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39

VEYLAN

T he abandoned house reeks of old wood, damp stone, and secrets best left unspoken.

I sit on the edge of a worn-out cot, fingers pressing against the wound at my side. The bleeding has slowed, but every breath still feels like I’ve swallowed broken glass. Sera watches from across the dimly lit room, her arms crossed, eyes sharper than they have ever been.

“You’re injured.”

It isn’t a question. It’s an accusation.

I exhale slowly. “I’ve had worse.”

She takes a step closer. I feel it more than I see it. The shift in the room. The gap between us—dangerously thin.

“You’re lying.”

I smirk, teeth flashing in the candlelight. “I always do.”

Sera moves so fast I barely register it. She kneels in front of me, hands pushing mine away, fingers pressing against my side. A spark. A shift. Something pulses in her touch, something neither of us understands.

I catch her wrist. Hard. “Don’t.”

Her lips part. The candle’s glow dances in her eyes. “You have never been this vulnerable, have you?”

I should snap at her. Should shove her away. Instead, I do something worse.

I let her touch me.

She presses her palm against my chest, skin against skin. My jaw clenches. A breath slips between my teeth, sharp and unforgiving.

Magic stirs between us. A warmth, a pull, an unraveling.

She feels it too. Her fingers tremble.

She moves closer.

I should stop her. I don’t.

Her lips are inches away. The moment thickens then he tension snaps.

I grab her. Hard. Drag her onto my lap, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her waist. This is not possession. Not war.

This is something else.

She gasps, but she doesn’t pull away.

She leans in.

The kiss is brutal. Desperate. A clash of teeth, heat, and hunger.

She bites back.

I groan, tightening my grip. The cot creaks beneath us, my body pressing hers into the thin mattress.

This isn’t enough. I want more.

I need?—

A sound interrupts the moment. Too sharp and too close, and it doesn’t belong to either of us.

My dagger is in my hand before the realization fully hits.

Sera freezes just seconds before the door explodes inward.

Bounty hunters.

Sent by Hazeran.

Before the enemy can use his weapon to attack, I’m already moving, faster than thought, it’s more of instinct rather than a conscious reaction. My blade sings through the air, slicing clean through flesh and cartilage. His eyes go wide as blood erupts from his throat in a violent spray, painting our surroundings red. He collapses in a twitching heap at my feet before his scream ever leaves his mouth.

The second one charges Sera. A mistake.

She doesn’t hesitate.

She sings.

The hunter stops mid-step. Veins blacken. His scream never leaves his lips. His body hits the ground—lifeless.

Sera stares at her hands. Her breath is ragged. She killed again.

I don’t give her time to process it.

“Move.”

We tear through the narrow alleyways, shadows swallowing us whole. Behind us, the remaining bounty hunters give chase, their footsteps hammering against the wet stone.

We reach the main road. The crowd splinters as we break through—hooded figures, merchants, drunken soldiers.

I grab Sera’s hand, yanking her into a side street. Too exposed. Too open.

We need to disappear.

I spin toward her. “Can you do it again?”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“Your voice. Use it. Make them turn on each other.”

She hesitates. Fear. Guilt. For what she has done.

“Sera.”

She looks at me.

And then, she sings.

The bounty hunters stagger. Their weapons lower, hands trembling. One of them turns on his own, driving a dagger deep into his comrade’s ribs.

A massacre. Their own hands.

Sera stops with a shudder.

I don’t hesitate. I pull her away.

We slip into the shadows. Gone before the last body falls.