Only a breath passes before the space he left behind breaks open again.
This time, the shadows don’t reveal a quiet vampire.
A deep, guttural sound accompanies the shadows that pour into the room like a storm cloud. Darkness sweeps across the floorboards, fast and hungry, slamming against the edges of the firelight and pulling all warmth from the air.
From the center of it, Azyric steps forward.
The wildness of his shadows gives him the look of something unchained, each tendril lashing around his arms and shoulders, flickering toward the ceiling and coiling back again as if they can’t decide whether to attack, or protect.
His gaze finds mine at once, and then he moves.
Two strides that are fast, precise, and without hesitation. His large hands find my shoulders, fingers wrapping around me tightly as if to anchor me, or maybe to steady something in himself instead.
“Who was in here?” he asks, voice low and rough, like it’s been scraped raw by the inside of his throat.
His grip tightens and I notice a barely contained fury simmering in his eyes–not aimed at me, but at whoever dared stand in his place only a moment ago.
“Riven,” I whisper softly, feeling like it’s a betrayal to admit.
It doesn’t startle him into action, but the energy changes around us.
The shadows still.
His hands don’t fall away, but they begin to loosen. His fingers relax slowly, like he’s forcing each tendon to obey. His jaw shifts, that tight line of control flickering as he drags his gaze across my face.
One of his hands lifts, thumb brushing the space at the base of my throat, where my pulse flutters beneath thin fabric. For once it doesn’t feel possessive or calculated.
It’s tender.
His expression, always so carefully composed, falters under the weight of something he didn’t mean to reveal.
And I see it...a line he didn’t know existed. One that led him here before he could stop to wonder why.
He steps back as if distance can fix what proximity betrayed, but the tension doesn’t drain from him. Not fully. His shadows hover near the walls now, quieter but still watching, like they, too, are reluctant to leave.
“Keep the door locked,” he says, and though his tone is even, it lands differently now. It’s less command and more of a warning.
Suddenly he vanishes, but a few tendrils of shadow remain.
I lift my hand as one crawls along the ground softly before slinking up my leg. Just before it can touch my hand, I hear a snarl from nearby. It startles me and suddenly the shadow is gone.
The fire pops softly in the hearth and the quiet of the room settles around me once more.
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, fingers loose in my lap and breath shallow in my chest, the ghost of both of the kings’ hands still clinging to my skin.
When my eyes opened to this war-torn land, my identity was uncertain, this world unknown, and my skin untouched.
Now only two of those facts remain true.
Tonight, something changed, and I don’t think any of us can pretend otherwise.
Chapter 8
Riven
The new structure rising from the forest floor is nothing short of theatrical with arched stone columns wrapped in lush green vines, the scent of damp earth and crushed wildflowers still clinging to the air.
Coaxed from the land itself. Spring fae handiwork, no doubt, at the bequest of their king. Taking advantage of their portals to come into shifter lands and create this before disappearing.
