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KHORLAR

The Blade Council chambers devoured sound like a starving predator ate its bloodied prey, the ancient stone drinking in every whisper until only the thundering of my pulse remained in my ears. Obsidian pillars stretched toward the vaulted ceiling where light from heat crystals pierced the gloom.

I stood rigid. Claws flexing. Every muscle coiled tight with the effort of restraint. The Council sat in their carved stone seats, a half-circle of Scalvaris's finest warriors, their faces carved from the same unforgiving rock as the chamber itself.

Darrokar's obsidian scales caught the sparse light, crimson undertones pulsing with each measured breath.

Beside him sat Terra, his human mate who had somehow earned her place at his side. Her face betrayed nothing, but the slight tension in her shoulders spoke volumes. She understood what was at stake.

The Ignarath hadn't come for peace.

They'd come to test our weaknesses.

And they'd brought an audience.

My nostrils flared at the unexpected scent of sacred oils—Karyseth, High Priestess of the Forge Temple, her silver-streaked scales gleaming, flanked by three silent, yellow robed acolytes. Their presence made my scales itch. The Temple rarely involved itself in Council matters unless blood or blades were involved. But in the past year, things had changed.

They sensed weakness. And the temple wanted power.

Plaktish prowled the center of the chamber, his posture a calculated insult to every warrior present, his scales catching the light like poisoned honey. Four Ignarath warriors flanked him, each bearing ceremonial arms—another insult veiled as tradition. His smile was all fangs, his eyes cold and calculating as they swept over us.

"We appreciate Scalvaris's prompt response to our … concerns." His voice slithered through the chamber. "The High Council of Ignarath values our tenuous peace."

"State your grievance." Darrokar's low rumble cut through the pretense.

A flash of irritation crossed Plaktish's features before the mask slipped back into place. He gestured sharply.

One of his warriors stepped forward, unrolling a blood-stained cloth.

Six Ignarath battle talons. Severed at the joint.

"Six scouts." Plaktish's voice hardened. "Slaughtered in our territory. Mutilated."

Murmurs rippled through the Council. I remained stone-still, watching. There was always violence in the Western Crags—contested land where blood had been spilled for generations. Then again, I looked sidelong at Vyne, who was scowling at the delegation.

A few weeks ago, he and his now mate, Selene, had secretly journeyed to the Harrovan Mountains in Ignarath territory to retrieve a plant to heal the sick. And they had dealt with Ignarath scouts. I'd been there to see some of it.

"And you claim Scalvaris warriors are responsible?" Zarvash leaned forward, his bronze scales catching the light.

"The survivors described the attackers clearly." Plaktish's gaze swept the chamber, finally landing on me. "Drakarn with the distinctive battle markings of Scalvaris. They even described a warrior bearing the Stone Fist emblem."

My blood froze. A direct accusation.

"Impossible." The word tore from my throat, rough-edged and dangerous. "I do not slaughter sleeping enemies."

And when attacked, I did not leave survivors to tell tales.

Plaktish's smile widened fractionally. "Yet here we stand, with six dead and witnesses who say otherwise." He turned back to Darrokar. "The High Council demands reparations. Blood for blood."

Darrokar's wings shifted slightly—the only outward sign of his tension. "What evidence beyond this do you bring? Battle talons prove deaths, not murder."

"Would you like us to bring the survivors to testify?" Plaktish countered. "They are prepared to swear on the Sacred Flame that they recognized Scalvaris warriors."

Karyseth stepped forward then, her ceremonial robes whispering against the stone floor. "The Temple would witness such an oath," she said, her voice like ancient stone.

Plaktish hesitated—barely a flicker, but I caught it. A sworn testimony before the Forge Priestess would be binding. False claims would mean punishment from the Temple itself.

"That will not be necessary at this stage," he recovered quickly.

Of course. His witnesses would crumble under the Temple's scrutiny. But why was he lying at all? It was true that Vyne and I had dispatched with Ignarath scouts, but with the rogues in the area, it would be impossible to prove. Still, he could try.

So why the ruse?

"What reparations do you seek?" Terra's voice cut through the tension, sharp as a blade.

Plaktish's gaze shifted to her, lingering a moment too long.

"Ah, the human voice of reason." His tone made my claws itch to tear into his throat. "Ignarath proposes a simple exchange."

"Explain." Darrokar's command was granite.

"We wish to know how many human slaves Scalvaris harbors. And we will take our fair share." Plaktish's eyes glittered with naked greed. "And we wish to … study them. Their abilities. Their technology."

The pieces locked into place. This wasn't about dead scouts. This was about the humans. About knowledge and power and the advantage they represented.

"Very well," said Darrokar, and a growl threatened to escape my throat before he continued. "We harbor no human slaves." Darrokar's voice dropped to a dangerous register that made even the stone beneath our feet seem to tremble.

"Do you call them citizens?" Plaktish's laugh was cold. "Allies? We've heard rumors of your strange … attachment …" He gestured toward Terra. "But surely you can't claim them all."

"The humans choose their own path," Darrokar replied. "They are free, not property."

"Free?" Plaktish's gaze swept the chamber, settling finally on me. "Is that what you call them, Stone Fist? I noticed your … fierce defense … of one particular human during our encounter. The dark-skinned female with the short hair." His smile turned predatory. "Is she yours?"

The question hit me right between the ribs.

Heat surged through my body, a molten wave that threatened to consume all reason. My fangs throbbed with a searing pain that radiated deep into my skull. Hawk's face flashed in my mind—her fierce eyes, the defiant set of her jaw, the way she moved like a predator despite her fragile human form.

Her scent. Gods, her scent haunted me even now, a phantom that teased at the edges of my awareness.

"Yes."

The word escaped before I could cage it, raw and absolute, echoing through the suddenly silent chamber.

Mine.

The word burned through my consciousness, bypassing reason, strategy, duty.

Mine .

Not a thought but a certainty carved into my bones.

Stunned silence crashed down. I felt the weight of every stare—Darrokar's sharp assessment, Terra's widened eyes, the Council's collective shock.

Even Karyseth stepped forward, her ancient eyes narrowing with sudden interest.

The admission burned in my throat like molten steel, undeniable and irreversible. I had never intended to claim her, to acknowledge the pull that had been tormenting me since I first caught her scent. Yet the thought of Plaktish's oily gaze upon her, the idea that she could be traded away like a weapon or a trinket …

My control had shattered like brittle stone.

"Interesting." Plaktish's voice dripped with satisfaction. He'd gotten exactly what he wanted—information. "I wasn't aware Scalvaris had formalized bonds with the humans. How many others have been … claimed?"

"That is not your concern," Darrokar cut in, his voice a sharp edge.

"When it affects the balance of power on Volcaryth, it becomes everyone's concern," Plaktish countered. "Ignarath merely wishes to understand our … changing world."

"You wish to exploit it," I growled. "Your accusations of raids are fabricated to justify your demands."

Plaktish's eyes hardened. "Strong words, Stone Fist. Would you call me a liar before your Council and the Temple?"

"I call you what you are," I replied, my voice steady despite the storm raging within. "A scavenger picking at wounds you hope to widen."

Karyseth's ceremonial staff struck the stone floor with a sound like thunder. "The Temple takes note of these accusations." Her ancient voice commanded attention. "If blood has truly been spilled as claimed, the Sacred Flame demands proper rites and true accounting." She turned her gaze to Plaktish. "The Ignarath witnesses will present themselves at the Temple for truthspeaking."

Plaktish's composure cracked. Truthspeaking before the priestesses was no small matter. Lies told under their rituals resulted in consequences few survived.

"The witnesses have suffered enough trauma," he demurred. "Perhaps another solution?—"

"No." Darrokar rose to his full height, wings partially extended in a display of dominance. "There will be no reparations without truth. Either your witnesses appear before the Temple, or your claims are dismissed."

The chamber filled with the low rumble of Council approval. Plaktish's eyes narrowed, calculation evident in every line of his body.

"Very well," he conceded with false grace. "I will convey your … requirements … to the High Council. But know this: The humans change everything. Their presence upsets balances that have existed for generations. Scalvaris cannot hoard such power without consequences."

Darrokar signaled to the chamber guards. "You have delivered your message."

Plaktish bowed—the precise degree that conveyed respect while implying none—and turned to leave with his warriors. As he passed me, he paused, his voice pitched for my ears alone. "She must be quite remarkable, Stone Fist, to crack your legendary control. I look forward to meeting her properly."

My growl erupted from depths I rarely accessed—a promise of violence so explicit that even Plaktish stepped back.

"You will never touch her."