Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
VAELA
T he human king’s encampment is an ugly thing. A scar carved into the land, festering with steel and rot, a wound that refuses to heal. The banners of red and gold hang limp against the evening wind, soaking up the scent of sweat, iron, and blood.
It is a blight, a violation—a sickness eating away at the border of Nyxara’s realm, tainting the very air with human filth. And as I stand here in the midst of it, I feel it seep into my skin like an infection.
But I do not let it show.
I keep my expression cool, unreadable, my posture regal. My silver hair catches in the wind, the sheer fabric of my gown clinging to my curves, the pearls along my bodice glistening beneath the flickering torchlight.
The men around me—grimy, battle-worn, reeking of ale and death—do not trust me.
I feel their stares. Their barely veiled contempt. Their hunger.
They fear me.
And that is exactly how it should be.
I walk through the camp, my bare feet silent against the packed earth, my presence a ripple in still water, a whisper through the dark.
A soldier spits at my feet as I pass.
Another murmurs a prayer, fingers clutching an iron charm at his throat.
One stares too long, licking his lips, before a grizzled veteran yanks him back by the collar with a sharp, muttered warning.
I smile.
They do not know what to do with me.
A siren in their midst.
A creature that should not be here, standing among men who only see women as conquests or corpses.
But I am neither, and before this is over, they will all drown beneath my feet.
Two guards flank me, their hands hovering near their weapons as if I might snap my fingers and drown them where they stand.
I don’t miss the way they stiffen when my tentacle flicks lazily along my calf, or how their grips tighten on their swords when I sigh, stretching as if this entire situation bores me.
One of them, a scarred man with a permanent sneer, grunts, “You must be desperate to walk into the lion’s den, sea witch.”
I arch a brow, barely sparing him a glance. “Is that what you call this? A lion’s den?” My lips curl. “Strange. All I see are rats scrambling over scraps.”
The sneering one lets out a harsh chuckle, stepping closer, his breath hot and rancid against my skin. “Watch your mouth, sea witch, or I’ll—”
I turn to him sharply, my tentacle flicking out before he can finish, curling around his throat with just enough pressure to make his next breath stutter.
“You’ll what?” I murmur, tilting my head, my grip tightening ever so slightly. His pulse races beneath my hold, his bravado faltering.
The younger soldier stiffens, shifting his weight, debating whether or not to intervene.
I lean in closer, my voice smooth as silk, laced with venom. “If you value your tongue, I suggest you keep it. Otherwise…” My smirk deepens as I let my tentacle slide lower, just brushing against the hilt of his sword. “I’ll have it.”
His jaw clenches, fury battling with fear in his eyes.
I release him with a slow, deliberate pull, stepping forward without another glance.
“Now,” I purr, adjusting the pearls at my throat as if nothing happened. “Let’s not keep your king waiting.”
K ing Aldric Velmar II is exactly what I expected—broad. Powerful. Marinated in wealth and warfare.
He sits in a throne built from stolen bones, fingers tapping lazily against the pommel of the blade at his side. A king who takes what he wants, who drinks deeply from the suffering of others, his crownless head a statement—one that promises he will claim another soon.
His dark, calculating eyes rake over me as I step inside, slow and thorough, assessing, cataloging, deciding what I am worth. A smirk pulls at his lips, indulgent, amused.
I tilt my head, letting the pearls along my collar catch the candlelight. "No crown?"
The king’s smile widens, teeth flashing white against his tanned skin.
"Why wear one," he muses, "when my hands are already poised to take another?"
Predictable.
I step closer, the fabric of my gown whispering against the ground, my hip brushing against the edge of his throne as I trail my fingers along the golden goblet at his side.
"Bold words," I murmur, watching his eyes darken. "And yet, last I checked, your men were still bleeding into the dirt outside her borders."
His jaw tightens—a barely perceptible flicker of irritation.
Even as he keeps his mask of amusement, I see the crack in his patience.
"You came to me," he counters smoothly. "That means I’ve already won."
I let my lips curl. "Oh? And here I thought I came because your army was too weak to break through Varellith’s borders without me."
The air in the tent stiffens. A few of his guards shift uncomfortably. Aldric’s eyes flicker—not with anger, but something closer to intrigue.
He does not scare easily.
Good. Because I want him to believe he is winning.
I lower myself onto the furs beside his throne, crossing my legs lazily, letting my tentacle slide along my calf, curling lightly around my thigh.
Aldric watches the movement closely—the way the pearlescent tendril flexes, the way my body shifts with ease, the way I hold myself with power, not submission.
“Let’s talk, shall we?” I say, tracing a single finger along the rim of his goblet.
He is curious.
He is hungry.
And that will be his undoing.
I meet his gaze, slow and deliberate, letting a smirk ghost across my lips. “You aren’t the only one who wants to see the Dragon Queen fall.”
That gets his attention.
His fingers tighten around his goblet, his body leaning forward, the flickering light catching in his dark, predatory eyes. “Is that so?”
I tilt my head, letting the shadows of my silver hair cascade over my shoulder, my voice lowering to something smooth, dangerous, sweet as poison.
"She has ruled for too long. Has held power for too long. Perhaps it is time for her reign to end."
Aldric exhales a quiet chuckle, studying me as if deciding whether or not I am an enemy, an ally, or something far worse.
His mistake is thinking he has a choice.
I drag my fingers slowly along the polished wood of the table beside me, nails tapping against the surface as I feign indifference.
“I’ve spent weeks in her castle.” My voice drops lower, the weight of my words settling into the space between us. “I know her defenses. Her weaknesses. I know just how to bring her down.”
Aldric stills.
For the first time since I stepped into his tent, I see something shift behind his gaze—true interest, true greed.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying me. “And why, exactly, would you betray her?”
I let my smirk widen, trailing a tentacle idly across my thigh, knowing his gaze will follow. "Because she betrayed me first."
I exhale slowly, letting the lie settle, letting him see what he wants to see—a woman scorned.
W e talk for what feels like hours. Of war. Of Nyxara and his soldiers, weapons, and strategies. His questions are sharp, but my answers are sharper—half-truths wrapped in silk and venom.
When he leans forward, intrigued, I lean forward too—just close enough for him to think he is winning me over.
Men always think they are winning.
And that is why they lose.
Finally, he exhales, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet. “You do not trust me,” he says.
I chuckle, low and sultry. “Should I?”
His smirk returns, slow and indulgent. “No.”
He likes this game.
And I intend to play it until the very end.
Aldric leans back in his chair, watching me with a calculating gleam in his eye, fingers tapping idly against the hilt of his sword.
“Well, you came to me, siren. So tell me, how do we end the Dragon Queen?”
I don’t answer immediately.
Instead, I let the silence stretch, dragging my nails slowly along the soft fabric of my gown, tracing invisible patterns against the silk. The tension in the room thickens, the men shifting slightly, waiting, watching.
“She is not invincible,” I murmur at last, tilting my head. “Powerful? Yes. But not without her faults. Her weaknesses.”
Aldric hums, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Where do I strike?”
I lean forward, letting my tentacles unfurl lazily from my back, gliding over my arms, trailing along my collarbone. “Not with steel.”
His brow lifts, intrigue flashing behind his dark eyes. “No?”
I shake my head. “You could throw every sword, every spear, every battle-hardened soldier at her gates, and it wouldn’t be enough. Dragons don’t fear blades. They fear ruin. They fear the slow, creeping decay of their own power being stripped away, piece by piece, until they have nothing left.”
His smirk deepens. “And you can do this?”
I smile in return, slow, deliberate. “What do you think?”
Aldric exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I think,” he muses, lifting his goblet, “that you are dangerous, sea witch.”
“Good,” I say smoothly. “Then you are paying attention.”
The guards flanking him shift uneasily. They do not like this.
They should be afraid.
A man behind me—young, foolish—scoffs under his breath. “A sea witch isn’t going to be the one to bring a dragon down,” he mutters, low enough that he thinks I won’t hear.
Wrong.
His mistake is assuming I will let it go, that he is untouchable.
Without moving, without speaking, I flick my wrist. The water in his goblet trembles—then rises, twisting into a thin tendril that snakes toward his throat.
He gasps, jerking back, his hand flying to his neck as the water tightens.
The other men react instantly, hands flying to their weapons, but Aldric raises a single hand.
He does not stop me. Instead, he watches. He wants me to show them exactly what I am. What power I wield.
The soldier struggles, his eyes bulging as the water slips down his throat, filling his lungs, drowning him where he stands.
I hold him there, watching the light fade from his eyes, feeling the delicious panic in the air until I grow bored.
Then, with a flick of my fingers, I release him.
He collapses to the ground, coughing, retching, gasping for air.
I don’t spare him another glance.
I turn back to Aldric, meeting his gaze evenly. “Let’s get one thing clear,” I say, voice smooth as silk, sharp as a blade. “Disrespect me again, and I will drown this entire camp. I am more powerful than any of you mere humans could even fathom to understand.”
Aldric watches me, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at his lips. “And yet, you are here, meeting with me when you could take the Dragon Queen down yourself.”
I incline my head, stepping closer, letting my fingers trail down his arm, letting my nails graze his skin. “I am,” I murmur, voice like velvet. “Because I want something from you, the same way you want something from me.”
His smirk does not falter. If anything, it deepens. “And what would that be?”
I press closer, letting my breath ghost against his ear. “You want my power? Fine. I will lend you my strength. I will lend you the sea. But I do not fight for free.”
A flicker of hesitation—small, but there.
Then, a slow chuckle rumbles in his chest. “And what is the price of a siren’s loyalty?”
I lift my hand between us, palm up, magic thrumming at my fingertips, waiting. “A bargain.”
Aldric’s eyes narrow slightly, but he does not refuse.
I let my fingers dance along his wrist, nails scraping lightly over his pulse. “You will have my aid. My power. My creatures. And in return, you will give me exactly what I want.”
His voice is low, almost dangerous. “And what is that?”
I smile, slow and dark, the hunger twisting through me as I meet his gaze. “Victory. By sunrise.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “And if I fail?”
My smirk widens, and I let my tentacles slither down my arms, curling around his wrist, pulling his hand into mine. “Then your soul belongs to me.”
He exhales slowly, watching me carefully, but I see it—the flicker of arrogance, the unwavering confidence of a man who has never known true defeat.
He thinks he will win.
He always does.
Aldric lifts his hand, palm up, accepting my terms.
“Done.”
Magic snaps between us, thick as the tide, binding the words, sealing the promise.
A bargain. A deal forged in war and blood and whispered ambition.
Aldric does not yet realize his fate was decided the moment he let me through his gates.