Page 5

5

ERYSS

T he stronghold breathes around me.

Not the way a living thing does, not with lungs and heartbeat, but with stone shifting, with the hum of something ancient curling through the walls. The fortress pulses with magic buried so deep in its bones that even now, creeping through its corridors with the enchanted dagger pressed against my thigh, I feel it pressing against my skin.

I shouldn’t be here.

The thought is useless.

I am already moving, bare feet silent against the cold floor, my body pressed to the shadows. My pulse thrums, each measured step keeping time with the flickering torches that line the hallway. The entrance to Naranus’s chambers looms ahead, massive iron doors marked with sigils I don’t recognize. The runes glow faintly, a deep embered red, as if carved from molten rock.

A warning. Or a challenge.

I exhale through my nose and press forward.

Two guards stand at the threshold, their enormous, stone-blooded bodies cast in sharp relief by the firelight. Their wings are folded tight against their backs, tails flicking with restless energy. They don’t speak. They barely move. But their presence is a barricade, a reminder that no one enters the chambers of their warlord without consequence.

My hold on the dagger’s hilt tightens, and I lower myself into a crouch, pressing my back against the cold stone.

I wait.

A flicker of movement, one of the guards shifts, cracking his neck, muttering something under his breath. The other exhales sharply, wings twitching. They are growing restless.

Good.

I reach into the band at my hip and retrieve the vial tucked against my waist. The liquid inside swirls, dark and thick as ink, its smell sharp even through the glass. It’s not a weapon, not in the traditional sense. But it’s useful.

I hurl it against the wall behind them.

The vial shatters. The contents splatter.

The effect is instant.

The smell of burning resin floods the hallway, curling in thick, acrid waves. The guards react immediately, snapping their heads toward the noise, their bodies tensing. One lets out a guttural curse, his face twisting. “What in the?—”

I move before he can finish.

I slip past them, into the chamber beyond, my body a streak of shadow against the threshold.

The doors shut behind me, cutting off the sound of their confusion.

Silence.

The room stretches before me, vast and cavernous, the walls lined with ancient stone carvings, the ceiling lost in darkness. The space is designed for something larger than human comfort. Tapestries hang in thick swathes of crimson and black, their woven sigils stitched in the same script I have yet to decipher. The air is thick, warm and laced with something electric.

At the far end of the chamber, he sleeps.

Or at least, he appears to.

Naranus lies across the massive bed, half turned away, his broad back exposed to the firelight. His wings are partially unfurled, twitching slightly as if some unseen force pulls at them. The lines of his body are rigid even in rest, every muscle carved from tension, his fingers half-curled as though he’s prepared to strike even in sleep.

The fractures along his skin glow faintly.

Thin, molten cracks spread along his shoulders, his spine, his arms, pulsing with the same unraveled energy I saw before. The effect is both grotesque and mesmerizing, his flesh fighting itself, caught between stone and something more fragile.

My grip on the dagger tightens.

This is my moment.

He is vulnerable.

This close, I can see the fine edges of his fangs resting against his lower lip, the curve of his throat where the pulse of his life beats slow, steady. I just have to move. Just have to press the blade deep enough to make it count.

A single breath.

A single strike.

My fingers tremble.

The dagger does not move.

I watch as his brows furrow, his jaw tightening as though pain drags him under, even in sleep. A sharp inhale shudders through his chest, his claws flexing against the sheets before curling again.

A sound escapes him.

Low. Rough. Not a growl.

A wince.

Something inside my stomach twists.

This is not how he was meant to look.

I was told he was a monster. A warlord wrapped in blood and cruelty, a creature who would tear through flesh without hesitation, who would revel in the suffering of my kind.

But this thing before me, this ruined god of molten wounds and restless sleep is something else entirely.

Something… broken.

The realization digs its teeth into my chest, violent and unwelcome.

I should strike.

I should slit his throat before my resolve slips further.

Instead, my feet remain planted.

A crack splinters along his shoulder, light spilling through the wound like fire through shattered stone. A hiss curls between his lips, his breathing growing heavier. His body shifts, his wings twitching, his tail flicking against the bed.

His eyes snap open.

Molten gold.

Burning. Watching.

I react instantly, jerking back, my dagger still clutched tight, but he moves faster.

One second, he’s lying prone.

The next, I’m slammed against the nearest wall, the impact knocking me out of breath, his clawed hand wrapped tight around my wrist. My dagger clatters to the floor.

His body presses against mine, hot and solid, trapping me with ease. His free hand grips my throat, not squeezing, not yet, but holding, his fingers pressing against my pulse. His breath skates across my jaw, heavy, rough.

I struggle, my nails digging into his wrist, but he doesn’t budge.

His voice is a slow, dark rasp. “Trying to kill me in my sleep, little bride?”

My teeth clench.

He lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound curling against my skin, sharp with something unreadable. “And here I thought you had more patience than that.”

I shift, my muscles straining against his hold. “Let me go.”

His grip tightens just slightly.

His gaze drags over my face, searching. Reading. His fingers twitch against my pulse. “You hesitated.”

I go still.

His smirk deepens.

“You had the chance to kill me,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, rough with something I don’t want to recognize. “And yet, here we are.”

Heat pools in my stomach, wretched and electric. My chest heaves against his. The smell of him, dark, molten, rich with something unearthly, presses against me like an unseen weight.

His eyes darken, something flickering beneath their surface.

Abruptly, he releases me.

I stumble forward, breath ragged, heart hammering.

He steps back, watching, his smirk lingering.

The door creaks open behind me, the soft sound of approaching guards filtering in.

His voice is smooth, indulgent. “Take the bride back to her chamber.”

I stiffen.

The guards move forward, gripping my arms, their hold firm but not cruel.

Naranus watches as I’m pulled away, amusement curling at the edges of his expression.

I bite the inside of my cheek, swallowing the venom rising up my throat.

This was my moment. I wasted it.