Page 23 of Claimed In Darkness
23
NAIRA
T he High Council doesn’t know what I am capable of.
The corridors of the underground tunnels stretch before me, damp, suffocating, filled with the stench of oil and decay. A warren of stone and shadow beneath the capital, a place only ghosts and desperate men dare to tread.
The guards don’t even glance at me.
They recognize the collar.
They see the way it gleams beneath the torchlight, the silver chain still hooked loosely around my neck.
They see what they think I am.
A pet.
A pretty thing kept in Zephiran grasp, tamed and obedient.
They don’t know I could kill them where they stand.
They’re unaware that the dagger pressed against the inside of my thigh is sharp enough to cut through cartilage, to sever arteries, to silence their questions with a single flick of my wrist.
I keep my steps measured, my hands folded just enough to sell the illusion.
Not too timid.
Not too bold.
Just enough to make them believe I know my place.
The guards step aside as I pass.
Fools.
The High Council’s vault is more than just a treasure hoard. It is a tomb of power, a graveyard of forgotten things.
The relic I need is somewhere deep inside, buried beneath centuries of secrets, of locked chests and enchanted seals.
And the only reason I’m able to step foot inside? Zephiran made me their weapon. Made me their amusement.
He gave them a show, let them see me as something more than a caged thing, let them taste the blood still fresh on my lips.
He wants me to do this.
That alone makes my skin crawl.
A robed attendant greets me at the entrance.
Thin, pale fingers drag along the chain at my throat, a mockery of ownership, a test.
It burns.
"You are here to collect what your master desires," he muses, leading me forward, his voice slow and slithering, like a man who enjoys hearing himself speak. "He must trust you a great deal."
I say nothing as silence is more powerful than lies.
It lets him fill in the gaps himself.
He walks me down the corridor, past towering black-iron doors, past sealed vaults that hum with magic, past the remnants of old, forgotten curses.
I feel them buzzing beneath my skin, power pressing against me in slow, invasive waves.
I swallow down the urge to wrench my arm from his grasp, to crush his fingers between my own.
Maybe soon.
We stop at the end of the hall.
The final door looms before us.
The relic is inside.
The moment the attendant reaches for the lock, a wave of heat lances down my spine, sharp, unnatural—wrong.
Something is happening. It’s definitely not part of the plan.
The hairs along my arms rise as I turn slightly, my breath catching.
My pulse stutters.
Because I know that presence.
I have felt it before.
In the dead of night.
In the silence of his chambers.
When he thought I wasn’t looking.
I turn my head.
And Zephiran is there.
He stands at the far end of the corridor, half-shrouded in shadow, the torchlight flickering over the sharp lines of his face.
His tunic is loose at the throat, his black hair a mess, as if he’s just woken from something he couldn’t control.
His eyes are wrong.
Too bright. Too unfocused.
He shouldn’t be here.
He wasn’t supposed to follow me.
Why is he risking this?
The attendant at my side frowns, following my gaze. "Lord Zacria?"
Zephiran doesn’t answer.
Not at first.
Too slowly, he lifts his head, the movement unnatural, like a man waking from a nightmare.
His hands shake at his sides, his breath too ragged.
He looks like a man drowning.
He is staring at me.
My stomach knots.
"Leave us," Zephiran says, his voice just slightly off.
The attendant hesitates. "But, my lord, the vault?—"
"I said leave."
Something in his tone makes the air turn thick, makes the walls feel closer, makes the magic in the vault shift uneasily.
The attendant scurries off without another word.
It’s just us.
The silence presses against my ribs, heavy and unbearable.
I close the distance between us, gripping his arm before he can fucking collapse.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I hiss, voice low, sharp. "You weren’t supposed to come."
His breath stutters, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.
But he doesn’t let me go.
"You shouldn’t be here," I say again.
His body trembles beneath my touch, heat radiating from his skin, feverish, wrong.
"I know," he murmurs, voice strained, raw.
He came anyway.
My grip tightens.
"You’re a fucking idiot."
He exhales, a slow, shuddering sound.
"I know that too."
His lips part slightly, his eyes dropping to my mouth, to the gap between us, to the way my fingers are still curled around his wrist, like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered.
For a single, unforgiving second, the world narrows down to just this.
Just the way he breathes, the way he leans and looks at me like I am the only real thing left in this fucking world.
A mistake.
A fucking mistake.
I step back and the moment shatters.
I grab him by the collar, yanking him forward, dragging his shaking body toward the vault.
"Fine," I bite out. "You’re here now. So get your shit together."
He lets me pull him forward.
Let me lead him, despite the power he wields, despite the thousands of ways he could stop me.
He lets me take control.
As the vault door opens, the magic thrumming behind it, thick and intoxicating, promising power at a price?—
I feel it instinctively that whatever we find inside.
It will change everything.