The beast's eyes gleam with what I can only describe as disagreement. He knows I'm lying. Knows that Lenna is fundamentally important in ways I can't explain or justify. That she's already woven into the fabric of this place—and into me—with a permanence that terrifies me.
I press my forehead against the barrier, feeling the faint hum of magic beneath my skin. The wards recognize me absolutely, allowing proximity that would incinerate anyone else.
But they recognize her too now. Welcome her like she belongs here.
Like she's always belonged here.
I need to understand what's happening. Need to figure out why my body insists on remembering things my mind can't access. Why Azhrael responds to her with the kind of loyalty he once showed me before something changed—before some invisible shift made him resentful of my authority.
Why kissing her felt like coming home to a place I've never been.
The dreams will come again tonight. They always do now, growing stronger and more detailed with each passing cycle. Maybe this time I'll remember more. Maybe this time the pieces will start fitting together into something that makes sense.
Or maybe I'm just losing my mind in the slow, inevitable way that happens to people who spend too much time in close proximity to infernal beasts.
But even as I think it, I know that's not true. This isn't madness. It's something else. Something that involves Lenna and Damiros and gaps in time I can't account for.
Something that feels distinctly like curse work.
The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity, sending ice through my veins despite the volcanic heat. Curse work. Memory manipulation. The kind of magic that requires both power and precision, that leaves distinctive markers if you know how to look for them.
The kind of magic my brother specializes in.
I pull back from the barrier, my mind racing through implications I'm not ready to fully examine. Not yet. Not until Ihave more information, more certainty about what I'm actually dealing with.
But the seed is planted now. The suspicion that won't leave me alone.
Damiros knows something. Something about me, possibly Lenna. Something that I think has to do with these memories that should exist and made them disappear, leaving only fragments that bleed through in dreams and visceral physical recognition.
The question is why.
And more importantly—what exactly does he know that I don't?
13
LENNA
The morning air in the stables still carries residual heat from the volcanic vents below, but it's cooler than it will be in a few hours. I've gotten good at timing my work to avoid Malrec entirely—arriving before dawn, moving through my tasks with efficient silence, and disappearing back to the servant quarters before he makes his usual rounds.
Four days of this careful choreography. Four days of pretending I don't feel him in every shadow, don't catch his scent lingering in corridors he's already left. Four days of my body insisting it knows things my mind refuses to acknowledge.
I finish securing the feed bins in Vexris's enclosure, double-checking the latches the way I've learned to do without thinking. My hands move through the motions with practiced precision that shouldn't exist for someone who's only been here a few weeks. But that's another thing I've stopped questioning—the way my body understands this work with an intimacy that suggests years rather than days.
Azhrael watches me from his enclosure as I pass, his luminous eyes tracking my movement with that particular intensity that always makes my chest tighten. I press my palmbriefly against his containment barrier in farewell, feeling the familiar hum of recognition from the wards. He rumbles low, a sound I've come to interpret as affection mixed with concern.
"I'm fine," I tell him quietly, though we both know it's a lie.
He shifts his massive head in what might be disagreement, then settles back into watchful stillness. Waiting. He's always waiting lately, like he expects something to happen that I can't see coming.
I pull my hand away and head for the exit, moving quickly through the ascending corridors that lead back toward the servant quarters. The volcanic stone gradually cools as I climb, the oppressive heat giving way to the more temperate air of the upper levels. My work uniform clings to my skin, damp with sweat and the particular grit that comes from cleaning infernal beast enclosures.
All I want is to get back to my room, wash off the evidence of another morning spent avoiding the one person I can't stop thinking about, and try to sleep without dreaming of him.
I'm halfway through the transitional corridor when Nimae steps out from one of the side passages, clearly waiting for me. Her violet eyes are sharp and assessing as always, but there's something else underneath—hesitation, maybe. Or concern.
"Lenna." She says my name like she's been rehearsing this conversation. "I need to talk to you."
My stomach drops immediately. Nothing good ever starts with those words. "What's wrong?"
