pushes it wider, revealing a dust-laden storeroom of sorts—old racks of rusted weapons, collapsed shelves.

We step inside. The air stinks of old leather and damp stone, less pungent than the catacombs but no less forlorn.

He releases a breath. “This is the old armory, near the keep’s sublevel. If the keep still stands, we might find an exit or defenders.”

My chest aches at the thought of more fighting. My limbs feel leaden with exhaustion. Yet we have no choice. I lean against the wall, exhaling carefully. “I’m so tired,” I murmur.

His gaze softens. He brushes a knuckle across my cheek, stirring a swirl of tenderness that clashes with my anger. “We can rest for a moment, but not long. The dark elves might be scouring these corridors.”

I nod, sliding down to sit on the floor. My leg throbs relentlessly, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. He crouches beside me, removing the makeshift bandage to check the wound. I grunt at the pain. He frowns at the sluggishly bleeding gash.

“We need to clean this properly,” he mutters, rummaging in his belt pouch. He finds a small vial of antiseptic, likely from the fortress stores, and douses a cloth. “Hold still.”

I grimace, leaning my head back, tears springing anew at the sting of disinfectant. “It feels like a thousand needles.”

He murmurs a word of apology. The closeness, the gentleness of his hands as he rebandages me, triggers conflicting surges of warmth and fury.

My rational mind screams I shouldn’t let him care for me after what he’s done.

My heart counters that I just let him intimately claim me in the catacombs.

Emotions twist, so raw it’s almost painful.

He finishes wrapping my leg, checking the tension. “Better?”

I manage a nod. “It’ll do.” Silence drags between us. The flicker of a torch in the hallway beyond plays over the racks of old weaponry, casting eerie shadows. I stare at him, voice trembling. “What if I can’t trust you again?”

His face falls, eyes haunted. “Then I’ll fight for your trust. I know I can’t erase the betrayal you felt. But please believe I’d give my life before letting them hurt you.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You almost let them. Twice.” My words are softer, laced with sorrow rather than pure rage.

He touches my chin gently, guiding my gaze to his. “I know. I regret it more than you can imagine. But what we shared in those catacombs… that wasn’t a lie. I’ve never felt anything so… raw.”

His admission stirs a fresh wave of emotion. I recall the heat of our bodies, the savage hunger that eclipsed everything. I can’t deny that moment was real, no matter how complicated. “I… I don’t know how to forgive you,” I whisper. “But I—there’s still a part of me that… needs you.”

He bows his head, exhaling shakily. “I’ll wait. Whatever time you need. Let’s survive first.” He stands, offering me his hand. I hesitate, then grudgingly take it, letting him pull me to my feet. My leg protests, but I grit my teeth and stand.

“Fine,” I say, wiping tears away. “We survive. Then we figure out the rest.” The catacombs, that brutal coupling, the heartbreak—it all recedes behind the immediate urgency of escaping or defending the keep. If House Draeven still stands, we might salvage enough to fight Xathien.

He helps me limp toward the armory door.

My anger remains, simmering beneath the surface, but so does that unbreakable tether that pulled us into each other’s arms. My body aches from more than wounds—it aches from the knowledge I can’t abandon him, even if I resent him.

Perhaps that’s the cruelest twist of fate: we are bound by a bond too strong to shatter, no matter how lethal our world becomes.

We push into the corridor, stepping from the gloom of the old armory into a battered hallway.

Rubble litters the floor, and a pungent stench of smoke drifts from somewhere above.

My heart squeezes at the thought that the fortress might be half in flames.

Yet we press on, side by side. I lean on his shoulder when my leg threatens to buckle, and he supports me with careful strength.

Each step, each battered breath, reaffirms that we can’t do this alone.

Ahead, the corridor slopes upward, leading toward whatever remains of the keep’s heart.

My pulse pounds with dread. The dark elves are out there, possibly rounding up survivors or butchering them.

The Council might also be waiting, ready to label me an abomination.

Betrayal could still lurk. But I have to face it.

I’m done running from the monstrous destiny my bloodline stamped on me.

Vaelorian’s hand lingers at my waist, steadying me. The memory of our frantic coupling in the catacombs flares—a vivid heat in my abdomen. My cheeks burn. What are we now? Allies? Lovers? Fools entwined in a spiral of violence?

He glances down at me, voice hushed. “We’ll get through this, together.”

I nod slowly, ignoring the storm of doubts. Because after everything—the heartbreak, the betrayal, the raw passion—my battered soul can’t bear the thought of losing him, not yet. “Then lead on,” I murmur, swallowing the ache in my throat.

He tightens his arm around me, guiding me onward through the shattered halls of House Draeven.

Outside, the war still rages, but inside, in this moment, the two of us cling to each other as if our hearts might stop if we let go.

And for the first time since the siege began, a fragile glimmer of hope threads through my terror.

If we can survive this night, maybe we can rebuild the trust shattered by betrayal. Maybe.

But first, we survive.