Page 52

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XIRATH

T he battle is over, but the blood has not dried.

Jalith's stronghold stands in ruin, his warriors dead or fleeing. The ceremonial chamber still stinks of burned magic and desperation, the remnants of the shattered bond still lingering in the air. My claws ache from the kills I’ve made, my muscles tight from battle, but I don’t stop moving.

Seren is in my arms. Her weight presses against my chest, her pulse weak but steady. My grip tightens around her as I step over the wreckage of what was meant to be her prison, ignoring the torn banners, the remnants of Jalith's rule crumbling into dust beneath my boots.

She needs rest. A place untouched by the filth of this place.

I find a chamber still intact, a bed draped in dark silks, undoubtedly prepared for their disgusting ritual. The thought of Jalith forcing her here, laying claim to what was never his, ignites a fresh wave of rage.

I lay her down carefully, brushing strands of damp hair from her face. The magic he used on her still lingers, its mark imprinted on her skin like invisible shackles. It will take time for it to fade. Time for her strength to return.

But she’s here. Alive.

My fingers linger against her jaw, a silent promise.

“I will return,” I murmur.

I rise, stepping away before the pull of her keeps me here longer than I should.

The minotaurs await me in the ruined courtyard, standing among the wreckage of slaughtered dark elves. The leader, Karavu, watches as I approach, his massive frame outlined by the burning remains of Jalith’s empire.

“You’ve done it,” Karavu says, voice rumbling with approval. “The dark lord is no more.”

I nod. “And now, this place must fall.”

He grins, pleased. “Then we take what we want.”

The demand is unsurprising. The minotaurs did not fight for free, nor did I expect them to. They are mercenaries, warriors of profit and blood. This stronghold, its gold, its weapons, its wealth is theirs now.

“I don’t care for this place or what it holds,” I tell him. “Take everything. Burn the rest.”

Karavu gives a sharp nod before his warriors move in, tearing through what remains, looting, destroying. The fires grow, licking up the stone walls, smoke rising into the heavens like the last breath of a dying god.

As the flames spread, Karavu turns back to me, his expression unreadable.

“You gave me your word, Xirath,” he says, crossing his arms. “Someday, I will collect.”

A debt unnamed.

“I keep my word,” I say simply.

Karavu smirks. “Then I’ll see you again, naga.”

He doesn’t linger. His warriors move in unison, their heavy footfalls fading into the night as they take their spoils and vanish into the darkness.

I watch the stronghold crumble, the fire swallowing it whole.

A fitting end for Jalith’s legacy.

The ceremonial chamber is quiet when I return, the firelight from the destroyed fortress casting shadows along the walls. I expect to find her still resting, but the moment I step inside, movement catches my eye.

Seren.

She is standing.

She turns, and the second her eyes lock onto mine, she moves, no hesitation, no words. Just motion, fierce and undeniable, as she closes the distance between us.

“Xirath,” the longing in her voice calls out to me. She falters a bit, her weakness apparent but the look in her eyes hints of determination to reach me. I meet her halfway.

Then she’s in my arms.

Her hands fist into my shoulders, her breath uneven as she crashes against me. And before I can say a word, before I can tell her to rest, to recover, her lips are on mine.

Heat ignites, violent and consuming.

I don’t think. Don’t hold back.

I seize her, my hands curling around her waist, pulling her into me. She tastes like defiance, like survival, like something raw and desperate. The bond flares between us, no longer fractured, no longer tainted by Jalith’s magic.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp as she presses harder, as if she can pour all of her anger, her relief, her emotions into this one act.

I let her.

I take all of it.

When she finally pulls away, her breathing is ragged, her pupils wide. “It’s you,” she whispers, voice breaking. “You’re my mate.”

The words strike deep.

I had known it the moment I entered that chamber, the moment the bond had screamed for me through the chaos. But hearing it from her lips, hearing her acknowledge it, claim it undoes me.

I grip her chin, forcing her gaze to stay on mine.

"You are mine," I growl, the words leaving no room for argument, no room for doubt.

Her hands press against my chest, her heartbeat thundering beneath my touch. “And you’re mine,” she fires back.

The possessiveness in her tone does something wicked to me.

I crush my mouth against hers again, claiming, devouring, sealing what has already been written in blood and fate.

She was never meant for Jalith.

She was always meant for me.

My curse is finally undone.