Page 21

21

XIRATH

B lood slicks the battlefield, thick and steaming under the rising moon. The earth itself drinks greedily, dark soil glutted with the remains of the fallen. Bodies litter the ground, minotaur and naga alike, limbs twisted, throats gaping. The clash of steel and the raw sounds of dying warriors reverberate through the canyon walls.

The minotaurs fight like animals, brute strength their only strategy. They charge, swing, crush. But my warriors cut them down with precision, their movements honed by centuries of warfare.

A blade slashes toward my sides. I sidestep, tail snapping out, knocking my attacker off balance. My claws tear through flesh, parting tendon and bone. The minotaur lets out a strangled bellow before crumpling, his massive body sending tremors through the ground.

Something is wrong.

The minotaurs were relentless, pushing hard against our defenses, forcing their way through the lower ridges. And now… they falter.

The shift is subtle, a hesitation in their footwork, a flicker of uncertainty in their beady eyes. Warriors who moments ago fought with reckless abandon begin falling back, hooves crunching over the mangled remains of their kin.

Retreating.

This was never about conquering Nagaland.

This was a distraction.

I snarl, ripping my sword free from the last body before turning toward my commanders. “Fall back to the stronghold. Kill any who remain.”

Veynar steps forward, wiping his blade against his armored forearm. “They’re retreating.” His slitted eyes narrow with suspicion. “They wouldn’t leave unless?—”

My heart slams against my ribs.

Seren.

The stronghold was never their target.

She was.

Heat flares beneath my skin, a sharp, coiling burn that has nothing to do with battle-rage. My legs move before I make the decision, sprinting toward the war steeds still waiting along the ridge.

Veynar curses, following at my heels. “My lord, if we do not regroup, the other Lords?—”

A sharp snap of my tail against the stone silences him.

“If we do not regroup,” I growl, “Nagaland will survive. But if Seren is gone?—”

The thought does not finish.

Cannot finish.

I vault onto my steed, claws digging into the thick saddle leather. The beast shudders beneath me, sensing the fury rippling through my body.

Veynar’s breath is sharp, measured. “This is reckless.”

“So was taking her,” I snap.

His tail lashes once, a flicker of irritation before his voice evens out. “If you abandon the field for a human?—”

“Don’t speak to me of politics.”

Veynar’s hands clench at his sides.

“The other Lords will see this as weakness,” he presses, gaze dark. “Leaving now?—”

“My orders stand.” The words slice through the space between us, sharp as any blade. “Restore order, hunt any minotaur still within our borders. Hold the stronghold.”

Veynar does not lower his head in submission immediately.

The silence between us stretches.

He exhales. “You are breaking every expectation placed upon you.”

A cold, sharp smile curves my lips. “Good.”

His jaw tightens, but he does not argue.

A flick of my reins sends the steed forward, hooves kicking up mud as I launch into the night.

Smoke clogs the tunnels leading to the chamber. The once-orderly corridors now resemble a battlefield, splintered stone and shattered doors strewn across the floors. Guards lie motionless, their bodies slumped against the walls, throats gaping, eyes unseeing.

Heat pulses through my veins, burning hot and unrelenting.

Seren.

She should be here.

She should be pacing the chamber, biting off sharp words, rolling her shoulders like a caged beast ready to strike.

But the space is empty.

The realization slams into like a blade to the ribs.

She is gone.

Something feral uncoils inside my chest, a monstrous, seething thing that I do not care to name.

The remnants of her presence linger, a tipped-over chair, a dagger missing from the weapons rack.

She fought.

She fought and lost.

A strangled growl rips from my throat.

A figure steps into the ruined chamber.

One of my lower officers, chest heaving with exertion. “My lord?—”

I do not wait.

Claws sink into his armor as I yank him forward. “Where is she?”

His breath stutters, but he does not struggle. “The guards were found outside the secret tunnel. One body, the naga assigned to escort her. His head was missing.”

My grip tightens. “Where. Is. She.”

The officer winces but does not falter. “We believe… the dark elves took her.”

The words crack like a whip.

My vision blurs, but not with fear.

With rage.

Jalith’s reach finally closes around her.

A slow breath pushes past my lips, controlled, measured.

“Ready the warbands.”

The officer hesitates.

“My lord?—”

“You will gather the strongest,” I command, voice low, lethal. “Prepare the riders. I leave within the hour.”

A second hesitation.

Reluctant acceptance.

He bows and vanishes into the hall.

Veynar stands at the doorway, arms folded. “And what, exactly, do you plan to do?”

Steel slides into my tone. “What I should have done when she first arrived.”

The older warrior does not move, does not argue.

But his voice is tired, resigned.

“You swore not to be reckless over a human.”

A slow tilt of my head. “And I lied.”

Veynar exhales, long and deep, before he steps aside.

No one stops me as I stride toward war.