Her scent coiled into him again, insistent, dangerously addictive. It lured him closer, beckoning him to reach out, to slide his fingers through the dark silk of her hair, to draw it to his face and breathe her in more deeply. The shadows themselves whispered of it, urging him to claim this fleeting indulgence.
His hand twitched. He stopped it.
No.
This was not what he had come for. She must die.
For the sake of his people. To end the slaughter on the plains. To break the stalemate that bled them dry. One life. One strike. To save thousands.
His claws curled tightly into his palms, the shadows pressing against him like a tide eager to fall.
It had to be done.
His claws curled tighter, the resolve hardening in him like iron. The hesitation, the scent, the strange pull of her presence—he forced it down, buried it beneath the weight of his duty.
The shadows moved eagerly at his command, rising around him like smoke, like a tide ready to consume. They wrapped him, veiling his form in darkness, soft and silent.
He moved forward.
Each step was soundless, measured, inevitable. The chamber held its breath. The queen slept on, oblivious, her hair spilling across the pillow like dark silk, her breathing steady and deep.
Rakhal loomed above her, the shadows coiling tighter, waiting for his will to unleash them. And in the stillness of thenight, he descended toward her. The shadows gathered at his command, drawing closer to her sleeping form. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, measuring the rhythm of her breath, preparing for the perfect moment to strike.
Chapter
Four
He stood at her bedside, silent as the grave.
The queen shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her back. The furs slipped lower across her body, her face turned upward toward him, eyes closed, lashes trembling faintly against her cheeks as if some dream troubled her even now. Her breathing remained steady, but her rest was not peaceful. She stirred, a hand twitching, her lips parting slightly as though she meant to speak.
Lamplight caught on them. Soft. Damp. Glistening faintly in the warm glow.
Rakhal’s gaze lingered, unblinking.
Alluring.
The word pressed against his thoughts with unwelcome force. He had been right. For all the stories spun by his people—the Witch Queen, the Mage-Spawned, the Bane of the Varak—he had never expected her to look like this. He had never expected her to appear so… alluring.
Her scent curled into him again, lavender and steel and something deeper, richer, undeniably hers. It stirred the shadows at his back, made them pulse with restless hunger.They wanted blood. His hand itched for the hilt of his blade, his claws prickled to strike.
But his eyes remained fixed on her face. The fine lines of her features. The curve of her mouth. The restless flutter of her eyelids.
So fragile. So human.
So different from the fire-wreathed figure who had stood on the battlefield, hurling magefire into the ranks of his kin. Different from the monster she had been made in orcish whispers.
Here she was only a woman. Sleeping. Vulnerable. And strangely, impossibly… beautiful.
He forced a breath through his lungs, cold and deliberate. Enough.
The shadows tugged at him, eager and insistent, wrapping tighter around his frame. They whispered in the language only he could hear, voices like smoke and ash.
Kill her.
His fingers moved of their own accord, practiced, precise. He drew the dagger from its sheath at his thigh, the faint rasp of steel swallowed by the shadows’ embrace. The blade gleamed, a narrow line of silver in the lamplight.
He leaned in.
