To anyone else, he looks composed—controlled, commanding. But the bond between us flares the moment oureyes meet. It hits me like a pulse under the skin: anger, fury, and a cold, contained rage so intense, it almost takes my breath away.
He looks me over slowly. Not touching or moving. But I feel it anyway.
Every place his gaze falls is like a physical sensation against my skin. My bruised ribs. My split lip. My broken arm strapped awkwardly against my chest.
His jaw flexes. The anger hardens. I stay silent. Anything else would break whatever fragile control he’s holding onto.
A voice cuts across the courtyard. “Ah.”
I drag my attention away from Varek and towards the raised stone platform overlooking the yard.
Queen Serresta stands there, draped in dark blue silk that shimmers faintly in the sunlight. The bioluminescent markings along her arms glow brighter under the open sky, tracing elegant patterns that pulse softly beneath her skin.
Her luminous eyes sweep the courtyard. She looks almost amused. “You see?” she says lightly. “The human is alive.”
A ripple of tension moves through the gathered soldiers.
“Now,” she continues, turning slightly, “release my son.”
My brain stutters for a moment.
Son.
It takes a second before the rest of the scene clicks into place. Because Varek isn’t standing alone. A few steps to his right stands a figure I recognise immediately even though we’ve never actually met.
Prince Aelith.
He’s bound. Not roughly—his wrists are tied in front of him with dark cord—but unmistakably restrained.
Up close, he looks even more imposing than he did the few times I saw him from a distance in the city. Towering, broad-shouldered. His blue skin is a shade darker than the Queen’s,and the luminous markings along his arms are subtler on his massive frame. The distinctive royal sigil glows faintly on his chest, visible even through the torn edge of his tunic.
His luminous eyes narrow as he studies the Queen. Beside him stands a human.
At first, I assume he must be another prisoner. Then I notice two things. First, he isn’t bound. Second, he’s grinning.
He doesn’t exactly seem nervous, and I don’t see a hint of sarcasm. He’s simply just… grinning.
He’s about my height, maybe a little shorter. Mid-thirties, I’d guess. White, strong build, athletic in the easy way of someone used to moving their body for fun rather than survival. Messy light brown hair sticks out in several directions like he hasn’t owned a comb in years, and his brown eyes are wide with open curiosity as they sweep across the courtyard.
He’s holding onto the bottom of Aelith’s tunic like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he looks absolutely delighted to be here.
The realisation hits me slowly.
Dawson.
This must be Dawson. The human Varek mentioned. The one who nearly died and is apparently Aelith’s fated mate.
Dawson catches my eye across the yard. His grin widens. Then he gives me a cheerful thumbs-up.
I stare at him.
What.
The.
Hell?
Aelith greets his mother in Glowranthian, his deep voice rumbling through the courtyard.
