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We stand there, locked in a tense hush. The corridor’s flickering light dances across her features: the bruises, the defiant gleam in her silver eyes, the smudge of residual illusion-stress etched in the faint lines at her brow. My wings shift, stirring the air, drawing her hair away from her face.

I recall that moment in the courtyard—her back pressed against me, the near kiss that was more tension than desire.

But I can’t deny the thread of attraction that hums under my skin, rebellious and inescapable.

It conflicts with every vow I’ve made to keep a safe distance from mortals.

She’s not just any mortal, though. She’s a threat to the contract.

She’s also a reluctant partner in my quest for freedom.

I take a deliberate step back, ignoring the whisper in my mind that wonders what it would be like to close that distance, if only for an instant. “Follow me,” I say, voice taut. “We’ll fetch the amulet from the lower vaults. Then we’ll see about a practical training regimen.”

Her shoulders drop a fraction, as if she expected something else. “Lead the way.”

Without another word, I pivot and stride down the corridor.

She falls in line behind me. The fortress resonates with the shifting of wards—perhaps sensing the unresolved friction that lingers between us.

If we’re both wise, we’ll ignore it. If we’re not, we risk something more dangerous than illusions.

We descend a spiral staircase that grows colder the deeper we go.

The basalt walls glisten with patches of obsidian, an occasional wisp of purple vapor seeping through cracks in the stone.

My Soz’garoth lineage shaped these chambers long ago, forging vaults to store artifacts and contraband.

The zone is labyrinthine, a puzzle of hidden chambers and locked passageways.

At the base of the stairs, we reach a broad hallway lined with stout iron doors. Each door has a unique sigil etched into the metal. I stop at the fourth on the right, its sigil a coiled serpent biting its own tail. Chaos runes glow faintly around the edges.

“This is it,” I say, placing my palm on the door. “Keep your distance while I break the seals. If they misfire, you don’t want to be close.”

She steps back, dagger at the ready, though I doubt it’ll help if the wards explode. I channel a trickle of chaos flame, letting it seep into the etched lines. A series of arcs ripple across the surface, forcing the door’s magic to yield. The metal groans, then swings open in a rush of stale air.

Inside, the vault is a cramped stone cell.

Shelves crammed with battered scrolls and sealed wooden crates line the walls.

A single pedestal in the center holds an object covered by a tarnished silver cloth.

The air tastes of dust and ozone, hinting at old spells.

I approach, carefully lifting the cloth.

Beneath it lies a twisted amulet fashioned of obsidian and bone, a jagged crack running through the center.

Runes wind across its surface in an alien script, partially incomplete.

Valentina steps closer, eyes flicking between me and the amulet. “That looks… ominous.”

I let out a low grunt of agreement. “It is. This was supposed to siphon off the contract’s energy, weakening it enough for me to break free. But the final stage was never finished. The risk is that it might backfire.”

She grimaces. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I run a claw along the crack. Sparks leap in response. “It could kill me. Or surge with chaotic backlash that levels half the fortress. Hard to say.”

Her face pales. “And you plan to wear it anyway?”

I close my hand around the amulet, feeling its latent power hum against my palm. The threat doesn’t deter me. “Freedom is worth the risk. This might buy enough time for us to consult the archivist. Perhaps your blood’s peculiar nature will help complete the missing runes.”

She doesn’t answer at first, a flicker of something—apprehension, maybe concern—flashing over her expression. Then she inclines her head. “Then let’s do it. The sooner we figure out how to finish that thing, the better.”

I tuck the amulet into a pouch on my belt.

“Agreed.” Stepping away from the pedestal, I glance around the vault.

Various trinkets rest on the shelves—old tomes, shards of demonic horns, a sealed jar containing swirling black fluid.

I sense her curiosity but offer no explanation. One crisis at a time.

We exit, and I reengage the door’s wards.

Once back in the hallway, I lead her through another passage that loops around to the fortress’s training hall.

It’s a cavernous space with a cracked floor, weapon racks along the walls, and a scattering of battered dummies meant for lesser demons to practice.

Torches line the perimeter, their flames tinted green for improved visibility in the gloom.

Valentina eyes the racks. “Real weapons?” She grips her dagger, glancing at the variety of axes, spears, and short swords with battered hilts.

“Take whatever suits you,” I instruct. “Today you’ll spar, but not against illusions. A Trolvor or Zonak might volunteer, or I might do it myself in a controlled capacity—if you prove disciplined. Understood?”

She bristles a bit at my condescending tone, but moves to examine the weapons, testing a short sword’s balance. I watch her from a few paces away, noticing how her posture shifts, more confident than the day we first met. She has no formal training, but she wields tenacity that can’t be taught.

As she tests the sword’s heft, I circle her, evaluating. “Not too heavy?”

She shakes her head. “I used bigger knives in the kitchen, though that was for cutting meat, not Trolvors.”

“Fair enough. Show me your stance,” I say.

She sets her feet, raising the blade. It’s serviceable, though rough around the edges. I tap her elbow, forcing it to angle downward. “Keep that in. And your weight more balanced, or a strong blow will knock you off your feet.”

She adjusts, annoyance flickering in her gaze, but obeys. “Better?”

“Marginally.” I step back, letting her swing a few slow arcs. Each pass generates a soft whoosh of air. “We’ll practice forms, then move on to a real opponent. I suspect you’ll learn faster if you’re threatened.”

She snorts. “Everything here is a threat.”

A cold smile. “Welcome to my world, mortal.”

Time blurs as we fall into a rhythm of drills.

I instruct her on footwork, parrying angles, and how to harness momentum rather than brute force.

She picks up the concepts quickly, forging her own style from scraps of knowledge.

My corrections are curt, occasionally accompanied by a sharp whack to her forearm if she drops her guard.

She hisses but doesn’t break. Each bruise reminds her, no doubt, that I’m not coddling her.

Eventually, sweat beads on her brow, her breathing ragged. “I can keep going,” she insists when I pause.

I arch a brow. “We’ll see.” Without warning, I whirl, launching a feint at her shoulder with a conjured blade of chaos flame. She yelps, pivoting to parry. Sparks fly where the energies collide with her short sword. She stumbles, nearly toppling.

“Focus,” I bark. “Your enemies won’t announce their attacks.”

She grits her teeth, regaining balance. Then, unbelievably, she counters with a thrust that almost snags my side. I dodge, impressed despite myself. “Better,” I allow.

A tense hush follows, both of us locked in the moment.

My chaos blade still crackles with black fire.

She holds the short sword, eyes shining with fierce determination.

The fortress training hall hushes, lesser demons presumably cowering behind arches or in overhead galleries, watching unseen. The tension is thick enough to cut.

I move again, a lightning-fast slash aimed at her flank. She blocks but the impact jostles her. She recovers, swinging a backhand that collides with my forearm. The metal clangs, sending a jolt up my arm. I grunt in surprise. She actually struck me.

She pants, sweat trickling down her temple. “Satisfied?”

A surge of contradictory emotions ripples through me—annoyance at being touched by a mortal’s blade, and a strange pride that she managed it. My tail lashes, wings rustling. “Not yet.”

We clash again, exchanging blows that spark off the basalt floor.

Her muscles strain, her stance faltering from fatigue.

I press the advantage, forcing her to yield ground.

With a final sweep of my flaming blade, I knock her sword aside, stepping into her guard.

We’re chest to chest, her heart pounding, mine thrumming with an odd excitement.

I seize her wrist, twisting the short sword free. It clatters to the floor. She grimaces, trying to wriggle out of my hold. My free hand grips her waist, preventing escape. Another flash of proximity—too close, too charged. My breath stutters.

Her eyes lock on mine, silver shimmering with adrenaline.

My chaos blade sputters out, leaving only a faint glow from the torches.

We stand in shadow, bodies pressed together in the hush of the training hall.

My horns angle over her head, tail swirling across the floor.

The tension from earlier roars back, a blazing inferno demanding release.

She swallows, lips parted. “Why did you—stop?” she whispers, voice shaky.

I can’t answer immediately. The contract tugs at me, a reminder of my precarious state.

Yet the magnetic current between us defies logic, dragging me into this moment.

My gaze drops to her mouth, the soft fullness of her lips.

The faint taste of possibility lingers on the air, as if one movement could spark a near-kiss again.

My heart clenches, an unexpected surge of longing slicing through me.

She’s a mortal, a rebellious mortal , I remind myself.

But the fortress wards flicker overhead, swirling with a storm of emotions.

I tighten my grip on her waist, nearly drawing her flush against me.

Her breath catches, a strangled hitch that matches my own.

I waver on the edge, mind screaming caution.

My body, fueled by centuries of suppressed desire and the electric thrill of her defiance, urges me forward.

She sees the conflict in my eyes, I know she does, because a flicker of empathy crosses her face.

She’s not immune to this pull either—her pupils dilated, pulse fluttering beneath my fingertips.

With a snarl, I yank myself back, releasing her abruptly. She staggers, nearly falling without my support. My wings snap out, forcibly shutting down the moment.

“This is pointless,” I growl, turning away, chaos flame hissing from my claws. “You fought well enough. That’s enough for one day.”

She stands there, chest heaving, eyes wide with a mix of shock and something else—disappointment, maybe? My own heart thrashes, a tempest under my ribs. The fortress wards swirl in confusion, reflecting my state. I spin on my heel, refusing to meet her gaze again.

“We’ll leave at dusk,” I bite out. “Rest up. Don’t question me.”

Before she can reply, I stalk from the training hall, my wings scraping a brazier and sending sparks skittering across the floor.

My footsteps echo in a drumbeat of frustration.

Why does she unsettle me so much? Why does the contract’s pain intensify when we’re close, only to recede in her presence at other times?

I can’t risk letting that tension build. I can’t risk letting her see my vulnerabilities. The vow binding me to King Grymlock is a chain that might snap or devour me. She’s the only one who might unravel it, yet her very nearness shreds my composure.

Distantly, I hear the clang of her sword as she retrieves it from the floor, maybe cursing my name.

Good. Let her stew. The fortress corridor envelops me in cold gloom, and I exhale a hiss of breath.

Tonight , I remind myself. We’ll venture out under illusions, find the archivist, and finally see if her blood can truly set me free.

If I survive that test, perhaps then I’ll confront the dangerous pull between us. Until then, I’ll bury it beneath the single-minded hunger for liberty. That is all that matters. I vow it, letting the wards swirl in uncertain agreement.

But the memory of her closeness lingers, taunting me with a possibility that I refuse to name.