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KHORLAR

Primal instinct ignited, a fire searing itself onto my thoughts: Hunt .

The word was a blood-beat thrumming in my ears, drowning out reason. The lingering taste of her—that intoxicating sweetness still sharp on my tongue—fueled the rage that had smoldered since I'd seen that Ignarath filth put his claws on her.

My female. My claim.

Remaining there, breathing the air thick with her scent and my own unraveling control, was impossible. The stone walls of our quarters pressed in, confining, suffocating. Her expression, shifting from the heat of desire to confusion, then back to that guarded wariness I knew too well, was a blade twisting in my gut. I turned and ran, claws gouging stone as I descended into the deeper levels.

The killing-need throbbed behind my fangs. The Ignarath was still there. Still breathing Scalvaris air. Still polluting a world where he'd dared to touch what was mine .

It was unacceptable.

Diplomatic immunity. Temple law. Council politics. They were dust motes in the face of the storm roaring through my blood, the ancient imperative that demanded retribution. That demanded his life.

Deeper now, where the air hung thick and still, I caught it—the faint, oily musk of Ignarath, laced with the sharp tang of fear-sweat. A grim satisfaction curled in my gut. Good. Let him fear. Tonight, I would teach him its true meaning.

My pace slowed as I reached the lower levels. These were less traveled. Darker. Heat crystals pulsed sporadically, spaced far apart, casting long, skeletal shadows across the rough-hewn passages. It was a perfect hunting ground. He thought distance meant safety down there among the forgotten ways.

Fool.

"Khorlar."

I spun, a snarl ripping from my throat before the disciplined part of my mind registered the speaker. It was Zarvash. His bronze scales absorbed the low light, gleaming dully. He watched me, his gaze typically calculating, yet sharper, more perceptive than usual.

"Not now, Zarvash," I growled, the sound rough even to my own ears. I turned away. The hunt pulsed, a living thing inside me. I had no time for Council subtleties. "I am owed blood."

"You mean the Ignarath delegate?" His voice—cool, measured—was like stone scraping against my frayed control.

I froze. Turned back slowly, the heat rising behind my eyes. "How did you know?"

"I have eyes," he replied simply. His stillness was a counterpoint to my simmering violence. "And I have the ability to recognize a warrior consumed by a blood hunt." A slight, deliberate tilt of his head. "He touched your human." He said it so surely. He wasn't guessing. His spies must have given him a report.

My human.

The words, spoken aloud by another, sent a fresh wave of burning possessiveness surging through me. The claim—certain, absolute—was undeniable now. Not after that kiss. Not after feeling her response, tasting a hunger that mirrored my own fierce need.

"He tried to take her." The words rumbled, ripped from somewhere deep in my lungs. "He would have dragged her back to Plaktish."

Zarvash's eyes narrowed fractionally, the only outward sign of his assessment. "That's crossing lines, even for Ignarath arrogance." A pause, weighted with calculation. "You intend to kill him."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of inevitable fact.

"Yes." There was no hesitation. No doubt.

To my surprise, Zarvash gave a single, decisive nod. "Good."

I blinked, taken aback. The Strategist was never so direct, so … approving of naked aggression. He was always weighing consequences, maneuvering through political currents. "You believe me?"

A flicker of teeth in the gloom—not quite a smile, something sharper. "I believe what my senses tell me. My sources tell me that Plaktish flew here with five Ignarath, though only four were presented to the Council. This one has been conspicuously absent from official functions." His copper-streaked wings shifted, a subtle rustle in the quiet. "Convenient."

Understanding dawned, a cold, sharp clarity cutting through the red haze of rage. "A shadow operative. Unsanctioned."

"Precisely." Zarvash's tail gave a slight flick, a gesture of grim satisfaction. "Which means …"

"His life is forfeit under Scalvaris law." The realization tasted sweeter than honey-mead. There was no diplomatic shield. No Council interference. Just justice, raw and immediate.

It meant just blood.

Zarvash's head tilted. "Need assistance?"

The offer was unexpected. Zarvash commanded strategy, not close-quarters combat. But the look in his eyes held a flicker of something deeper—an understanding that transcended mere territorial disputes.

"No." This kill had to be mine. Alone. The insult was personal; the retribution would be also. "But … I appreciate the information."

He inclined his head, accepting my decision. Then, unexpectedly: "This way." He turned, melting with surprising silence down a narrow side passage I hadn't noticed, barely more than a fissure in the rock. "He favors the abandoned storage caverns. Thinks himself unwatched."

I followed, the anticipation of the hunt tightening every muscle, honing every sense to brutal clarity. The air grew heavier, thick with dust and the musty scent of long disuse. Every drip of moisture, every skittering pebble echoed in the oppressive silence.

The passage widened abruptly into a cavern, vast and shadowed. It was once a storage chamber, now empty save for drifts of dust and the ghosts of forgotten supplies. A perfect hiding place. A perfect killing ground.

And there—stronger now—was the distinctive musk. It was fresh. He was close.

Zarvash faded back toward the entrance, a silent ally positioning himself to cut off escape. He was not interfering. Just … ensuring. I gave him a curt nod of acknowledgment, then advanced deeper into the cavern's heart, my claws silent on the dusty stone floor.

There was a scrape of scale against rock. It was too loud. Too deliberate.

I whirled, wings flaring instinctively, a shadow expanding in the gloom, just as a blade whipped through the air where my throat had been a heartbeat before. The Ignarath—sickly yellow eyes wide with a potent cocktail of hate and fear—lunged from behind a crumbling pillar, desperation lending his movements a wild, unpredictable fury.

"You should have fled Scalvaris when you had the chance," I rumbled, satisfaction a dark curl deep within me. This was better than an ambush. Face to face. Warrior to scum.

"You broke the compact!" he snarled, circling warily, his blade held low. "The Temple?—"

"Temple law offers no sanctuary to shadow-claws operating outside of Scalvaris hospitality." I matched his movements, step for predatory step, letting him feel the weight of my presence, the certainty of his doom. "You are unregistered. Unacknowledged."

Raw fear flashed across his face, momentarily eclipsing the hate. Good. Let him understand. No protection waited for him there. Only death.

"The female isn't yours," he spat, desperation making him reckless, stupid. "Plaktish has plans for all those sky-fallen."

Red. The world dissolved into a haze of pure, killing red. Thought ceased; only the imperative remained.

I lunged.

Not the measured attack of a disciplined warrior. This was older. More primal. Sheer, unmitigated rage given form.

He was fast—credit where it was due. His blade sliced upward, catching a stray beam of light from a distant heat crystal. But I was beyond caution, beyond pain, beyond anything but the need to silence him, to end the threat he represented.

My claws found his weapon arm first, shearing through scale and muscle, grating against bone. He screamed—a high, thin sound that was abruptly satisfying. His blade scored a burning line across my shoulder—a flare of pain quickly consumed by the greater fire within me.

It was unimportant. Nothing mattered but ending him.

He tried to twist away, seeking escape, but I surged forward, wings flaring wide to block his retreat, herding him back against the rough, unforgiving stone of the cavern wall. His eyes darted frantically, twin points of terror seeking an exit that wasn't there. Finding only me.

"What she is," I snarled, advancing steadily, claws digging into the stone, "is utterly beyond your squalid comprehension."

The fear-scent emanating from him was thick now, almost cloying. It was prey fear. Perfect.

"She's nothing!" he spat, a final, futile burst of defiance. "Just human meat! Just?—"

My hand clamped around his throat, fingers digging deep, cutting off the filth spilling from his mouth. I lifted him, his own weight aiding the pressure. His claws scrabbled uselessly against the thick scales of my forearm, drawing blood I barely felt. His eyes bulged, the yellow irises swimming in white. Terror now. Raw. Absolute.

"She," I growled, the word scratched from somewhere ancient and possessive within my soul, "is mine ." The claim resonated, a binding truth spoken into the shadowed space. "And you touched her."

Truth. Sentence. Execution.

One sharp, brutal twist. The sickening crack echoed, swallowed by the vastness of the cavern. It was finality. Silence.

I let the body drop, a limp weight thudding onto the dusty floor. Satisfaction warred with the lingering rage in my blood. It wasn't enough. He should have suffered longer, paid more dearly for daring to lay his filthy claws upon her. For threatening her. For the plans he mentioned …

No. I couldn't allow my thoughts to linger there. That path led toward a madness I couldn't afford.

"Efficient," came Zarvash's cool voice from the entrance. It was calm. Approving. "If somewhat … intense."

I turned, my chest still heaving, the metallic tang of blood—his and mine—sharp in the air. It cooled quickly on my scales in the cavern's depths. "He deserved far worse."

"No argument," Zarvash replied, moving forward to examine the corpse with detached, clinical interest. "I will arrange for this … disposal. Quietly." A pause, then those assessing copper eyes fixed on me again. "Your human must be truly … remarkable."

Something in his tone snagged my attention. It was not mockery. Not judgment. A flicker of something akin to … understanding? Or perhaps merely strategic curiosity. Strange, considering Zarvash's feeling on human mates only a few months ago.

"She is," I stated simply. Denying it now, after this, would be pointless. Futile.

That flicker of teeth again, the not-quite smile. "Interesting times lie ahead, Khorlar." He gestured with his snout toward the gash across my shoulder, where blood still welled sluggishly. "You should have that tended to."

I grunted. The wound was shallow. Nothing. Already clotting against the cool air. "I need to return to her."

His expression shifted minutely, a subtle acknowledgment. "Of course." A knowing look that, coming from anyone else, would have ignited my fury anew. From Zarvash … it felt merely perceptive. "The Ignarath will not attempt this again. Not directly. Not after this message has been … received."

"They had better not." The growl rumbled, low and menacing.

"No." His gaze flicked briefly to the corpse. "I believe the point has been made quite clearly."

I left him there to manage the aftermath, trusting his discretion, his strategic mind. Trusting him to ensure this act of necessary justice wouldn't create inconvenient political ripples for Darrokar or the Council.

The killing rage had subsided, leaving behind something just as powerful, but colder, sharper. A bone-deep certainty. A fierce, unwavering protectiveness that resonated beyond duty, beyond honor, beyond even the primal claiming-fever of the bond.

She was mine . And I would eradicate anyone, anything, that dared threaten her.

My steps quickened as I ascended, heading back toward our quarters, toward her . The drying blood—his and mine—caked on my scales would need cleansing before I faced her. She couldn't see me like this. Not yet. The warrior unleashed was not something she was ready for.

But soon … soon we would have to confront what simmered between us. What had been undeniable from that first shared glance across a field of wreckage, that first intoxicating brush of her scent. Soon, she would need to understand the truth.

She wasn't merely under my protection.

She was under my skin. In my blood.