Page 39 of Claimed In Darkness

39

NAIRA

T hey come at dawn.

The sky is still dark, the horizon bleeding a deep, bruised purple, the air thick with the last remnants of night.

I hear them before I see them.

The slow, measured thud of armored boots against damp earth.

The creak of leather, the shifting weight of weapons, the barely restrained tension of men who think they have already won.

They think we don’t know.

Think we can’t feel them moving in the shadows, circling, waiting.

Idiots.

By the time the first of them steps into the clearing—I already have a blade in my hand.

Zephiran moves before I do. Ther’s a shift in the air, a tightening of muscles.

He is awake before the rest of the world, rising slow, careful, his body already coiled for a fight.

Not reaching for his sword.

Not yet.

He knows exactly what this is.

A game.

A show of power, a flex of control, a carefully laid trap wrapped in the illusion of diplomacy.

The High Council doesn’t need to send soldiers to kill us.

If they wanted us dead, we’d already be rotting in the dirt.

This is worse.

They want us alive.

Preferably me.

That means—they understand what I am.

Or at least, they think they do.

They come clad in power and arrogance.

Six of them step forward.

Not just warriors—elites.

Their armor is ornate, stitched through with silver filigree, their weapons polished to a shine.

Not for function.

For show.

A reminder of who they are.

Of what they control.

And what they are about to take.

Me.

I feel Zephiran tense beside me, the air around him vibrating with barely restrained violence.

We do not make the first move.

Because want to hear what they have to say before I kill them.

The man at the front steps closer.

Older.

Not frail, but aged like steel that has been reforged too many times.

A noble once, by the look of him.

But nobility means nothing in this world. A noble without power is good for nothing.

I let the silence stretch, let it linger, let my gaze settle over them like an axe against their throats.

I do not feel fear.

I should.

But I don’t know how anymore.

They speak like they’ve already won.

"Naira," the old man says, his voice smooth, practiced.

Not condescending.

Not cruel.

Worse.

Patient.

Like he is addressing a child who does not yet understand their place in the world.

Like he is waiting for me to fall in line.

I lean my head just slightly to the side, feeling the shift in the air, the slow curl of power still humming beneath my skin.

I wonder—do they know what they are looking at?

Do they see it?

Do they feel the relic inside me, feel the thing that is no longer bound by flesh and bone, feel the power that has been slowly unraveling me from my core?

They should.

But they don’t.

They are still standing here.

That is their first mistake.

"Your crimes are extensive," the man continues, still smooth, still patient.

As if I don’t already know what they think of me.

As if I don’t already know why they are here.

"Theft. Murder. Conspiracy against the ruling class. Treason against the High Council. Your execution is long overdue."

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes.

"But we are prepared to offer you another option."

I almost laugh.

Instead, I arch a brow, shifting my weight onto my back foot, feeling the dagger in my palm, the familiar weight of it resting against my skin.

"Let me guess," I say, voice even, cool, unconcerned.

"You want to put a collar around my throat and turn me into your new favorite pet?"

The men around him bristle.

Zephiran stills beside me.

The air tightens.

And the old man—he smiles.

Like he expected this.

Like he knew exactly what I would say.

That pisses me off.

"We want to give you a purpose," he says.

I do laugh this time.

A sharp, wicked sound.

"That’s a fancy way of saying you want to use me."

He does not deny it.

Instead, he steps forward.

Too close.

Too calm.

"You are changing," he says simply.

I freeze.

Not outwardly.

Not visibly.

But inside—I feel the shift.

He sees it.

Sees what Zephiran has been afraid to name.

Sees the thing that has been unraveling inside me since the moment I touched that relic.

"You cannot stop it," he continues, voice soft, smooth, full of something too close to pity.

Like he knows.

Like he has seen something like this before.

That is when I start to feel something close to fear.

If he has seen this before—then I am not the first.

And if I am not the first?—

Then what the fuck happened to the others?

Zephiran moves before I can. His blade is at the old man’s throat in a blink.

Fast.

Effortless.

Deadly.

A warning.

"She is not yours to take."

The words come out sharp, guttural, full of something I am too tired to name.

Something that sounds too close to desperation.

The man does not flinch.

Does not even look at him.

His gaze stays locked on me.

And when he speaks again, it is not for Zephiran.

It is for me.

"You are running out of time."

I let him live.

I should slit his throat, should watch him choke on his own blood, should cut down every single one of these men and send a message that I do not fucking belong to anyone.

But I don’t.

He is right.

I am running out of time.

And I’m clueless as to what will happen when the clock stops.

So instead—I let him walk away.

I let them all walk away because I need answers.

And killing him will not give me them.

Not until I understand.

Not until I know what I am becoming.

If they are right?—

Then I am not just a monster anymore.

I am something worse.

Something they have seen before.

Something they still fear.

And I need to know why.