Page 41 of Claimed In Darkness

41

NAIRA

T he first arrow lands inches from my boot.

The second embeds itself into the tree beside me, the wood splintering like bone snapping beneath a blade.

The third?

That one—I catch.

Not on purpose.

Not because I am fast enough to react.

But because something inside me is.

My hand closes around the shaft mid-air, my fingers gripping the smooth, polished wood before my brain even registers the attack.

The relic inside me reacts before I do.

I tighten my grip.

Feel the tremor of power slide beneath my skin.

And I look up.

Because they are here.

And I am done running.

Zephiran makes a move first.

I don’t even need to look at him to know.

The shift of air, the flex of muscle, the sharp snap of steel leaving its sheath—I feel it all.

Like he and I are wired into the same fucking storm.

He does not ask questions.

Does not hesitate.

His blade is in his hand before the first man even steps into the clearing.

And for a moment—just a single, fleeting breath—I almost want to stop him.

This is not a battle.

Not really.

This is a claim.

A message. A fucking collection.

They did not come here to kill us.

They came here to take me.

And I am not sure I want to stop them.

But Zephiran is different from me. He does not hesitate because he is still fighting for me.

He still believes there is something left to save.

That is his fucking mistake.

"Stay behind me," he orders, voice sharp, a growl of command, of instinct, of a man who does not realize he doesn’t own me.

The first soldier lunges.

Zephiran cuts him down.

The second barely lifts his sword before Zephiran is on him, the blade slicing clean through chainmail, through ribs, through the fragile fucking thing that keeps men standing.

A war begins.

And I watch.

Zephiran is fighting a battle I am not sure I want to win.

I should be at his side, blade in hand, spine flush against his back, moving as one the way we always have.

But I don’t.

I hesitate.

Not out of fear.

Not out of mercy.

But because I am waiting.

Waiting for something else.

For them.

For the ones who sent these men, the ones who know what kind of monster I am becoming, the ones who are not just here to retrieve me—but to see what I can do.

And I am not disappointed.

The air shifts.

A new presence.

A slow, methodical step through the trees, boots too quiet against the earth.

He is there.

The old man. The one from before.

The one who let me walk away.

The one who looked at me and did not see a person.

Only a tool.

He steps forward, untouched, unbothered by the bodies bleeding at his feet.

And I know—he was never worried about them.

They did not matter in the greater scheme of things.

This has never been about a fight.

This has always been about a choice.

And this is the moment he forces me to make it.

He does not rush.

Does not lift a blade.

He simply watches me.

Then he says, calmly, coldly, like he is stating a fact rather than making a demand:

"It is time to stop pretending, Naira."

Zephiran reacts before I do.

He spins toward the man, his blade snapping up, his entire body coiled with something I cannot name.

And the old man—he only looks at him once.

A glance.

A flicker of annoyance.

Like Zephiran is an inconvenience.

"You are not the one I am speaking to, boy."

Zephiran lunges.

I move before I can think.

My hand catches his wrist mid-swing.

Not on purpose.

Not because I mean to stop him.

But because something inside me does.

Something that knows the fight is already over.

Zephiran stiffens.

Not because I stopped him.

Not because I am touching him.

But because my grip is too strong.

Too firm.

Too fucking unnatural.

His gaze snaps to mine.

Not angry.

Not surprised.

Afraid.

He tries to pull away.

I do not let him.

I need him to see. This is not his decision.

This was never his choice to make.

I hold his wrist just a little longer than I should.

Long enough for him to feel the truth beneath my skin.

Long enough for him to accept it.

Long enough for me to notice the moment when his fight turns into grief.

I release him.

He does not lift his sword again.

He sees that I was never meant to survive this.

I turn to the old man. And this time, I do not fight.

There’s no use pretending or resisting.

I was never fighting them.

I was only ever fighting myself.

And I am too tired.

Too fucking exhausted.

Too empty to keep up the war Zephiran refuses to let go of.

So instead?—

I take my first step.

Not toward Zephiran.

Toward them.

Zephiran voice is not a command.

Not a growl.

Not a threat.

It is a plea.

"Naira."

I do not stop.

I do not turn because I have already chosen.