Page 47

47

SERA

T he world is fire.

Smoke rolls thick through the battlefield, clogging my throat, burning my lungs. Metal clashes against metal, screams split the night, and somewhere behind me, a body collapses into the mud with a sickening, wet thud.

I keep moving. I have to.

I should not be fighting beside him.

I should not be here at all.

But I am.

Veylan carves through the battlefield like a storm of steel and shadow, his sword cutting through bodies with merciless precision. His armor is slick with blood—some of it his, most of it not. He commands his forces with a voice that does not waver, each order sending soldiers scattering like a pack of well-trained hounds.

He is a warlord, a monster, a legend wrapped in darkness.

And I am nothing but a fool.

A fool for still standing at his side, for still protecting a man who would have sacrificed me.

I hold my dagger tightly, the blade warm and sticky with blood. My arms ache from the battle, my muscles scream for rest, but I force myself forward. My dress is in tatters, torn from the fight, and there is a gash along my ribs where a blade nearly found its mark.

A dark elf lunges at me, snarling.

I pivot, dodge and slash like routine clockwork.

The blade bites into his throat. Hot blood sprays across my face, but I do not flinch. I do not hesitate.

I am learning.

The battlefield is chaos, but I keep Veylan in my periphery. I rationalize myself, declaring its because I am watching for an opening to run. To escape.

But when an arrow whistles toward his unprotected side, I move without thinking.

I throw my dagger.

The arrow snaps midair. The dark elf who fired it couldn’t react fast enough before my blade buries itself in his skull.

Veylan turns. His eyes find mine.

Shock. Confusion. Something unreadable.

I expect him to ignore it, to return to his slaughter.

But he does not.

He crosses the battlefield in mere seconds, slicing through enemies like paper, and suddenly he is before me, grabbing my wrist in a bruising grip.

“Why did you do that?” His voice is rough, barely heard over the screams of war.

I jerk my arm free, breathing hard. “It was a mistake.”

His eyes flicker, but he does not argue.

Suddenly, a presence.

Cold. Ancient. Wrong.

I turn in time to see him.

A sorcerer, cloaked in flowing black robes, his hands crackling with magic. He raises them toward me, and I do not have time to move.

Power slams into me.

It feels like my body is being pulled apart, my soul being ripped from my flesh. I choke on a scream, falling to my knees.

Veylan is there in an instant, his sword swinging, but the sorcerer throws him back with a flick of his wrist.

The magic intensifies.

My body is on fire. My veins feel like they are boiling.

I am going to die.

No.

Something inside me snaps.

A scream rips from my throat—not of pain, but of something else. Something primal. Something ancient.

I sing. It is not a song of beauty. It is a song of death.

The sorcerer freezes. His hands claw at his own throat, his mouth opening in a silent scream. The magic around him unravels, his body convulsing violently.

Then he shatters.

Not a single drop of blood. Not a single bone left behind.

Only ash.

Silence falls.

The battle has not stopped, but they are all staring at me.

The Drazharel brothers. Their soldiers. Even their enemies.

Fear.

I taste it in the air.

I stagger to my feet, my heart pounding so violently I think it might burst. My entire body is humming, my veins alight with something uncontrolled.

Veylan is still on the ground, staring at me.

Not with lust. Not with possession.

With shock and fear.

And that… that is what finally shatters me.

If he fears me, if even he sees me as a monster—then what am I?

Who am I?

I take a shaky breath, stepping back.

Veylan moves to stand.

I run.

I never stop.