When my hand brushes his, I flick a friendly spark into his palm. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he tightens his fingers around mine, anchors me here.
I laugh—a soft sound full of exhaustion and sweetness.
“What?” he murmurs.
“Just being alive,” I say. “With you. In mist. Feels like escaping forever.”
He smiles. That soft crinkled thing that wraps warmth around my belly.
We walk until our footsteps slow. Evening mist curls into our breath, mingling our smoke. I shine my eyes on him, patient.
“Want to do something stupid?” I ask.
He grins, claws still tucked. “Try me.”
I step close and capture his face in hands, star-bright eyes seeking his. “Something gentle?”
He leans in, lips grazing mine. “Always,” he whispers.
Our fourth time is as quiet as everything before this was loud. No walls rattle, no alarms scream. Just us, mist, and breath. He lets me lead—slow and worshipful, fingers tracing scars and muscle beneath cloak. We fall into grass damp as new dawn,limbs entertwined and hearts beating reckless in night. The dampness cools heated limbs. The air hums of living things.
He lowers himself around me, protecting. His lips ghost my neck. Then, a playful nip—pure teeth and warmth—on my shoulder. I growl—feral, funny.
“Still think I’m not going to eat you?” he murmurs.
I laugh around breath, wrists tangled in his cloak, eyes locked on his.
“Only when you’re asleep,” I reply.
He's big, strong, golden-horned and scaled—but right now he’s here. Whole. Safe.
The mist curves around us, distant crickets singing ancient lullabies. A fox’s cry tethers me back to moss and stone and cold grass pressing at my spine.
Kragna’s gaze softens. He lays his palm against my cheek, thumb sweeping across damp, rain-kissed skin.
“What now?” I whisper into the hush.
He doesn’t flinch. He smiles with something deep, slow, fierce:
“Now we build.”
And I feel his breath, his promise, solid in every inch of me.
24
KRAGNA
The enclave smells of lamplight and unease. Oil lanterns cast yellow halos across stone recently scrubbed but still stained by grief and ambition. In the common hall, ovens bake bread that tastes like peace: soft, cautious, still warm with possibility. As I step inside, the scent anchors me, but my gut twists. This isn’t a kitchen; it’s a battlefield stitched with charity dinners and treaties. And tonight, the peace bleeds at the seams.
I slip into the back of the room, ale in hand. Its bitterness settles in my belly like truth. Snatches of conversation swirl—elves murmuring about sovereignty, loads, borders; humans urging control; Rizzo’s patience fraying beneath polite words. River stands center stage, speaking fast and fierce, weaving arguments tight as leather. She’s radiant more than regal—driven by fire now, not candles.
The doors burst open with a gasp of air, and Cervantes swagger-slides in. His grin is all jagged teeth and bloody promise. He holds a severed head—bride-cake still sticking to strands of hair. The gilded colors of House Laertiez are at its hem.
Silence wraps the room. The head thuds onto a platter.
“An… offering,” he says, voice velvet soaked in danger.
Eyes snap to Skeela. She stiffens. I grip the rim of my cup so tight it cracks the wood.
