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PROLOGUE

Khorlar

The echo of grunts and impacts reverberated through the training caverns, each sound a percussive slap against the rough-hewn walls. The air hung heavy, thick with the tang of sweat, superheated rock, and the acrid burn of overworked leather from strained armor.

I stood perched on a rocky outcropping, arms crossed. Below, trainees sparred with varying degrees of competence, most displaying defensive formations as porous as the atmosphere above Volcaryth. A flicker of impatience ignited in my chest—an almost instinctive urge to snarl corrections or bark orders. I suppressed it. Not yet. Let them taste failure, scrape their hides raw. They’d learn more from bruises than lectures.

My gaze moved restlessly between sparring pairs, weighing their intent against clumsy execution. Bad habits, unchecked now, would bleed them dry later. A head thrown too far back during a strike, a tail dragging where it should provide balance … my patience frayed, but remained, for the moment, intact.

Then my gaze drifted, pulled across the cavern to the far side: the humans.

They weren’t sparring Drakarn today. Their exercise centered on scaling the treacherous rock faces, navigating the uneven terrain with a painstaking focus. Boots scraped against sharp edges and loose rubble, their small, strange hands finding purchase along jagged holds. Where my kind relied on tails for balance and powerful wings for controlled descents, the humans compensated with an unnerving precision, gripping tighter, crouching lower. It wasn’t natural—it couldn't be, for them—but they were relentless.

One caught my attention.

Red hair pulled back under a utilitarian leather band, a face that radiated composure despite the exertion evident in every controlled movement. It wasn’t unusual for me to observe the humans as they moved through the caverns; curiosity was simply practicality draped in the guise of observation.

But this one … she was singularly focused. Intent.

She studied the rock face before her as though it were a puzzle to be solved, not merely an obstacle to overcome. A sharpness edged her gaze, darting and aware, registering movement and depth in ways I hadn’t noticed in the others.

Without conscious intent, I edged closer to the platform’s edge, my breath measured as I watched her ascend. She was precision incarnate … until she wasn’t. One of those leather boots dislodged something loose, a hairline crack spider-webbing across the rock face in an instant.

Then everything happened almost too fast for reaction.

The crack widened, a series of sharp pops and snaps that broadcast disaster as physics caught up. Her hand shot upward, grasping for a higher hold. She didn't scream, didn't freeze, but some instinct drove her to try and stabilize as the rock beneath her gave way.

First, loose stones slammed against the cliff face, falling in an uncontrolled cascade. Then, her body followed, moving too fast. She twisted mid-air, clawing desperately for purchase, but collided hard against another outcropping several feet below. Another slip, a mere inch more, and she’d have plunged off the ledge into oblivion.

The rockfall wasn't stopping. Dust clouded the dim light, obscuring her small, curled form.

"Damn it." The words were a low growl, ripped from my throat.

Instinct surged, burning white-hot, obliterating every other thought. My claws scraped against the rock as I launched myself forward. Survival demanded timing, precise calculation—not reckless action—and yet there I was, abandoning calculation entirely.

My kind did not make mistakes on terrain like this. My hands gripped the heated rock, tighter than iron, carving a path downward with an unforgiving mix of force and control. The stones that had crumbled toward her still rained around us.

Her scent hit then. Even amidst the acrid chaos of dust and falling debris, it struck me like a whip. I refused to acknowledge the sensory jolt, the sudden hypersensitivity that flared on my tongue.

Everything sharpened, refocused, like a lightning bolt had struck me.

Her scent was closer now: crisp and alien, deceptively light, yet sharp enough to draw blood. Beneath the atmospheric noise of the cavern, I could almost hear the frantic beat of her pulse—faint but rapid, defying her outward composure.

The last few feet were the most treacherous. Sharp, jagged stones forced an awkward perch, wings momentarily extending for balance as dirt and gravel shifted. Any lesser warrior would pause, regroup, resist the urge to charge blindly.

No time for that.

Seconds mattered. Less than that.

Then she was there—fingers white-knuckling a warped, unstable ledge that offered no real security. A smear of blood at her knuckles. A precarious overhang threatened to collapse near her left leg. I landed close, but not close enough, not yet at her side.

This place offered no kindness, no quarter.

"Don't move!" My voice thundered, an imperative, not a request.

Everything else dissolved as I extended my clawed hand to her. Any sweetness lingering beneath her scent was ruthlessly ignored, my focus narrowing to raw efficiency as I sought a more secure foothold. The chaos subsided, leaving lingering instability in its wake.

I pulled her away from the ledge.

The world narrowed to the visceral—the grit of her bloodied hands slipping against my claws, the searing heat of the broken rock, her weight against my grip. Every sense screamed for focus, demanding I lock down instinct and channel it into precision.

The tension in my chest ratcheted tighter, some unseen thread pulling at a place I hadn't had time to name—something wild and ancient, testing the limits of my control as her scent flooded the space between us, closer this time. My tongue burned as if branded, the acrid metallic tang of danger mingling with her phantom sweetness.

This was not the moment for distraction—damned if my own body didn't agree—but the sensation was suffocating, scalding. It deepened as I wrapped my other clawed hand around her waist, sharp focus overriding any resistance. No matter how fast I worked, the heat radiating off her lingered, clinging to me.

"You weigh less than an ash cat," I grunted, hauling her upward. "Stop fighting me."

"I'm not fighting!" she hissed, her voice sharper than expected. She kicked her legs toward the collapsing rubble below, struggling for a foothold. I swore and pulled harder, drawing her body flush against mine.

"Then stop squirming!" I snapped.

The moment her weight fully shifted into my grasp, the tension snapped—not just in the rock, but somewhere deeper in me. My tail flicked against the edge of the ledge as I propelled us upward, clearing the worst of the debris. My wings flared briefly, catching the air to stabilize us, and finally—finally—we landed on solid footing.

Her breath hitched, the first unguarded sound of emotion slipping past her carefully constructed exterior. For a moment, we were utterly still. Dust settled in the faint light, coating her bruised and dirt-streaked skin like motes of gold.

Her scent lingered. Unforgivingly.

"Are you injured?" My voice was gruff, harsher than intended.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She tilted her head slightly, those sharp, assessing eyes locking onto mine like she was calculating some equation that couldn’t be spoken aloud.

"Nothing broken," she rasped, exhaustion evident in her tone. "Thanks."

There it was—a flicker, a crack barely noticeable, as if she’d loosened her grip on the vigilance she wore like armor. When her fingers brushed briefly against the clawed hand still gripping her waist, I felt her relax.

That wouldn't do. Not here. Not now.

Not with her.

"Be more careful next time," I ground out, my voice cracking like a whip. Without ceremony, I released her, the distance I needed achieved as she staggered slightly to her feet. She didn’t fall, though; her legs steadied quickly, and she held herself like a queen.

Her expression shifted imperceptibly, mouth settling into its former sharp line. The momentary vulnerability I’d glimpsed dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.

Good. Better this way.

She took a breath, her jaw working as if considering something to say before closing her mouth again. Straightening her spine, she moved stiffly past, her scent trailing after her like smoke.

I stood rooted, my chest tightening under the weight of it all—her scent, the phantom warmth of her body pressed against mine, the impossible ache that clawed through me like something ancient trying to awaken.

It couldn't awaken. It wouldn't.

The burn on my tongue refused to fade.

By the time I’d reached the platform, the human was gone, slipping back into the tighter-knit cluster of her kind near the edge of the training ground. Where she belonged.

One of the Drakarn trainees glanced toward me, worry etched on his uncalloused face. A warrior fresh to the field, still too tender to hide his questions beneath a stoic mask. I bared my teeth briefly in warning, and his gaze darted away. They would learn, in time, to stop looking for cracks in their instructors—or at least to hide when they did.

I forced myself to focus on the Drakarn trainees. I was not responsible for the humans, and that wouldn't change.

But the burn in my chest refused to fade, no matter how much I tried to ignore it.