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9

ELIRA

I crouch beneath the fractured archway of the old ruin, trembling in the aftermath of my desperate flight.

My right arm throbs from overexerting my magic, and each shallow breath tastes of dust and fear.

The evening light filtering through crumbling stone pillars casts strange shadows across the cracked floor, remnants of a hall that once served as a grand temple—now it’s little more than a husk.

Broken statues litter the corners, features worn away by centuries of wind and rain.

Sweat mats my hair to my forehead, and my lungs protest each shaky inhale.

But I can’t risk lingering near the entrance, not while the Overlord’s enforcer prowls the countryside.

My illusions are weakened by exhaustion, my spells drained from that last frantic confrontation.

Beyond these defaced walls, the night grows darker, and with it, my dread of being discovered.

The temple’s roof has long since collapsed, leaving only partial stone arches overhead.

A few half-toppled columns lean at precarious angles.

At the far end, I see a smaller alcove or side chamber, half-buried in rubble.

It’s a better hiding place than out here in the open.

Swallowing hard, I push to my feet, one hand braced against the cold stone for balance.

My battered cloak drags across the uneven floor, leaving a faint trail of grit.

The thought of Vaelin Duskbane sends an involuntary shudder through me.

Even now, my magic hums with the echo of our clash—like a chord still vibrating in the aftermath of a thunderous note.

My shoulder smarts where he struck me with the flat of his blade, a reminder that I nearly ended up in his custody.

I think of his eyes, iced steel that burned hotter than any of my illusions.

A swirling mix of anger, fear, and something else I can’t quite name lingers in my chest.

Every time I recall his face, a conflicting flutter runs through me—an unsteady mix of loathing and fascination.

Focus, Elira, I tell myself fiercely.

There’s no room for indulgent wonder when my life hangs in the balance.

I make my way deeper into the ruin, boots crunching over fragments of fallen masonry.

The air here carries a stale tang, with moss creeping over every surface.

Eventually, I find that recessed chamber—a smaller space flanked by columns that once bore carved reliefs.

Now the images are too eroded to read.

A few large stone blocks tilt precariously, forming a partial roof.

Water drips from some hidden crevice, creating a shallow puddle in the corner.

Cautiously, I lower myself onto a chunk of stone that might have been part of a statue’s base.

My entire body aches from the constant flight, the illusions woven under tension, and the Space-Time magic that nearly tore me apart.

My limbs feel heavy, my eyelids half-lidded.

I need rest, even a moment’s respite, to gather enough strength for a healing spell or at least to numb the pain in my shoulder.

I close my eyes, trying to center myself.

My breath quivers, magic stirring just beneath my skin—weak, but alive.

I can’t stay here long, I remind myself.

But if I don’t rest, I won’t get far anyway.

A sudden noise pricks my ears.

Footsteps, faint but unmistakable, scraping against rubble.

My heart seizes. Instinct flares—I press myself behind a fallen slab, ignoring the protest in my shoulder.

The flicker of illusions I can still muster shimmers around me, hopefully rendering me a blur in the dim light.

If it’s Vaelin, I might not stand a chance.

I’m too depleted to outrun him again.

I hold my breath, waiting.

My pulse pounds so loudly I’m certain anyone within ten paces can hear it.

A figure steps into the ruined chamber.

Even in the gloom, I recognize his tall silhouette, the broad shoulders draped in a dark cloak.

Silver hair, faintly catching what’s left of the waning light.

His posture is off—he moves stiffly, as though injured.

The breath I’ve been holding escapes in a silent hiss.

Vaelin.

He presses a hand to his side, wincing.

My illusions might be enough to keep him from spotting me instantly, but if he lingers, he’ll sense my magic.

He always does. My gaze drops to the dark stain spreading across his black tunic.

A slash? Blood seeps between his fingers, shining wetly in the half-light.

My gut clenches. He’s wounded.

Possibly from our last encounter, or from some other fight.

Still, he’s on his feet, scanning the shadows as if searching for a specter.

Our eyes meet—or at least, I sense his gaze lock onto the faint distortion of my illusions.

My heart hammers. There’s no point in hiding now.

The illusions flicker out, my energy too drained to sustain them.

Vaelin tenses, sword hand twitching, but he doesn’t attack.

He staggers, leaning against a half-broken pillar, breath ragged.

I rise slowly, muscles trembling, every instinct screaming at me to flee.

But my legs feel too heavy, my magic too weak.

“How did you find me?” I ask,whispering.

His features tighten.

“I… followed your trail,” he manages, as though each word costs him.

“Sensed your illusions in this place.” His eyes flick over me, lingering on my battered state.

His gaze, even pained, has that unsettling intensity.

“You’re not… well, either.”

I laugh, a hollow sound.

“No thanks to you,” I mumble, one hand absently rubbing the bruise on my shoulder.

He grimaces, as though recalling the blow.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Tension coils between us, thick enough to choke on.

He’s the Overlord’s weapon, unstoppable—yet he’s bleeding, his obsidian skin smeared with blood, his eyes glazed with pain.

I consider letting him collapse, ignoring him entirely.

But something stirs within me, an odd pang of concern.

Why should I care?

I push aside the feeling, telling myself it’s only practical.

If he dies here, that might attract more Dark Elves to the area.

Or maybe it’s just that I can’t watch a wounded person suffer, no matter the circumstances.

Carefully, I reach into my satchel, fingers brushing over a small pouch of herbs.

“Your side… you’re bleeding,” I say curtly.

His jaw tightens, a flick of annoyance crossing his expression.

“I’ll manage.”

Even in agony, he’s proud.

My lips press into a thin line.

“Fine, bleed to death if you want,” I snap, though part of me regrets the harshness.

Then, I remember who he is—the Overlord’s enforcer—and swallow the pity that threatens to rise.

He’d capture me given half a chance.

Keep your guard up.

Before either of us can speak again, a faint roar rumbles from outside the ruin.

My spine stiffens. The noise resonates through the broken walls, like a half-feral screech that sets my nerves on fire.

I trade a startled look with Vaelin.

The breath catches in my throat.

That sounded neither human nor typical beast.

Another roar echoes, this one closer.

The ground trembles as if something massive lumbers across the ancient courtyard.

My eyes dart to Vaelin’s.

I see alarm flicker there.

He pushes off the pillar, wincing at the effort, and attempts to draw his sword.

Fresh blood stains his side, but he manages to stand erect.

“This place… there’s a Wildspont nearby,” he says in a hoarse whisper.

A wave of dread washes over me.

Wildsponts are regions where magic seeps from the earth unchecked, birthing monstrous abominations.

“You think those creatures followed us here?” I ask, voice shaky.

He nods, scanning the collapsed walls.

“Likely. We stirred the area with our battle, and they probably smelled blood. They’ll come.”

A metallic clang reverberates from outside, followed by the scrape of claws on stone.

My heart gallops. In my current state, fighting off monstrous spawn from a Wildspont is nearly impossible.

Even with Vaelin at full strength, we’d have a challenge.

But he’s clearly wounded, and I’m just as depleted.

This is bad.

We share a single urgent look.

Somehow, in that glance, understanding passes between us.

We might be enemies, but the monstrous roars approach from multiple sides.

The only chance of survival is to work together, at least for now.

Vaelin breathes hard.

“We have to fortify this spot. Fewer entrances here.” He motions to the half-collapsed chamber we stand in.

“They’ll come through the main hall.”

I bite my lip, summoning what little energy remains.

“I can cast illusions,” I say softly, “something to deter them, but I’m not sure how long I can maintain it.”

He nods, acknowledging my exhaustion.

Then he gestures to a chunk of broken stone.

“We can block the archway. Force them into a bottleneck.” Even as he speaks, his voice wavers.

He’s losing blood. Another roar jolts us into motion.

Together, we scramble to shift debris.

My shoulder screams in protest. Vaelin, despite his injury, leverages his superior strength to shove large stones into a makeshift barrier.

Dust stings my eyes.

We manage to create a narrow channel leading into this side chamber, forcing anything that enters to funnel through a single gap.

It won’t hold forever, but it’s something.

My magic flickers along the edges of my senses as I push illusions outward, layering them over the collapsed archway to create the impression of solid stone.

If the creatures rely on sight or basic cunning, they might hesitate.

My head pounds with the strain.

Not too much longer, I tell myself.

Just hold on.

No sooner do we brace ourselves behind the half-broken pillar than shadows ripple across the ruin’s entrance.

A trio of beasts skulks in, shapes reminiscent of oversized hyenas with elongated limbs and twisted jaws.

Their eyes glow with an eerie luminescence, evidence of arcane corruption.

One sniffs the air, slime dripping from a mouth filled with needlelike teeth.

Vaelin tenses at my side, sword poised.

I can sense his ragged breathing.

The moment the first beast steps forward, illusions swirl around it—my attempt to confuse.

It snarls, swiping at phantom shapes.

But the trick only slows it a few heartbeats.

These monsters, born of chaotic magic, won’t be fooled for long.

With a guttural snarl, the beast leaps over the rubble.

Vaelin lunges, ignoring the pain in his body.

His blade arcs through the air, catching the creature across its shoulder.

Green-black ichor splatters the crumbling floor.

Another monstrosity charges from the left, hissing.

I fling a wave of force at it, but it’s weaker than I’d like.

The creature staggers, then recovers with an earsplitting roar.

Panic floods my veins.

My illusions won’t hold these abominations off forever.

As Vaelin tangles with the first, the second leaps for me, claws outstretched.

I scramble backward, nearly slipping on the rubble.

My mind races, weaving a quick transformative spell aimed at the beast’s front limbs.

The magic lances my skull with pain, but the creature’s forepaws contort, partially stiffening into stone.

It crashes onto its side, howling in confusion.

I gasp, reeling from the effort.

The final beast remains near the entrance, prowling with caution.

Vaelin dispatches the first with a brutal thrust, then staggers.

Blood drips onto the stones.

He’s going pale. My stomach twists.

If he collapses, I’m next.

The creature I partially petrified flails, smashing into a pillar.

The structure groans ominously.

Stone shards rain down, and a chunk of the overhead arch breaks free.

I leap aside, narrowly avoiding being crushed.

Dust chokes the air.

The monstrous thing tries to shake off the petrification, flesh warping under the chaotic surge of its own twisted magic.

An unspoken understanding sparks between Vaelin and me.

We press forward simultaneously—he slices with lethal precision, while I unleash the last dregs of my illusions to blind the creature’s sight.

It thrashes, disoriented, and Vaelin lands a vicious strike at its throat.

Another spray of greenish fluid, and it collapses with a final shriek.

Only the last beast remains, pacing at the entrance, perhaps wary of our defenses.

My chest heaves, body trembling.

Vaelin limps, sword tip dragging.

The beast snarls, shifting its weight as though preparing a final charge.

Through the haze of dust, I see Vaelin lock eyes with me.

“Together,” he rasps.

I nod, forcing air into my lungs.

He grips his sword in both hands, ignoring the agony that must be coursing through him.

I gather what scant force remains, letting illusions swirl around the beast’s head.

For an instant, it hesitates, snapping at intangible shapes.

Vaelin lunges. The creature tries to dodge, but it’s slowed by confusion.

With one swift, punishing blow, he severs its spine.

It slumps onto the rubble, twitching.

A sickening hush falls.

For several heartbeats, we remain motionless, listening for any more roars.

None come. My illusions fade.

The temple echoes with the ragged cadence of our breathing.

Shuddering, I sink to my knees.

My entire body is numb with exhaustion, my magic spent.

Vaelin stumbles, sword clattering from his grip as he braces himself against a fallen column.

The stench of ichor coats the air.

We’re surrounded by monstrous carcasses, each oozing vile fluid.

Half the chamber lies in ruin, fresh cracks spiderwebbing the walls.

I fight nausea, pressing a hand to my mouth.

If not for Vaelin’s swordsmanship—and my illusions—those creatures would have torn us to pieces.

Vaelin slumps against the column, head bowed.

Blood seeps from his side, dangerously bright.

He’s panting, face drawn.

Without thinking, I crawl toward him, ignoring the voice in my head that screams He’s your enemy.

But I can’t let him die.

Not after we just fought side by side.

My heart beats wildly, conflicting impulses vying for dominance.

I reach him, placing a trembling hand on his shoulder.

“You’re hurt,” I say uselessly, my throat tight.

He grits his teeth, refusing to meet my gaze.

A moment later, his knees buckle.

I help him ease down, biting my lip at the sight of his wound.

The gash is deep, likely reopened from our battle.

Blood mats his tunic, sliding down his abdomen in rivulets.

Wordlessly, I dig into my satchel, retrieving healing salves and a strip of bandage.

My fingers shake, but I force them steady.

Vaelin’s gaze finally meets mine, a swirl of caution and something else burning there.

“Why… help me?” he croaks.

I swallow. “Because… you fought with me. Because those creatures would have killed us both if not for you.” My voice hovers between anger and reluctant gratitude.

“And maybe… maybe I’m not as cruel as your Overlord.”

He exhales a shaky breath.

No retort. When I press the salve against the wound, he hisses, jerking.

But he doesn’t push me away.

Gently, I wrap the bandage around his torso, ignoring the sticky warmth of blood on my hands.

Each hiss of pain from him makes me flinch.

I was raised to despise Dark Elves for their cruelty.

But here, in this ruin, he’s simply a wounded man.

The confusion knots in my stomach, intensifying.

At last, the bleeding slows.

Vaelin sags, half-conscious.

My own head spins from the magical exertion.

We can’t leave; we’d never make it far in our conditions.

So I shuffle us away from the carcasses, deeper into the corner of the side chamber where the air is a bit clearer.

I brace him against a chunk of stone, ensuring he’s at least upright.

My chest burns from overuse of illusions and transformations, each breath an ache.

A charged silence settles between us.

The memory of that battle clangs in my mind—the moment we fought together, not as hunter and prey, but as partners.

It’s a stark shift from how we faced each other a day ago, swords drawn and illusions swirling.

The tension changes quality, from violent to something…

uncertain. My pulse flutters, a wave of dizziness mixing with an inexplicable heat.

His obsidian skin, smeared with drying blood, glistens in the faint illumination that filters through the broken roof.

I try to look away, but I keep glancing back, an odd awareness prickling my cheeks.

He notices. His gaze locks onto mine, and I feel pinned in place, as though some gravitational pull tethers us.

I remember the moment in the courtyard when our eyes met, the confusion and attraction that flared.

Now, with adrenaline spiking my senses, that draw seems magnified.

My heart hammers. No.

This can’t be real. He’s the Overlord’s enforcer, a man who hunts purnas.

Yet the air crackles with unspoken electricity, neither of us able to deny it.

“Elira,” he murmurs, voice rough.

The sound of my name in his mouth sends a shiver down my spine.

I hate that it does.

My rational mind screams that this is dangerous, a swirl of illusions I should dispel.

But my body, pulsing with leftover adrenaline, betrays me with its longing for…

something.

I search his face, expecting the usual steeled resolve, but I see doubt, conflict, and a flicker of—gods forbid—desire.

Heat flushes my cheeks.

“We should… keep watch,” I stammer, forcing my gaze away.

The night is thick with threats, and we’re in no state to run if more creatures come.

He nods, but his gaze lingers.

I sense his breathing deepen, chest expanding against the bandage.

My own breath wavers, parted lips struggling for composure.

The hush of the ruined temple feels far too intimate.

The battered walls, the starlight, the memory of us standing shoulder to shoulder against monsters—everything collides in a swirl of raw emotion.

Our eyes meet again.

My pulse thuds, unstoppable.

Neither of us speaks.

A thousand reasons to stay separate crowd my mind, all overshadowed by a visceral magnetism.

He shifts closer, ignoring his wound.

Before I can think, we’re leaning toward each other, drawn by a force neither can quell.

When our mouths touch, the tension that’s been building erupts in a blaze of sensation.

It’s far from gentle—more like a clash of wills that melts into fierce hunger.

His lips are warm, slightly chapped, tasting of iron and desperation.

I shudder, surprising myself with how fiercely I respond, fists tangling in the collar of his tunic.

Every nerve screams that this is wrong.

But the flush of adrenaline, the relief of surviving together, drowns caution in a tide of impulsive need.

He groans softly, one hand sliding around my waist, cautious of my bruised shoulder but still firm enough to make my heart stutter.

The pressure of his mouth intensifies, an urgent, seeking rhythm that coaxes answers from me I never intended to give.

My magic flickers around our joined forms, sparks of stray illusions dancing in the periphery, as if responding to the chaotic swirl of my emotions.

For a heartbeat, I want to tear away, to snarl that he’s my enemy.

But that impetus dissolves under the sheer force of our kiss—a collision that feels inevitable.

We’re pressed together, battered bodies and roiling hearts, channeling the leftover fury and fear into heated contact.

My fingers curl in his hair, feeling the damp strands.

When our lips part, we gasp for air.

A storm of conflicting feelings churns in my chest. Fear of what he represents, anger at his pursuit, gratitude for his help, desire ignited by adrenaline.

It all tangles into something raw.

And he looks equally shaken, eyes dark with an emotion I can’t fully decipher.

Time seems to suspend as we exchange another fraught kiss, gentler this time but no less intense.

His mouth moves over mine with tentative exploration, a soft question and an urgent plea wrapped together.

I respond in kind, half-lost in the swirl of sensation.

The temple’s ruinous walls fade from my consciousness, replaced by the taste and feel of him.

For a moment, there’s only the rasp of our breathing, the rasp of fabric as I press closer, ignoring the ache in my bones.

He lifts a hand to cradle my cheek, and I jolt at the warmth of his touch, so contrary to the rumors of his cold efficiency.

My heart thrashes in my chest, uncertain but unwilling to stop.

Neither of us speaks, as if any words might shatter this fragile, impulsive truce.

Instead, we let our bodies communicate—hesitant caresses that skim across bruised skin, a brush of lips that deepens into urgent closeness.

Desire coils tight in my core, a throbbing heartbeat that demands release.

I sense a mirror of that longing in the trembling of his muscles, the way his grip tightens at my waist.

Yet for all the hunger, pain and exhaustion curb our reckless impulses.

Every shift of our limbs draws a gasp from either one of us—his wound, my bruises.

We cling to each other, half delirious from the synergy of relief and want, uncertain how to proceed without aggravating injuries.

The rawness of it pulses in the charged air.

When we finally break apart, our foreheads rest together, breathing ragged.

My cheeks burn, not just from desire but from the realization of what we’re doing.

He’s a Dark Elf enforcer.

I’m the Purna witch he’s meant to capture.

We’ve forged a tenuous bond through shared peril, but the real world lies beyond these crumbling walls, hostile and unrelenting.

We exchange a fractured look, chests rising and falling in unison.

My lips tingle from his kisses.

My mind reels, searching for something to say that isn’t an accusation or a confession.

In the end, I manage only a shaky exhale.

“We… we should rest,” I whisper, voice thick with residual passion.

He nods, a haunted expression flitting across his face.

I see conflict swirl behind his eyes—the same swirling tide I feel.

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he shifts gingerly, adjusting his weight against the stone.

His wound still seeps, though less profusely.

The bandage is stained red.

A wave of regret and confusion crashes over me.

Another roar from somewhere outside the ruin reminds me how precarious our position is.

We can’t afford to dwell too long on this moment.

My lips still feel swollen, and the memory of his touch lingers on my skin like a brand.

Carefully, I ease down beside him.

My body screams for rest. We’re an odd tableau—Dark Elf enforcer and hunted witch, pressed together in the corner of a broken temple, each battered and drained, both trembling from a single stolen encounter.

My heart hasn’t slowed, but my eyelids droop with fatigue.

I sense Vaelin shift, a quiet acceptance that we need each other’s presence to keep watch.

Without a word, I nestle closer.

His arm settles around my shoulders in a hesitant gesture, more protective than possessive.

Our mutual exhaustion dulls the edges of hostility.

For a fleeting moment, I allow myself the luxury of leaning into his warmth, listening to his heartbeat, letting the adrenaline fade.

“Just until morning,” I murmur, half to myself.

“Then…” My voice trails off, uncertain how to complete that sentence.

Then we return to being enemies?

Then we run again?

He doesn’t answer.

I sense his chest expand as he exhales, and his fingers twitch against my arm.

The silent tension bristles with unspoken possibilities, none of them simple.

We remain locked in that fragile moment, the wreckage of the temple a testament to lives once lived, the monstrous carcasses a grim reminder of the dangers that loom.

Eventually, my eyes close.

Sleep claims me with surprising swiftness, the day’s countless battles draining every last scrap of energy.

Vaelin’s presence, alarmingly enough, provides a fragile sense of safety.

My final conscious thought hovers between fear, guilt, and the faintest ember of longing for something I can’t define.

I wake to the gray light of dawn filtering through the broken arch, my body stiff and sore.

Vaelin is still beside me, propped against the stone, though he stirs at my movement.

Our limbs disengage awkwardly, accompanied by a fresh wave of reality.

He tenses, likely recalling our precarious circumstances.

An ache throbs in my chest, not purely physical.

The memory of last night’s impulsive embrace flares, and I see the echo of it in his uneasy gaze.

Our eyes meet, and a flush warms my cheeks.

The hush that follows is weighted with shame, wonder, and a dozen tangled emotions.

We shift apart, carefully.

I rub my aching shoulder, wincing.

He checks his wound with a grimace.

The bandage held, but he still looks pale.

The faint morning breeze trickles in, carrying the smell of blood and decay from the carcasses outside.

Soon, the acrid stench of monstrous remains might draw scavengers or, worse, more horrors.

He glances at the battered archway, expression guarded.

“We… survived,” he says softly, voice hoarse.

It’s all he can muster.

There’s no mention of the moment we shared.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

“Yes,” I reply, forcing myself to my feet.

My body complains, but I manage to stand.

“We need to leave. Wildspont creatures might return. And…” My words fade.

And what happens with us?

Our ephemeral truce can’t last, can it?

He hauls himself upright, wincing.

The tension thickens again.

We stand a step apart, the memory of heated kisses an invisible tether neither acknowledges out loud.

My heart hammers with the realization that nothing has changed about our predicament.

He remains the Overlord’s enforcer, I remain his quarry, and the world beyond these ruins demands we pick sides.

I swallow against the lump in my throat.

“Last night… we were just surviving,” I mutter, half to reassure myself.

A flicker of hurt or regret flickers in his eyes, gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

A curt nod is his only reply.

Then he retrieves his sword, sliding it into the scabbard.

That single gesture triggers a surge of alarm in my mind—my illusions are still drained.

If he decides to seize me, how hard would it be in my current state?

The memory of our uneasy cooperation wars with the knowledge that duty might override whatever moment we shared.

I steel myself, gathering the faint dregs of magic left.

The next words slip out before I can censor them: “If you still plan to take me… you’ll have to fight me again.” My tone is defiant, even though I’m barely standing.

He exhales, gaze dropping to the floor.

“I… I have orders,” he says, voice stiff.

Then he lifts his eyes, and the swirl of conflict returns, etched in every nook and cranny of his face.

“But I can’t do it. Not now. Not… after last night. We shared something we can’t explain.”

An odd sense of relief loosens the knot in my chest, though caution warns me he might change his mind later.

“Then… let me go,” I say softly, heart pounding.

It’s a plea as much as a demand.

Silence stretches. Somewhere beyond the broken walls, a crow caws, cutting the hush.

Slowly, Vaelin nods, as if each muscle rebels against the motion.

His next words emerge in a broken whisper: “Go.”

My eyes burn unexpectedly.

I force a brisk nod of thanks.

Without waiting for further argument, I gather my satchel, ignoring the trembling in my limbs.

I slip past him, careful to avoid meeting his gaze.

He doesn’t move to stop me.

My pulse roars in my ears, a swirl of gratitude and a pang of something suspiciously like heartbreak.

Crossing the threshold of the ruin, I step into the scattered rubble where the monstrous bodies lie.

Flies buzz around the remains.

Wrinkling my nose, I pick my way through the carnage, each step hammering home the reality of what happened here.

At the periphery, the morning sun peeks over the horizon, painting the sky in pale gold.

I pause, glancing back over my shoulder.

Vaelin stands at the chamber, shadowed by half-toppled pillars, hand pressed to his side.

The bandage I tied remains the only barrier between him and death by blood loss.

A thousand words clog my throat—apologies, warnings, or maybe the simple admission that something significant changed between us.

But I say nothing. We both know acknowledging it won’t alter the paths we’re on.

So I turn away, heart pounding, and limp into the dawn.

Each step feels heavier than it should, weighed down by confusion and a lingering warmth from that single, forbidden moment of closeness.

Romance has no place in this war-torn world, especially not between a hunted witch and the Dark Elf sworn to capture her.

Yet that’s exactly what ignited in the hush of night, raw and undeniable.

I force myself to keep moving, forging a path across the broken courtyard, slipping into the overgrown fields beyond.

My senses remain alert for new threats, but my thoughts circle back to Vaelin—his wounded stance, the fleeting gentleness in his touch, the protectiveness in the way he shielded me from monstrous claws.

Despite everything, a treacherous part of me yearns to see him again.

The memory of his lips, the taste of desperate longing, lingers like a brand upon my soul.

With each step, I try to crush that yearning.

We are enemies. The Overlord’s enforcer is not my ally.

One night of truce, one wave of passion, can’t undo the deeper conflict.

The rising sun warms my back as I vanish into the tall grass, exhaustion dogging every footstep.

My battered body demands rest. But the memory of his arms around me, the hushed murmur of my name on his lips, urges me forward—carrying me into the unknown with my heart tangled in contradictory threads of fear and something dangerously close to hope.