Page 7

SEVEN

SERAPHINE

T he forest outside the Veil’s edge didn’t look like death.

It looked like any other stretch of the wilds—dense trees hung with moss, shafts of pale morning light streaming through the canopy, soil damp with dew. It even smelled normal. Earthy. Alive.

But Seraphine knew better.

She could feel it beneath her boots—like something ancient had opened its eyes beneath the dirt and decided to hold its breath.

Behind her, the squad moved in practiced silence. Alek vanished between shadows like a ghost, Lira walked like a sentinel born, and Brann kept muttering to himself about sigils and spellwork.

Beside her Cassian Veyne moved like he owned the dirt under his feet.

He hadn’t spoken since they left the Citadel gates, save for one offhand comment when Torren had stopped at the boundary wall and turned back without ceremony.

“Your shadow staying behind? Thought he was surgically attached.”

She’d just answered, “He’s not meant to die here,” and kept walking.

Now, though, as they passed beneath the twisted black arch of a shattered old shrine—one of the ancient Veil markers long claimed by rot—he spoke again.

“Still no explanation, huh?”

She glanced sideways. “For what?”

“Why the scary old warhound didn’t saddle up with us.”

Seraphine didn’t answer immediately.

Cassian smirked. “Let me guess. Daddy said no.”

She halted abruptly.

The rest of the squad moved ahead, trained enough to keep formation while she dealt with whatever fresh irritation Veyne had decided to stir.

She turned to him slowly, the morning sun flashing off her whitefire glaive.

“He stayed behind because he’s sworn to House Drakar, not to me,” she said coolly. “And this mission... isn't a House affair. It’s a death sentence.”

Cassian’s grin faltered—just for a flicker.

“Didn’t peg you for sentimental.”

“I’m not.” She adjusted her pack, voice flat. “I’m practical. Torren’s better off alive.”

“Some might say the same about you.”

“Some might be fools.” She started walking again.

It all happened so fast. They didn’t see the Hollowborn coming.

They felt them first—like the pressure in the air just before lightning strikes. The way the birds went quiet. The way Brann suddenly dropped mid-sentence and hissed, “Ward just cracked.”

Then it hit. The ground split.

Shadows spilled from beneath the roots of the trees—thin, elongated things that didn’t cast from anything real. Figures rose from the soil like puppets yanked from nightmares. Limbs too long, faces smeared like melted wax, eyes like starless pits.

Hollowborn.

Lira drew her blade with a roar and cleaved through the first one in a burst of goldfire. Alek disappeared—reappeared behind two others and slit their throats with daggers that didn’t gleam.

Seraphine dropped into stance, glaive spinning in her hands, her flames responding instantly.

She counted five.

No— seven.

Brann screamed.

One of the Hollowborn had slithered down from the canopy like a nightmare stitched from shadows. It dropped on him silently, limbs snapping out like spider legs, mouth stretching open with a grin so wide it split the entire face.

Seraphine barely registered the movement before Cassian was already moving.

Not running— charging.

His blade stayed strapped to his back. He didn’t need it.

Stormfire ignited across his arms in jagged lines, the power thrumming down his spine, wild and barely contained. He moved through the battlefield like a damned force of nature. Lightning laced with white-blue fire tore from his fists and lit up the undergrowth in blistering flashes.

The Hollowborn screeched, its skin bubbling and peeling under the arc of power.

With a guttural roar, Cassian slammed his shoulder into the creature’s center mass and drove it back against a tree.

Stormfire burst from his palms and incinerated it in a blaze so hot the bark charred black instantly.

The thing disintegrated, limbs curling in on themselves, face melting into ash.

Brann scrambled back, eyes wide and soaked in terror. “Holy shit?—”

“Next time,” Cassian panted, not looking back, “ don’t stand there like a godsdamn garnish.”

Another Hollowborn surged from the trees behind him—this one faster, sleeker, limbs longer and tipped with claws that shimmered faintly, like obsidian glass.

Cassian whirled to meet it.

He ducked low under the first swipe, spun, and drove a boot into its chest, sending it stumbling. His hands flared with flame again—and he struck forward, palm-first, lightning snapping the air.

But this one anticipated the move.

As his fire hit, it twisted unnaturally—joints bending backward—and closed the distance with a flickering motion that shouldn’t have been possible. Cassian’s eyes widened.

The creature’s claw caught him under the ribs—deep.

He grunted, staggered, and shoved it off with a snarl, another bolt of fire ripping from his hand and cleaving the thing’s head clean off. The body collapsed in a twitching heap, steam rising from the split bone.

Cassian dropped to one knee, hand pressed to his side.

Blood seeped through his coat in a hot, wet flood.

“Shit,” he growled, voice rough. “That one… cheated.”

Seraphine’s heart slammed against her ribs.

He wasn’t supposed to go down. Not him. He was the one who was supposed to know these things—how they moved, killed, and tricked.

“Cassian!” she barked, moving toward him.

“No time,” he hissed, still gripping his side. “More?—”

But she was already there.

Her glaive flashed white in her hands. One final Hollowborn lunged from the tree line, and she spun with terrifying grace, blade sweeping in a wide arc.

Whitefire surged along the weapon’s edge, and when it hit, it cut clean through the creature’s spine.

The Hollowborn screamed—high-pitched, fraying at the edges of reality.

Then collapsed in on itself like it had never been.

The ash swirled in her wake.

Cassian dropped fully to his knees, head bowed, sweat beading along his brow.

Seraphine reached him fast, dropping beside him. Her fingers pushed back the blood-soaked coat, and what she saw made her breath hitch.

The wound wasn’t just deep—it glowed faintly at the edges. Hollow poison.

“Dumb bastard,” she muttered, trying to keep her voice steady. “You should’ve dodged.”

“Didn’t know I had to tell the heir to do her own damn saving,” he bit out, but his words were slurring.

“Bleeding out isn’t a power move, Veyne.”

His head lulled. His face had gone pale—too pale. The poison was working fast.

She didn’t hesitate.

Whitefire burst into her hands with a roar. It wasn’t clean magic. It wasn’t gentle. It was a purge —violent, sacred, and ancient. Seraphine’s veins lit up like constellations, and the ground beneath her blackened from the force of it.

She pressed her palm to his wound.

Forced the flame inside.

Cassian screamed.

It was raw, a sound scraped from the depths of a soul that didn’t know how to break. His back arched. His body convulsed. And then he collapsed.

Unconscious. Breathing. And alive.

They made camp an hour later in a hollowed clearing, the forest still twitching with residual magic. Lira took first watch. Alek disappeared to set traps. Brann curled into a ball with shaking hands and a new respect for breathing.

Seraphine sat beside Cassian’s unconscious form, now wrapped in a cloak and propped near the fire.

His breathing was steady. Shallow, but steady.

She stared into the flames.

It had been years since she’d used Whitefire for healing. It wasn’t built for mending. It burned through lies, through fate, through everything. But something in her had refused to let him die.

You’re too useful to waste, she told herself. Just like Vaela had said to her.

It was a lie.

He groaned.

She turned quickly as his eyes blinked open—storm-dark and glassy.

She helped him sit up, bracing him with one hand. His body was heavy with shock, but heat still radiated faintly off him like dying lightning.

“You healed me.”

“Try not to sound so surprised.”

“Thought Drakar heirs weren’t in the charity business.”

She smirked faintly. “We’re not. But you looked too stupid to die. Although I did hire you to help with the hollowborn, not die by them.”

He snorted, winced, then gritted his teeth. “Feels like someone shoved a firecracker in my ribs.”

“That’s because I did.”

A pause before he says softly, “Thanks.”

Seraphine looked at him.

He was raw under the sarcasm. Scarred in ways that didn’t show on skin. His strength wasn’t just muscle and flame. It was forged in survival, stubbornness, grit. And he didn’t hide the pain. Not like the royals did.

“You’re not what I expected,” she admitted.

He chuckled dryly. “You keep saying that. What, you expected worse?”

“No,” she said, softer now. “I expected... less.”

Cassian turned his head, met her eyes. And for once, neither of them had something clever to say.

The fire crackled between them. Somewhere deep in the forest, something howled. But in that circle of heat and blood and burnt edges, Seraphine Drakar saw not a weapon—not an asset.

She saw a man.