Chapter 4: The Fire Beneath
1306 Words
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The obsidian arena was soaked in relentless rain, each drop striking like judgment from the heavens. Thunder rumbled low and slow, vibrating through the cold stone beneath Serenya’s feet.
Vaelric Duskbane moved through the storm like a tempest made flesh—his bare skin glistening with rain, muscles rippling with raw power as his sword cut fierce arcs through the air. His every motion was precise, violent, as if he sought to carve his fury into the very fabric of the storm.
Serenya watched from the shadows, her arms crossed, her pale opal eyes narrowed and unreadable beneath the hood of her cloak. The cold bit into her skin, but inside, the flame simmered—quiet, relentless.
He fights as if trying to banish something no blade can reach.
Her gaze lingered on the rigid line of his shoulders, the taut set of his jaw.
And yet, he refuses to meet my eyes.
Her thoughts spiraled.
How can he hate me so fiercely, and still come back?
What is this invisible chain that pulls us together despite the bitterness?
Is this the curse Lyrin whispered of in her warnings?
Vaelric’s breathing was ragged, his amber eyes blazing gold as he sheathed his sword and turned sharply.
“You’ll catch frostfever standing there,” he said without warmth, voice sharp and brittle.
Serenya’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she did not move.
“You already gave me something far worse,” she replied quietly, the edge in her voice matching the storm around them.
He stepped forward, rainwater dripping from his hair, eyes burning with an unreadable mixture of anger and something else—something dangerously close to desperation.
“What do you want from me, Serenya?” His voice was low, almost a growl, but laced with exhaustion.
She met his gaze head-on, unflinching.
“Truth,” she said simply.
His eyes flickered away.
The truth is...His thoughts faltered, a crack breaking through his hardened mask. I can’t stop dreaming of your skin. Even when I hate you. Even when I wish it had been anyone else.
She waited for him, she held her silence.
He closed the distance between them, his presence overwhelming.
“When you walk past me, all I can think is: why the gods did it have to be you?”
Serenya’s eyes darkened with quiet fire.
“Because you would’ve loved her,” she whispered.
“No,” he breathed, voice ragged. “Because I'm confused why this feels like not a mistake when it's all wrong."
For a long moment, the rain was the only sound, mingling with the heavy beat of two hearts caught in a war they never chose.
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Later, as Vaelric retreated to the solitude of his chambers, the weight of the unspoken clawed at his chest.
I hate her. I resent this bond. But every time I close my eyes, her face haunts me like a ghost I can’t escape.
Is this madness? Or fate twisted cruelly by gods we cannot see?
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Serenya stood alone beneath the moon’s pale light filtering through the shattered window.
I will not be a victim of their war or their hate.
I am no mistake.
Her fingers brushed the pendant at her throat—a relic of the Velira line, pulsing faintly with ancient power.
The fire beneath me grows. Soon, they will see.
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The forest pressed in thick and silent around Vaelric as he moved with the precision of a hunter. Every snap of twig, every whisper of leaves beneath his boots was cataloged with military focus. His golden eyes, sharp and cold, scanned the shadows between ancient oaks and twisted pines. Moonlight fought through the canopy in jagged slivers, casting mottled patterns on the forest floor.
His mind was a battlefield of grim resolve and bitter frustration.
Find Lyrin.
Right the wrongs.
Restore order.
His thoughts were hard and unyielding—Lyrin had to be found. The chaos, the deception, everything had to be set right, and he alone would fix it. Serenya was a complication he neither wanted nor understood, but his anger at the bond simmered beneath his control as he pushed deeper into the shadows.
But he carried the bond like a chain, resentful but undeniable.
Night air bit at his skin, cool and unforgiving, but Vaelric welcomed the sting. It kept him sharp.
It's been three weeks since he started trying to find Lyrin. No trace of her scent around even if he is already far from Velmora.
But beneath the layers of focus, a dull, persistent ache throbbed in his chest—the bond’s silent pulse, a tether stretching thin but never breaking.
Suddenly, it flared.
Like a thunderclap in his veins, a raw jolt of alarm shot through him, stopping him cold. His breath caught. The world seemed to narrow to a single point of blazing, urgent light.
Serenya.
The wolf’s instinct clawed at his sanity. She was in danger.
He closed his eyes, searching the bond’s thread like a blind man seeking a lost hand.
Images flickered in his mind—a council chamber cloaked in shadow, cold eyes narrowed in judgment, flames licking upward toward an inevitable doom.
The council was moving against her.
They whispered of betrayal. Of breaking sacred tradition. Of a sister murdered for power.
And they planned to burn her.
Vaelric’s jaw clenched, nails biting into his palms.
She might not love him.
She might even hate him.
But she was his mate.
And the wolf’s law was clear.
When a mate is in danger, you do not hesitate.
You do not ask questions.
You save them.
With a roar of frustration, Vaelric tore through the underbrush, the forest blurring past as he raced toward Velmora. His thoughts were a storm.
Suddenly his thoughts were all Serenya. His body burned to sprint to where she was. Anger is beating in his heart.
Branches whipped at his face, roots threatened to trip him, but he pushed harder.
Each pounding step was fueled by a fierce, primal promise—a vow older than packs or politics.
I will kill anyone who dares to touch her.
The trees gave way to the dark silhouette of the castle rising against the storm-dark sky.
Vaelric did not slow.
The night was far from over.
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The council chamber was a cavern of stone and shadow, its vaulted ceilings echoing with whispers and sharp glances. Candles flickered in iron sconces, casting uncertain light on the faces gathered—faces lined with suspicion, ambition, and cold resolve.
Serenya stood at the center, pale but unbowed. Her ash-blonde hair was gathered back, silver streaks catching the torchlight like threads of steel. Her opal eyes swept the room, steady and unyielding beneath the weight of their accusations.
Margrave Orlin Thorne stepped forward, his voice smooth and cruel. “Lady Serenya, you stand accused of betraying tradition, usurping your sister’s place, and bringing shame upon House Velmora. How do you plead?”
The council’s murmurs swelled like a rising tide, eyes burning into her as if to scorch the truth from her bones.
Serenya lifted her chin. “I stand bound by a magic older than your laws. I did not seek this bond, nor the title it bears. But I will not kneel to fear or falsehood.”
A sharp laugh cut through the chamber—Prince Kaedros Vharyn, Lyrin’s former betrothed, his smile venomous. “Magic or not, Lady Serenya, you broke the sacred rites. And for that, the punishment is clear.”
“Burning,” whispered another.
Serenya’s breath hitched, but her voice did not falter. “Punish me if you must. But know this: the truth is a fire that will burn through your lies.”
Suddenly, the heavy chamber doors slammed open.
- Writer
