Page 25 of Claimed In Darkness

25

NAIRA

T he moment he grabs the relic, the world turns to fire.

A blast of raw, unfiltered magic erupts from the artifact, slamming into the walls, searing the air, rattling my bones from the inside out.

I stumble back, shielding my face, my breath strangled against the force of it.

The vault groans, the very walls trembling under the strain of power never supposed to be touched.

And Zephiran?—

Zephiran is on his knees.

The relic is still clutched in his fingers, veins blackening beneath his skin, crawling up his arm, sinking into him like poison.

He’s not moving, and barely breathes.

A second stretches into eternity.

A slow, suffocating moment where I think?—

He’s dead.

I move before my thoughts can catch up.

Before I can consider why I care.

I drop to the ground beside him, gripping his arm, fingers digging into feverish flesh.

"Zephiran," I snap. "Fucking look at me."

His body shudders violently, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as if he’s just surfaced from drowning.

His head jerks up.

His eyes?—

They are wrong.

No longer the deep, inhuman crimson that has haunted me from the moment I first met him.

Now, they are black.

Pure, depthless voids of hunger and ruin.

The relic still pulses in his hand, the magic curling around his wrist, sinking deeper, deeper, deeper.

His lips part.

I expect a snarl. A curse. Some arrogant, cutting remark to tell me to back off.

Instead, his voice comes out ragged, raw, something between a whisper and a growl.

"He’s here."

A slow, sickening chill trickles down my spine.

Who is it?

His father? I’ve heard of the whispers.

I just never knew how real they are.

The vault door slams shut behind us.

Magic surges, sealing us inside, locking the air is overflowing with the smell of something old, rotting, waiting.

We are trapped.

I now truly understand what this was.

Not a heist.

Not a desperate attempt at freedom.

It’s a damn trap.

Zephiran sways, muscles tensed against the magic suffocating him from the inside out.

His breath is ragged, uneven, like something is clawing at his ribs from the inside.

I see it in his hands, the way his fingers shake, the way his grip on the relic is too tight, too unrelenting.

He doesn’t let go. He can’t.

The relic is in him now.

Or maybe—he is in it.

The realization is a slow, insidious thing, curling in my gut, a whisper of something worse than death.

Is it consuming him?

I move without thinking, reaching for his wrist, prying his fingers apart.

"Drop it."

His body jerks. A tremor runs through him, but he doesn’t let go.

His breathing is too shallow, his pulse a violent staccato beneath his skin.

"It won’t let me," he grits out.

I press harder, digging my nails into his flesh.

"Then fight it."

He tilts his head just slightly, as if hearing something I can’t.

His lips curl—slow, dangerous, wrong.

"That’s the problem," he murmurs.

"I don’t think I want to."

My pulse stutters. I see it now.

The hunger beneath his skin.

Not just his usual, cruel amusement.

It’s something not his own. I hear it now.

His father’s voice whispers through the chamber, an echo of a man who isn’t here but still holds the leash.

"You were never destined to be free, boy."

Zephiran flinches, eyes squeezing shut, teeth gritted in something dangerously close to agony.

I slap him across the face, hard enough to snap his head to the side.

A sharp breath drags through his teeth.

His shoulders tense, muscles locked, the relic still gripped tight.

His chest heaves, his control fraying, his body a warzone between two forces that will not let him go.

And still—he fucking smirks.

"Was that supposed to help?"

I grab his chin, yanking his face toward mine, forcing him to see me.

"Did it?" I snap.

A single, dark chuckle slips from his lips.

He lets go.

The relic hits the stone floor with a resounding clang, the magic inside it screeching, twisting, unraveling into the air like a dying thing.

Zephiran shudders, a sharp exhale breaking from his throat.

I realize?—

I just saved him.

Or maybe, I just fucking damned us both.

The vault doors groan.

Unhurried. Measured.

Just shifting.

Like something else wants to come through.

Zephiran staggers to his feet, one hand braced against the stone wall, the other running through his disheveled hair, still trembling, still wrong.

I stand too, my body thrumming with tension, with the sharp, cutting edge of something I don’t dare to name.

The relic is still on the ground between us, its glow fading, its magic retreating.

Zephiran straightens, exhaling slow, measured, as if testing the strength of his own voice.

"That was a mistake," he mutters.

I narrow my eyes. "Which part?"

A beat of silence follows.

His gaze flicks to me.

"All of it."

I can’t even process the words before the torches flicker.

The atmosphere drops to freezing.

A voice that does not belong to either of us laughs.

Low. Amused.

The vault doors burst open.

The shadows outside spill in like ink.

I realize—this was never about the relic.

This was about the moment we thought we had won.

That’s when everything is taken away.

That’s exactly what’s about to happen.