31. Seraphina
31
SERAPHINA
T he tunnels stink of damp earth and cold stone, the silence between us thick enough to suffocate.
Rylan hasn’t spoken since we escaped the Midnight Den.
He doesn’t have to.
His grip on my wrist is iron, dragging me forward without hesitation, his pace ruthless, unyielding.
I don’t fight him.
Not because I fear him.
But because I have no choice.
If I want to live—if I want to see this through—I must stay with him.
I must endure.
By the time we reach the surface again, my body aches.
The tunnels spill us into the outskirts of the city, where the air reeks of sewage and smoldering ash.
The attack on the Den still lingers in the distance—smoke curling against the night sky, the faint sound of screams carried by the wind.
Rylan doesn’t even look back.
He simply keeps moving.
And I follow.
I have nowhere else to go.
We get out of the tunnel, and arrived on the outskirts.
“Fortunately, I prepared a place for this kind of emergencies,” he murmurs as we stand outside a house.
The safe house is small, built from black stone and shadow.
Rylan shoves the door open, dragging me inside.
I barely have time to breathe before he’s pushing me against the nearest wall, his hands braced beside my head, caging me in.
“Start talking.” His voice is low, dangerous, a whisper edged with steel.
I lift my chin. “I already told you?—”
His hand moves. Fast.
Not to strike me.
But to grab the dagger at his hip and press the cold steel against my throat.
My breath catches.
He leans in, his emerald eyes dark and seething with suspicion.
“Do not lie to me, Seraphina,” he murmurs. “Not after what you’ve just cost me.”
I swallow against the blade.
The way he says my name—it feels like a curse.
Like something he’ll tear from my lips and crush beneath his boot.
I could lie.
I could keep twisting the truth, keep burying my secrets beneath carefully chosen words.
But he’s too close.
Too sharp. Too deadly.
And I am running out of time.
Slowly, I lift my hand.
His eyes track the movement, every muscle in his body coiled like a beast ready to strike.
I grab the hem of my tunic and pull it up, exposing the skin along my ribs.
His dagger doesn’t move.
Neither does he.
Not at first.
Then—his gaze drops. “What am I looking at? More scars?” he scoffs.
I don’t move, and just let him process it. Let his mind catch up.
Rylan frowns as he explodes, “Are you playing me? Do you think?—”
Suddenly, he stops and gasp, moving closer toward my scars. His breath brushes against my skin.
“Do you see it now? If you look closely, you’ll find a pattern to it,” I say softly, my voice shaky at the admission.
I watch his expression shift. The realization. The slow, creeping understanding.
There it is.
The marking etched into my flesh.
A map.
Not drawn.
Not inked. They’re not just ordinary scars. They might look like one at a glance, but if the person know what it’s looking for, it will become obvious.
The map is carved into my skin by magic itself.
The scars.
Rylan steps back, just enough for the dagger to leave my throat.
But he doesn’t look at me.
He stares at the map, as if it is something unholy.
Something impossible.
His breathing slows, measured, calculating.
He lifts his eyes to mine.
And I feel the shift.
The storm rolling in.
“Explain,” he says, voice like ice.
I exhale shakily. “I was born with it.”
A flicker of something in his gaze—rage.
“Magic doesn’t just carve maps onto human flesh,” he says coldly.
I wet my lips. “No.”
His jaw tightens. “Then tell me why.”
Why.
Why.
The truth is a noose around my throat.
But there is no more room for lies.
I pull my tunic down, covering the mark of my fate.
I say the words that will change everything.
“The treasure can’t be claimed without me.”
His dagger slams into the wall beside my head. Rylan presses closer, his body caging mine against the cold stone. His voice is a whisper of raw fury.
“You mean to tell me,” he says slowly, “that you are the key.”
I nod.
He laughs. Low, dark, utterly devoid of humor. His hand curls around my throat.
“You let me think you were just a thief,” he breathes, his lips inches from mine. “You let me drag you through hell, all while hiding this.”
I meet his eyes.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His grip doesn’t loosen.
Neither does his fury.
But he doesn’t kill me.
Now—he can’t.
I see it in his eyes.
The war inside him.
Because killing me now means losing everything.