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NARANUS

T he sun hangs low, bleeding against the horizon, casting deep gashes of crimson and gold across the training grounds. The sand beneath my feet is hot, scorched by the lingering heat of the day, the smell of charred earth clinging to the wind.

Eryss stands in the center of the arena, her gown stripped away, replaced by a fitted tunic and tight leathers meant for warriors, not brides.

Good.

The circle of my kin watches in silence, their hulking forms perched along the jagged edges of the stone ledges. Their expressions unreadable, their judgment sharp. They are waiting. Expecting weakness. Expecting the purna to crumble beneath my hand.

I have given them little reason to think otherwise.

But the woman before me is no lamb.

She lifts her chin as I prowl forward, the tilt of her head a silent challenge. No fear lingers in those storm-gray eyes, no hesitation in the way her stance settles into something firm, balanced.

She will break before she bows.

The thought rakes through me, unsettling in a way I do not care to name.

I roll my shoulders, letting my wings shift and flex before settling. “You claim to be more than a prisoner,” I murmur, circling her slowly. The heat between us thickens, tension winding tight, coiling sharp. “Prove it.”

She does not speak.

Does not flinch.

The blade at my hip hums as I draw it, the curved steel whispering against the sheath, the weight of it familiar in my grip. I toss it at her feet, watching as she glances down, as her fingers curl instinctively.

A moment. A hesitation.

She is unarmed.

She is trained.

But her magic remains locked beneath purna chains, sealed by the hands of those who sent her here to die.

I step back, folding my arms. “Pick it up.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, calculating. Searching for the trap.

She finds none.

Slowly, she crouches, fingers wrapping around the hilt. The blade is too large for her, a weapon made for something stronger, heavier. But she does not waver beneath its weight. She tests the balance, the sharpness, the shift of it in her grip.

She has held a blade before.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”

The words are still leaving my lips when she lunges.

She moves fast. Faster than I expected.

The steel arcs toward me, a silver blur in the dying light. I sidestep, angling my body just out of reach, watching the way she adjusts, recalibrates. Her footwork is light, practiced. She pivots smoothly, dragging the blade in a sweeping strike meant to force me back.

I let her have the movement.

Let her think she has control. So I can strike

The moment she commits to the swing, I step into her guard, gripping her wrist. She gasps, jerking against me, but I twist sharply, forcing the blade from her grasp. It clatters against the sand.

I expect her to retreat. To falter.

She does neither.

Instead, she uses the shift of momentum to kick out, aiming for my ribs.

The impact is solid. Not strong enough to break, but enough to make me react. My grip on her wrist loosens, and she wrenches herself free, staggering back, chest rising and falling with sharp, measured breaths.

The arena is silent.

I straighten, rolling my jaw, letting the sting settle where her boot connected.

Interesting.

I swipe a thumb along my bottom lip. “Not bad.”

She exhales sharply. “Not finished.”

Something dark and hungry curls low in my gut.

She lunges again.

I let her come. Let her reach for the weapon at my side.

But this time, I do not allow her to land a strike.

I move before she can react, my arm shooting out, catching her mid-motion. She chokes as I pull her in, slamming her against my chest, wings flaring wide, casting us in shadow. My hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back, exposing her throat.

Her pulse thrums wildly beneath my grip.

Heat radiates from her skin, her breath warm against my jaw.

I lean in enough that she can feel the way my chest rises against hers, the way my fingers tighten against her scalp. “If you had your magic,” I murmur, low, dangerous, “you would have burned me alive by now, wouldn’t you?”

She says nothing.

But the answer is there, written in the sharpness of her breath, the way her body goes rigid beneath my hold.

A slow, indulgent smirk curls across my lips.

Good.

I release her abruptly, shoving her back. She stumbles, catching herself, eyes blazing with something sharp-edged and wild.

Before she can speak, a tremor rakes through me, sudden and brutal.

I snarl, staggering back, my hands flying to my chest as the fractures beneath my skin split wider, molten heat flaring along my ribs. A curse tears from my throat as my body betrays me, the magic snarling in protest, fighting to unmake me from the inside out.

Not in front of them.

The stone cracks further, creeping up my throat, across my jaw. The whispers in my bones grow louder, the curse shifting, unraveling.

Eryss steps forward, hesitation flickering across her features.

I force myself back. “Stay.”

The word is guttural, barely understandable.

I turn sharply, striding away from the arena, away from the watchful gazes that will only see weakness in the cracks beneath my skin.

Behind me, the woman watches.

She does not follow.

She does not kneel.

Damn me, but I think I almost respect her for it.