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13

HAWK

Sweat didn’t just slick my skin; it plastered my shirt to my back, stinging where the rough training tunic chafed. Every muscle screamed—a familiar, persistent burn. I pivoted hard, the worn floor gritty under my boots, ducking the whistle of a practice staff aimed for my skull.

The kid—Trazek—let out a frustrated hiss, his dark scales rippling. He was young. Eager. Predictable.

I exploited the opening, sweeping low. His legs tangled, momentum stolen. He hit the stone with a surprised whump, air exploding from his lungs. Dust puffed around him.

“Balance,” I grunted, not offering a hand yet. I let him feel the impact. “Or height means nothing.”

A low chorus of clicks echoed from the shadows where other warriors watched—the Drakarn version of approval, or maybe just interest in the novelty. These sessions, snatched between whatever passed for shifts here, were less a distraction, more a necessary violence. A way to burn off the corrosive tension coiling in my gut since Vega’s accusation. Her disappointment was a physical weight, a phantom hand squeezing my ribs.

But charging into Ignarath wasn’t bravery. It was suicide. And I wasn’t done living yet.

Trazek scrambled up, ignoring my eventually extended hand. Good. Pride was useful. His eyes glittered with renewed fire. "Again," he demanded, stance resetting, wings flaring slightly.

I circled, letting my gaze dissect his form. It had been weeks of this—watching, fighting, learning. The subtle shift of weight betrayed a lunge. The whisper-faint rustle of wing membranes telegraphed a sideways dodge. The involuntary twitch at the base of the tail revealed his commitment. These were Drakarn tells. Different, but readable.

“Control your tail,” I said flatly, nodding toward the appendage that kept flicking nervously behind him. “It broadcasts every damned thought.”

His brow ridges furrowed. The struggle was plain—instinct warring with instruction. “How?” he asked, the question raw curiosity, not challenge.

“Lower center of gravity.” I dropped into a fighting crouch, demonstrating. “Core. Leverage. We break differently.”

A voice, rough as unpolished stone, scraped from the edge of the pit. “Physics remain constant, human. Only the weak fail to master them.”

My head snapped up. It was Elder Vraxxin. Copper scales dulled with age, streaked like old blood. Temple markings etched deep into his shoulder plate—Karyseth’s dogmatic mouthpiece. The contempt wasn’t even veiled; it radiated off him like a foul heat.

Before the necessary, calculated retort formed on my tongue, Trazek straightened, lifting his chin. He showed a surprising spark of defiance. “Her methods work, Elder. Three victories. She adapts.”

Vraxxin’s nostrils flared. A dry, dismissive hiss escaped him. “Skills forged on a world without fire-breath or scaled hides. Games.” He turned, addressing the watchers, his voice rising, deliberately pitched to carry. “While you indulge this … curiosity … the Council splinters. Stone Fist defies wisdom, defies tradition!” His gaze sliced toward me, sharp and accusing. “All to shield these outsiders.”

My blood turned to ice water in my veins. Stone Fist. Khorlar.

“The Temple demands censure!” Vraxxin’s voice cracked like a whip. His fangs flashed. “Plaktish’s warnings cannot be ignored! Stone Fist courts open war—for a human female!”

The warriors shifted, a low rasp of scales on stone. Unease rippled through them. This was not just chatter. It was poison. Carefully dripped into waiting ears. Politics played out with claws barely sheathed.

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath, cracking something deep inside. The fear I’d pushed down, the gut-level certainty I’d refused to name—confirmed. Khorlar wasn't just risking his standing. He was laying his honor, his command, maybe the fate of his people, on the line. For … this. For whatever raw, dangerous thing pulsed between us.

A quieter voice, female, came from the back. Bronze scales caught the heat-crystal light. “They fight with honor, Elder. They seek no quarrel.”

Vraxxin’s tail slammed the ground. Crack! The sound echoed, sharp as breaking bone. “Honor? Wisdom? When Ignarath hordes sharpen their claws on our borders? When the sacred flames themselves show ill omen?” He jabbed a clawed finger toward me. “This is the folly of sentiment! You are too soft.”

The bronze warrior stiffened, wings quivering with fury held rigidly in check. Hierarchy. It was brutal and absolute.

Enough. The air was suddenly thick, unbreathable, charged with accusation and the crushing weight of Khorlar’s sacrifice. The stone walls felt like they were shrinking, pressing in. I backed away, movements tight, controlled. I dropped the practice staff onto the rack. The clatter sounded too loud in the sudden quiet.

“I need air,” I clipped out, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. I addressed no one in particular.

No one tried to stop me. I walked, measured steps, refusing to run, toward the arched exit. Dignity was armor, even when shattered underneath. Inside? It was a vortex.

The corridors were a maze carved from the mountain's heart. I climbed, seeking height, escape, autopilot steering me toward the eastern overlook. I just needed out. Away from the judgment, the politics, the impossible weight of him.

The air was still a furnace, but it was fresher there. Below, the broken, savage landscape of Volcaryth sprawled under twin setting suns bleeding violent reds and golds across the sky. A brutal beauty. Raw. Untamed.

Like him.

My palms pressed against the rough-hewn stone railing. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Force the panic down. Fill lungs with air that didn’t taste of guilt and a desire that felt dangerously close to treason against my own survival.

A faint rush behind me, the whisper of powerful wings displacing air. Every nerve ending screamed awareness before my brain caught up. Primal recognition. My spine went rigid. There was no need to turn. I knew that sound. Knew that presence.

Khorlar.

I kept my eyes locked on the bleeding horizon, forcing stillness. The air shifted, crackling, as he landed silently behind me. His sheer presence saturated the small space, shrinking it, charging it. Making it infinitely more dangerous.

“The training master reported an abrupt departure,” his voice rumbled, low and rough-edged, vibrating through the stone beneath my feet.

I was still facing out. “I needed space.” My voice was tight, brittle.

He moved closer. He didn’t walk. He stalked. Each step was measured, deliberate, closing the distance until he stood beside me. His heat rolled off him in waves, scorching the air, raising gooseflesh despite the burn.

He was close enough to feel the thrum of his power. I finally risked a glance. Dark scales drank the dying light, revealing pulsing fiery undertones. His eyes—molten gold, ancient fire, impossible to read—were fixed on me with an intensity that kicked my pulse into a frantic, traitorous rhythm.

He held something. Dark leather, glinting alloy. Intricate straps. Sized for … me.

My throat went dry. “What is that?” The question was a croak.

“Yours,” he stated simply, extending it. It was a flight harness. The complex arrangement dangled between us, heavy with implication. Exquisite craftsmanship. Supple, dark leather, lightweight metal buckles gleaming dully. Reinforced seams, adjustable clasps.

“To secure you,” he explained, his voice dropping, roughening further. “Against falling. But it allows … adjustment. Freedom. Mid-flight.”

My fingers reached, ghosting over the cool leather, the precise stitching. Hours of work. Days. For me. A lump formed in my throat, thick and painful.

This wasn't just gear. It was a statement. A claim.

“This is …” The words caught, strangled. My voice shook. It felt like a betrayal. “You shouldn’t have.”

“You deserve sanctuary. Safety.” His words cut through my attempt at deflection, raw and absolute. The lack of his usual guarded control stripped me bare. “This,” he gestured with the harness, “is merely … practical.”

Practical. As if the word could mask the sheer possessive weight of the gesture. As if it wasn’t a promise forged in leather and steel.

“Permit me,” he rumbled, less a question, more a quiet command that sent a fresh tide of heat crashing through me.

Hesitation warred with a desperate, aching need to accept. Not just the harness. All of it. The dangerous connection. The fragile sense of belonging he offered.

“Alright,” I breathed, the word barely audible. But his sharp intake of breath, the slight flare of his nostrils, told me he’d heard the surrender beneath it.

He moved behind me. Close. Too close. His presence enveloped me, overwhelming my senses. I lifted my arms stiffly, allowing him to slide the harness over my head, settling it onto my shoulders. His claws, usually weapons, moved with shocking precision, adjusting straps, securing buckles. Each touch was careful. Electric. The backs of his scaled fingers brushed my ribs as he tightened a side strap. A violent shiver wracked my frame.

“Too tight?” The question was a low growl, missing the cause entirely.

I shook my head, unable to trust my voice. His hands paused at my waist, fingers splayed, heat searing through my shirt. Lingering. Branding me. When he finally moved around to face me, checking the front fastenings, the look in his eyes gutted me.

Hunger. Stark. Unfiltered. A predator’s assessment barely leashed by iron control. But beneath it, something deeper, more terrifying. A profound vulnerability mirrored in raw possessiveness.

“It fits,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping down the harness, then locking onto mine.

His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin just above my collarbone as he adjusted one last strap. Sparks ignited along my nerve pathways. I sucked in a shaky breath, hyperaware of the scant inches separating us, the furnace of his body, the way my own pulsed in response.

“Thank you.” The whisper was rough, inadequate. My heart hammered against the confines of the harness, a frantic drumbeat of warning and anticipation. “It’s … intricate work.”

He rumbled low and deep. It was satisfaction. Possession. Power. “There is more I would give you,” he stated, the words a low promise, heavy with unspoken meaning. “So much more, vrakasha .”

I exhaled, the sound ragged. Each step deeper into this—into him—shredded the careful defenses I’d rebuilt stone by painful stone.

But when his hand lifted, calloused thumb tracing a feather-light path along my cheekbone, the jolt short-circuited thought. Only this moment. Only the searing heat of what burned between us, consuming everything else.

“I heard them,” I blurted, the words escaping before I could cage them. “In the training pit. The Elder. About the Council. That you’re …” The words caught. Risking everything. For me.

His expression tightened, a flicker of granite, then softened fractionally as he searched my face. “Always,” he confirmed. The single word resonated like a vow hammered into stone. “Without reservation.”

The weight of it—the political firestorm, the danger he courted—threatened to suffocate me.

“They’re right,” I whispered, the fear raw, exposed. “This is dangerous. What we … this connection. It’s changing things.”

“Yes.” The agreement was a deep growl, felt more than heard, vibrating against my bones. “It is.”

His hand slid from my cheek, cupping the back of my neck, fingers tangling in the short strands of my hair. The immense strength held in check, the careful restraint costing him visible effort—that was more seductive, more terrifying, than any overt force.

“I don’t know how,” I admitted, the vulnerability ripped from me, leaving me exposed. “How to navigate this. Be what you need. What your people demand.”

“I require only you,” he countered, leaning closer, his breath a hot caress against my lips. The scent of him filled my head. “As you are. Fierce. Defiant.” His eyes burned into mine. “Mine.”

Mine.

It slammed into me, a brand seared onto my soul. Every instinct screamed danger, flight. But a deeper, traitorous pulse flared low in my belly, a hunger answering his own.

The harness seemed to tighten as I dragged in another shaky breath, a physical reminder of his claim. Tentatively, I reached up, fingers tracing the hard, unyielding line of his jaw. Cool, smooth scales under my touch. Alien. Intoxicating.

The chasm between our worlds felt vast, insurmountable. Yet the current arcing between us ignored it all, raw and undeniable. Living lightning.

I surrendered. Not softly. But like yielding to a gravity too strong to fight. Whatever this was, wherever it dragged us—down into fire or up into the lethal beauty of his sky—there was no turning back now.

For tonight, I would fall.