Page 5 of Scorched by Fate (Drakarn Mates #3)

FIVE

VYNE

Hammer struck metal. The sound echoed all around the forge, ringing in my ears. I forced rhythm into the chaos, controlling each movement. The forge’s heat clawed at my scales—hot even for a Drakarn—but I didn’t let myself pause. Each strike burned more energy into the tools taking shape beneath my claws.

Forceps. Scalpel. Something articulated, precise.

These weren’t weapons. But the urgency was the same.

Sweat gathered along the edges of my scales as the tools inched closer to completion. The alloy's glow dimmed under the shaping, its heat yielding to my control, but not without resistance. Each adjustment demanded focus, every shift a test of my patience. My claws twitched against the metal.

The ache of tension rippled through my chest again, sharp as the scent that had refused to leave my senses since she was there. It lingered in my head, maddening and intrusive. I clenched my jaw hard enough to make the barbell in my tongue press into the roof of my mouth.

My hammer didn’t slow. Letting it stop would mean letting those thoughts in.

Her voice had settled into the forge, too. Not its tone—no, that was already fading from memory. What clung to me was its edge. A command without invitation. A sharpness that didn’t back down, born of necessity, not arrogance.

I growled low, pressing the blade of my hammer against the edge of the forming scalpel to narrow its contour. Self-preservation urged me to scrub every trace of her from my mind. But self-preservation was never good at winning when instinct screamed its demands. Not with her scent still burning through the air.

This was ridiculous.

The forge cracked around me, molten currents bubbling beneath reinforced grates. Time blurred as I moved from one tool to the next. The hiss of metal bending was the only sound louder than my rhythm. The edges of tools sharpened, taking clearer shapes like whispers pulled into focus.

I thought of her hands as I crafted. Smaller than a Drakarn's; the adjustments for human size needed precision finer than I liked. It had been hard enough to balance efficiency with my usual sense of perfection. Now it was harder with her face flashing through my memory in brief, cutting fractures.

Focused. Strong.

Her face wasn’t supposed to linger. But it did.

Selene.

The tips of my claws scratched against cooled metal as I set the last tool down on my anvil. My breathing steadied slowly, and I stood there a moment longer than I needed to.

The ache took root again, curling beneath my ribs like it had always been there, and I fought the urge to smash the nearest unfinished blade to pieces just for the brief release it might bring.

It had been this way for weeks now. Ever since Rath’s situation had nearly killed him and his mate, I’d kept my distance. Seeing how it had nearly drowned him—and brought chaos to all of Scalvaris besides—should’ve quenched any flame before it started.

But no matter how many walls I built in my mind, Selene's scent hit them like a battering ram.

I looked at the finished tools on the anvil. The glow of their tempered steel mirrored the heat crawling through my chest. This wasn’t about her.

This was about the work.

About the healers, and whatever sickness clawed them down like prey picked apart by stealthy predators.

I gathered the tools into a sturdy leather wrap, folding it with care. My movements were efficient, detached. Anything to keep my thoughts chained to the task, not to her . The ache still gnawed in my chest.

The path to the healing caverns was quiet. News of the sickness was spreading, and healthy Drakarn were keeping their distance. Only the occasional flicker of heat crystals lit my path, their light fractured and uneven. My grip tightened on the bundle of tools.

When I entered the cavern, the stench of sickness assaulted my senses, burning against the cool edge of healing salves and sterilized metal. The space buzzed with tension, low murmurs from humans and the occasional rasp of a dying breath filtering through the stillness.

Selene was at the center of it all, moving with quick precision. Her black hair was tied back, stray strands sticking to her damp skin as she worked. She was bent over a table, inspecting a makeshift chart pinned to the surface, her hand stilling against the edge of it as she processed something. Her expression was stone—you’d think she wasn’t panicking. But her hand tensed, small but unmistakable, and I saw the edge of fatigue carving its place into her jawline.

She needed to rest. I wanted to rush in and demand she return to her chambers, or, better yet, mine, and sleep until the darkness faded from under her eyes.

I had no right.

A Drakarn guard jostled past me, his tail narrowly avoiding my own. I didn’t move.

She hadn’t noticed me yet.

Part of me wanted to leave. To set the tools down and vanish before she turned, before her eyes met mine and triggered that ache that refused to burn out. But my feet ignored me, carrying me farther into the cavern until my shadow stretched across her table.

Her head snapped up at the movement, dark eyes flicking toward me. For a second, relief flickered across her face, subdued but unmistakable. “That was fast.”

“Done ahead of schedule.” The words came out sharper than I meant, their edge sinking into the air between us. My claws flexed against the tool wrap. “Are the healers still alive?”

She gave me that tight, no-nonsense look, the one that made it annoyingly difficult to shake her off. “Barely,” she said, her tone clipped but calm. Her hands reached out as I lowered the bundle onto the table.

She unwrapped the tools with care, fingers running over each one like she was memorizing their shapes. The forceps, the scalpel, the retractors. Her focus stayed on the metal, her lips pressed into a line of concentration.

“These are …” Her voice trailed off before she glanced up at me again. “This is … good.”

I didn’t reply. The gratitude in her tone should’ve been satisfying. It wasn’t.

I wanted more.

Her fingers lingered over the scalpel, testing its balance, its weight. She set it down carefully, her eyes finally lifting to mine.

“You didn’t have to deliver these yourself,” she said, and there was no accusation in her voice. Only curiosity.

“I needed to stretch my legs,” I muttered, crossing my arms. My own excuse felt weak, even to my ears.

Her gaze narrowed, assessing me in a way that turned the air between us heavier than the forge’s heat. She nodded, an arch of her brow betraying amusement. “Thank you, really. But you need to leave now.”

I snorted. “So soon?”

Her expression was grave. “Whatever this is, it spreads fast.”

That brief flicker of relief was gone. Now it was all focus again, all energy coiled into tension she wouldn’t let herself release. Watching her was like watching an arrow pulled back too tightly against its bowstring.

I should’ve turned and left. I didn’t.

Instead, I stepped closer, forcing her to look up again. My claws tapped once—twice—on the edge of the table. “If you're short on hands, I’ll help.”

Her eyes widened, only for a moment before she tilted her head back to that same assessing stare. “We have this under control for now.”

I was close enough now to pick out the scent clinging to her again. Krysfruit soap. Smoke laced within it. Something sharper, too, adrenaline-laced, lingering just above her skin. The ache I’d melted into the tools roared back, uncontained.

I wanted to argue. I had no business here, nothing but rudimentary knowledge of how to treat wounds in the field. But I spotted at least half of the humans in Scalvaris tending to Drakarn, and exhaustion was dragging at each and every one of them.

If they didn't find a way to treat this illness soon, they'd be the ones in need of help.

"Let me know if you need more tools," I said. As if that was sufficient.

Selene nodded, and I was dismissed.

When I stepped back into the tunnels, the air shifted again. Colder. Stale. Yet I still swore I could taste her on every inhale, as if leaving the caverns hadn't been enough to escape the burn.

The council was restless. And scared.

Never a good combination.

Mektar stood near the central table, wings tucked tight against his back, his shadow sharp. Zarvash lingered at the far end, hunched over one of his maps as always, his claws tapping idly against the surface. Khorlar’s broad frame towered over the others, his stone-gray scales making him an even grimmer fixture against the firelit backdrop. Darrokar and Rath spoke to one another in hushed tones.

I didn’t like the stiffness in the room. It promised nothing good.

Mektar didn’t waste time.

"The humans," he snarled, voice low and biting. His midnight-blue scales caught silver streaks from the heat crystals as his tail jerked behind him, one curved claw tapping in measured strokes against the stone. "Their presence. Their interference. And now, their poison."

I stiffened. My claws curled at my sides, but I forced restraint into my voice. "Poison?"

Mektar’s expression darkened further. He turned slightly, angling his body toward the central table as if expecting allies to rise from the shadows of the chamber. "Do you think it’s coincidence this sickness began now? That Mysha herself—an elder—has fallen? We are not blind, Vyne. The Forge Temple?—"

Rath groaned. "The Forge Temple sees enemies in every shadow."

My jaw twitched. Mektar’s voice grated on every nerve I had grown tired of sanding down. "The humans have no more idea what caused this than we do," I said, my tone flat and edged in mirthless humor. "But yes, brilliant theory. Let’s assume they crashed landed on our planet, waited several months, attempted to integrate into our society, and then whipped up an illness targeting our people, all while volunteering themselves to die along the way. Master strategists, clearly."

Sarcasm coated the words like molten slag, and I didn’t bother softening it. Mektar shot me a glare. His claws scraped louder against the table as his tail flicked erratically. "Their weakness invites sickness! Their blood carries it! They are frail creatures, and whatever infects them spreads faster than wildfire. Shall we wait until it has taken root in each of us before acting?"

"Is that an actual question?" I asked lightly, leaning back on one foot. "Because while we’re slinging paranoid accusations, perhaps you should consider someone more credible. Anyone from the Temple make an unannounced visit lately? Say, to the healing caverns? To stir things up a bit, as they tend to enjoy doing?"

Zarvash’s brow quirked at that—subtle, but there—and Mektar’s expression darkened. For all his bristling and righteous indignation, the accusation landed just close enough to the truth to irritate him. His wings flared before snapping back against his spine.

"You think the Forge Temple would harm our healers?" Mektar sneered, brushing the words aside like ashes in the wind. He was trying too hard. "The Forge Temple stands to protect our people’s traditions, not poison them."

"Of course," I said dryly, crossing my arms. "I’m sure that’s precisely what they're thinking when half their low-ranked acolytes hound Rath, screaming about divine judgment because he claimed a mate. Very hospitable. Truly guardians of reason and decency."

Rath let out a short bark of laughter from the other end of the room, and even Zarvash couldn’t stop the twitch of his lips that threatened to resemble approval. Mektar’s irritation boiled over, his claws leaving visible divots in the table now.

"Enough foolishness!" Mektar growled, glaring across the room like he was daring anyone to challenge him outright. "The Blade Council should stand united in protecting Scalvaris—not indulging in childish deflections. The Forge Temple—whether you agree with their methods or not—speaks to the heart of this matter. We should listen."

Rath rolled his eyes so hard I thought his head might snap backward. "Oh, absolutely. We should let the priests guide our survival. Maybe throw a few humans into the lava while we’re at it, just to cleanse their ‘weak blood.’ Who shall we start with? Darrokar's mate? Mine?"

Darrokar growled.

Mektar snarled in response, but before he could launch into whatever drivel passed for a counterargument, Zarvash clapped his hands once, the sound sharp even in the fire-lit chamber.

"Enough," Zarvash said coolly, his tone slicing through the tension with a dangerous calm that carried no room for argument. He tilted his head, keen gaze sweeping across Mektar before settling briefly on me. "Mektar, do not be foolish. The humans did not spread this disease. And you, Vyne, know the Temple would do no such thing. We’ve wasted enough time chasing our tails. Here is what we know: The humans’ quarantine methods are working—for now. Their intervention has stopped any spread into the city. The humans seem to be immune to whatever is causing this."

His words had just enough venom to make Mektar twitch again, but Zarvash didn’t stop. "If we exile the humans now, what exactly do we gain? Crippling fear? Spreading this sickness? I don't want them here any more than you do, but it would be foolish to punish them now for helping."

Zarvash, the voice of reason. Since when?

From this angle, I could see Mektar’s claws tap against the stone, too forceful to be casual. "Maybe we should form a committee," I offered, my voice perfectly bland. "One to vote on who gets to deal with the crisis first: the humans with brains and solutions, or the Temple with prayers and sacrifice. I’d love to see how those results come back."

Mektar hissed under his breath, his glare cutting toward me more murderous than it had been all night. "You tread too close to heresy, Vyne."

I exhaled through my nose, unbothered. "If heresy means valuing practicality over fanaticism, allow me to fetch the shackles myself."

Zarvash made a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, low and exasperated but not without amused acknowledgment. He straightened, fixing his gaze once more on the room’s larger audience, deliberately dragging the focus away from me and Mektar before the latter self-combusted.

"If we intend to approach this situation logically ," Zarvash said once more, with renewed emphasis, "then I suggest no more delays. Order additional supplies drawn from the lower stores. Work with the humans—not against them—to analyze the sickness’s source and treatment. Above all, ensure cooperation, or risk this disease spreading throughout the city."

The silence that followed wasn’t quite agreement, but it wasn’t argument, either. It hung there, brittle and unresolved, but quieter than anything Mektar would risk answering with.

Finally, Khorlar grunted from his corner. His stoic expression hadn’t changed, but his agreement—or at least his refusal to dissent—carried weight. For now, Zarvash’s logic would hold.

Mektar bristled visibly but didn’t speak. I didn’t bother hiding my satisfaction, letting the faint flicker of a smirk cross my face as I rose to full height. Mektar caught the expression well enough; his sneer returned swiftly.

I left without waiting for his next fumbled insult.

The council chamber's heated tension clung to me as I strode away. Mektar might splutter or rise against Zarvash’s surprisingly even logic later, but not tonight. For now, I’d won. Or rather, Zarvash had—his careful threading of caution and reason had defused the worst of it or delayed the inevitable explosion. Mektar's paranoia wasn’t extinguished; it was merely smoldering, banked embers waiting for any excuse to blaze.

The path back to the forge was empty. Quiet. A reprieve from the council’s festering fear. The tunnels curved ahead, the usual dim lighting casting an even glow across the uneven stone. It should’ve been a relief to return to solitude.

It wasn’t.

The quiet only amplified my thoughts. They tripped over themselves, restless and sharp-edged, leaving trails of unease. The weight of Mektar’s accusations mingled with the ache stirred by Selene’s presence in the cavern. The momentary distraction of council politics wasn’t enough to silence the pull she ignited—not nearly.

Her scent lingered as if she were standing beside me now, that subtle sharp tang of adrenaline threading beneath it. It burned clearly enough in the caverns that it chased me through the tunnels.

I shook my head sharply as I entered the forge, the heat’s familiar, oppressive weight closing in fast. It swallowed errant thoughts more effectively than I could. Routine would reset the balance, suppress whatever inconvenient chaos simmered below the surface.

Let it burn out there. Let the heat melt these edges back to something sharp and manageable.

I grabbed a chunk of heat crystal from a supply chest, its grain rough beneath my claws. The chamber was sweltering, hotter than before, but I welcomed it. Anything to sweat out this ridiculous storm in my mind.

It wasn’t enough.

The ache that had spread deep within my chest didn’t seem to care about logic. It pushed like a simmering pulse against my ribs now, low and insistent. The hammer in my claw was supposed to relieve it. Instead, it dug in further.

I didn’t notice I’d started shaping something new until the clang of metal echoed differently, the sound resonating sharper, crisper than my usual molds. A half-formed blade—a simple design, nothing ornate—formed something rough in my claws.

Selene didn’t need weapons. She needed solutions.

But I had none to give.