Page 19

19

XIRATH

T he quiet between us is not peace.

Flames crackle low in the iron brazier, their flickering light casting long, predatory shadows against the stone walls. The aroma of spiced meat and woodsmoke lingers, mingling with something more potent, the charged weight of Seren’s presence across from me, her lips still parted from the food I forced her to take.

Her body remains still, yet tension coils in her muscles, coiled and waiting, a blade that has only begun to sharpen.

The shift in her during the fight had not been a fleeting thing. The taste of victory still lingers in her bones. She had enjoyed it, reveled in it.

I cannot stop thinking about it.

The human should not affect me like this.

She is not mine, not my mate. The curse has not lifted, the bond has not formed. Yet my focus remains on her, drawn despite logic, despite reason.

A sharp bang reverberates against the heavy doors. The deep, guttural voices of my warriors spill into the chamber before I grant them entry.

The doors swing open, revealing two naga guards, their bodies slick with sweat, their eyes gleaming with urgency.

The one in front, Veynar, one of my most trusted lieutenants bows sharply. “My lord, the western watchtower burns. Minotaur warbands have breached the outer perimeter.”

Seren shifts beside me, the flicker of movement immediate, instinctive.

The clatter of my cup against the table cuts through the room.

Minotaurs. The timing is too perfect to be anything but deliberate.

Jalith is behind this. His influence lingers in the shadows of this war.

I rise from my seat, my tail unfurling in a slow, lethal motion. The warriors standing before me do not flinch, but their tension is palpable.

“How many?”

Veynar’s throat works as he speaks. “Three legions. They move fast, better armed than expected. This is not a raid, my lord. It is an invasion.”

A calculated strike.

Minotaurs are strong, but they do not think in strategy. They are pawns, muscle wielded by something sharper, something crueler.

Seren shifts in her seat, her attention sharp as glass. “Do you think they’re coming for me?”

I do not answer immediately.

Her fingers tighten against the wood of the chair, knuckles whitening. She already understands the truth.

Jalith is testing me. He is waiting to see if I falter, if I hesitate.

He will be disappointed.

I turn back to my warriors. “Gather the commanders. We reinforce the northern and eastern gates, but our main defense will be at the western cliffs. If they breach it, they reach the stronghold.”

Veynar bows again. “Understood, my lord.”

The warriors turn to leave, but I do not miss the way their eyes flicker toward Seren before they disappear beyond the doors.

They are waiting to see what I will do with her.

They do not trust her.

Neither do I.

But I do not need trust to use her as a weapon.

The moment the doors shut, she rises from her seat, the movement calm, deliberate. “I’m going with you.”

Amusement curves through my chest, sharp and unexpected. “You will stay here.”

She crosses her arms, jaw tight. “You’ve spent the last few days training me, throwing me into fights, forcing me to learn how to wield a sword, and now you want to leave me behind?”

The defiance does not surprise me.

What does is the fire beneath it.

She does not want to fight out of survival.

She wants to fight because it thrills her.

Just as it thrills me.

The realization should disturb me more than it does.

I step forward, my presence pressing against hers. “This is not a game, little mouse.”

Her chin lifts, unafraid. “It never was.”

The response is so quick, so unwavering, that I feel something coil deep in my gut, something dangerous.

Her breath is measured, controlled. I watch as she forces herself not to step back, not to yield.

A slow exhale leaves me, deliberate, precise. “You will stay.”

Her fingers twitch, as if itching to reach for a weapon she does not have.

“I can fight,” she presses. “You saw it yourself.”

“I did.” My head tilts slightly, studying the frustration sharpening her features. “And you think one victory means you are ready for war?”

She does not blink. “I think I can kill.”

The words slip from her lips like a truth she has already accepted it settling between us.

She means it.

She means every damn word.

My fingers flex at my sides. The urge to drag her forward, to press her against the stone and make her understand what she is becoming claws against my restraint.

Not a human learning to survive.

A human learning to wield violence.

The shift in her is happening too fast, too naturally.

I am letting it.

“You will not fight.” My voice does not rise. “You will not leave the stronghold.”

Her lips part, a protest rising, but I step closer, cutting it off before it begins.

“Stay, or I will have you chained to this chamber myself.”

A flicker of rage sparks in her storm-gray eyes.

She believes me.

She should.

I turn away before I let this pull between us consume me. The war is my focus, not her, not the way she makes my body react, not the way I crave the fight in her.

She does not belong to me.

Fate doesn’t dictate for her to be mine.

But the thought of her on that battlefield, torn apart by minotaur hands, is unacceptable.

I walk to the doors, casting one last look over my shoulder.

“Stay alive, Seren.”

The way her fingers curl against the chair, the way her jaw tightens in anger, tells me she wants to defy me.

But she doesn’t.

Not yet.

The doors slam shut behind me, sealing her inside.

And I march to war.