Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
T he following day, Alaire entered the Crux before dawn, the sky a veil of unbroken black.
She’d gone back to the exact spot in the gardens first thing, but only pristine grass glistening with dew had greeted her.
Had she imagined it?
She rubbed her arms, winter’s chill sinking its claws into the air. The room’s warmth had barely begun to thaw her when she felt him. Alaire forced her limbs to stay loose at her sides.
Dawson waited on the mat, arms crossed. Something in her chest stirred. Why did he have to tie his hair back like that? She didn’t need a better view of the carved lines of his cheekbones or the faint shadow of stubble. Her fingers itched to thread through the strands that always fell loose.
Focus.
She forced her gaze to his weapons. In the light, the sweeping black etchings on his broadsword mirrored the ink peeking from beneath his cuffs. When his turquoise eyes caught hers, the challenge in them made her stomach flip.
Heat crept up her neck—infuriating.
His gaze swept over her slowly—boots, leathers, calloused hands—before lingering on her mouth. Her breath faltered. When he looked up again, something fierce and hungry burned there.
His lips twitched, a phantom smile as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
“You’re late,” Dawson said, approaching with the effortless grace of a hunter. She felt his stare in her bones.
“Right on time, actually.” She lifted her chin.
“Summon your magic.” His tone left no room for refusal.
Alaire’s lips curved. “Bold of you to assume I take orders.”
He tapped his boot against the mat. “That wasn’t optional. Summon. Your. Magic.”
“No,” she said flatly, folding her arms. She wouldn’t admit her failure to him—couldn’t admit it to herself.
“Must everything with you be a fight?” he growled. “Or do you just like sparring with me?”
More than I should .
“You enjoy this, don’t you?” Alaire said. “The chase. The game. Pushing people around like pieces on your chessboard. But I’m no pawn. And I’ll never be yours to sacrifice.”
“But it’s a game, though, isn’t it, Firework?” he countered. “Politics, power, court, survival—it’s all a deadly game. What matters are the stakes.”
“And what’s at stake for you?”
“Everything.”
The word hung heavy between them.
Dawson had everything. She hadn’t thought there was anything for him to lose.
“Everything?” she echoed. “What could someone like you possibly have to lose?”
She searched his face. His expression remained maddeningly calm, like the still surface of a lake hiding what churned below. When he leaned closer, her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
“Do you think power comes without cost?” Dawson’s smirk was faint, humorless. “That privilege isn’t its own kind of cage?”
She hesitated, thrown. Dawson was a contradiction—cold as a frozen wasteland one moment, scalding as Solflara’s flames the next. Exhausting. Intoxicating. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“You already know,” he murmured, almost tenderly. “You just haven’t figured it out yet.”
Liar.
She scoffed, stepping back to reclaim her space. “Don’t play coy with me, Dawson. If you think you can use me?—”
“Use you?” he asked, his calm cracking, towering over her now. “You’re far from a pawn, Alaire. You’re much more important to this game than you realize.”
Her heart thundered. For a fleeting moment, she saw something unguarded—vulnerability, desperation, fear—before the walls slammed back into place.
“I don’t want to be part of any of it,” she muttered.
“You already are. The moment you stepped into this academy, the stakes changed.”
The air between them thickened. Dawson leaned in slowly, his scent wrapping around her. The faint brush of his nose along her neck sent a shiver down her spine. Her palms tingled.
“Summon your magic,” he whispered into her skin, lethal in his softness. “Or is it failure you’re afraid of?”
Heat chased the shiver through her. He was baiting her, and gods, it was working. Her jaw tightened as she shoved him away.
Dawson stepped forward again, his presence caging her—heavy, suffocating, electric. “You’re not even trying, Alaire,” he said, voice low and cutting. “What’s the matter? Scared you’ll embarrass yourself in front of me?”
She refused to look away. “I thought we were here to spar.” Her brow arched, settling into the animosity between them—it was far safer than what simmered beneath. “Afraid I’ll put you on your back, Knox? I’d hate to bruise that fragile ego of yours.”
Dawson’s eyes flared into something raw and wicked. “Careful, Firework,” he drawled, a velvet threat sliding over her skin like smoke. “Keep talking like that, and I might enjoy it.”
Alaire’s breath hitched, but she forced an eye roll, masking the fire curling low in her belly. “Is that a promise or a warning?”
His smile turned menacing, gaze dragging over her like a brand. “You like playing with fire, don’t you?”
“Keep pushing,” she replied, her tone a slow, deliberate caress, “and you’ll find out just how easily I could make you lose control.”
Dawson’s laugh was dark and intimate, curling around her like a phantom ribbon. He leaned in, the air between them sparking, his presence pressing against her. His lips hovered just shy of hers.
“Control, Firework, isn’t something I lack,” he murmured, rich with promise. “But I’d be happy to show you how exquisite it feels when you lose it—for me.”
She hated how her body responded—the heat flooding her veins, the desire oozing like honey. Hated it. Dear gods . She pressed her knees together, trying to ease the throbbing his words ignited.
“Pick a weapon,” he ordered, stepping back abruptly, the moment shattering.
The sudden distance left her off balance. Every nerve ending yearned for his touch, for the wicked things he’d promised.
Get it together .
She straightened, refusing to let him see how thoroughly he’d unraveled her.
Alaire pivoted toward the wall of weapons, drawn to a pair of daggers with eggplant coloured leather hilts. The curved alloy blades felt made for her—the same ones she’d used in the fight against Caius.
“On the mat. Let’s see what you can do with those.” His gaze lingered on her a beat too long. A strange flutter erupted in her stomach; she pushed it aside.
Dawson discarded his own daggers in a pile at the mat’s edge, then drew his broadsword. “To make it fair,” he added with a smug smile.
She glared. He grinned.
“Do your worst,” she taunted.
Dawson attacked, his movements a blur. She’d paid attention last night to how he favored particular strikes and combinations—and when he preferred to evade.
She dodged his first attack.
Surprise flickered in the widening of his eyes, the corners of his mouth ticking upward.
Good .
He launched himself again, this time at her less dominant side. Guess she wasn’t the only one who’d been paying attention. She barely had time to react.
He twisted away with fluid grace, his next strike too fast. He was relentless. She gave herself over to instinct, to the song and dance of battle.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” Dawson barked.
“Not even close,” she snapped.
Her irritation fueled every swipe, daggers flashing in the rising glow of the sun. Dawson met her move for move—block for block, attack for attack. The icy mask he wore was replaced with a heat that mirrored their mutual animosity.
He feinted left, then pivoted, his blade arcing dangerously close to her side. Alaire twisted away, using her momentum to bring one dagger up to his throat. He caught her wrist, jerking her arm.
“Impressive for a halfling,” he said, blinking. “But not good enough for a flier.”
Alaire growled, wrenching free. She turned to face him, panting slightly. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Possibly.” His lips curled into a predatory smile.
The early light spilled through the oval skylight, growing brighter as they circled. Her muscles burned, but she welcomed it.
Thank Lysia for the breathbind reliquary , she thought, adjusting her grip on the slick daggers.
“Keep the daggers,” Dawson said, nodding at the blades she held in a defensive stance. “They suit your fighting style.”
“But they belong to the academy,” Alaire protested.
“Consider it another prince perk.”
Of course—though she couldn’t deny the exhilaration of claiming the beautiful blades as her own.
In a desperate move, she spun out, one dagger arcing wide toward the soft skin between Dawson’s collarbone—a spot she’d noticed he left unguarded. He swept her feet out, and she crashed to the mat. His thighs pinned her hips, forearms bracketing her ribs.
Breathe. Remember to breathe.
“Yield,” Dawson growled, the word a rough command.
“Never.”
She tried to buck her hips, to twist and turn, but he had her locked down. She’d never fought anyone like him.
She tried not to notice his hips flush with hers. Everything about him set her on edge. It took every ounce of willpower not to reach up—whether to run her fingers along his stubble or punch him in the jaw, she wasn’t sure. And that was the danger.
“Confidence bordering on arrogance,” she teased.
With one swift motion, she wrapped her legs around his and rolled, putting Dawson on his back.
She straddled his stomach, pinning his arms overhead.
His eyes gleamed with invitation, daring her to take what she wanted.
She felt the rise and fall of his chest against hers—the staccato of his heartbeat.
Twisting his hands in her grip, he interlaced their fingers, anchoring himself until he rolled them again.
“Not fair,” she gasped, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips.
His gaze tracked the movement, lingering as if to commit it to memory. His grip tightened. “War isn’t fair, Firework. Life isn’t fair. You’d do well to remember that.” He rolled off her, offering a hand.
“Stop calling me that,” Alaire grumbled, popping to her feet and brushing past him.
“Fireworks explode spectacularly, then fizzle into smoke and debris. Sound familiar? Learn to manage your emotions instead of letting them control you.”
Her teeth clenched as his words ricocheted through her.
She spun on her heel, braid whipping over her shoulder. “Manage my emotions? Try looking in the mirror! You think that’s my problem? I’m showing up, doing your stupid drills. I’m here. What else do you want from me?”
“Discipline,” he answered, skirting the mat’s edge as his gaze flicked to the wall of weapons. “Restraint. You’re careless and volatile. In war, that gets people killed.” His eyes hardened as they swept over her.
Her chest tightened, but she refused to flinch. “Find someone else to train—someone who fits your perfect mold.”
“You think I want to be here?” he bit out. “You think this is how I want to spend my days—dragging you through maneuvers I can do with my eyes closed while you fight me every step?”
“I didn’t ask for this,” she shot back, voice rising. “To be shoved into a world with rules I don’t know, training for trials that no one bothers to explain!”
“No one’s going to explain anything to you, Alaire. Not here, not anywhere. No one will hold your hand or make this easy. You’re half-fae. You’re a queen. Start acting like it.”
“A queen of what, exactly?” Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “There’s nothing left. Everything, everyone , burned to ash.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated how small it made her sound. He heard it—saw it. For one unguarded moment, his expression softened before hardening again.
“That doesn’t mean you are nothing,” Dawson replied, picking up his discarded sword. “And it doesn’t mean you get to throw yourself into the inferno again and again because you don’t know how else to process your pain.”
She swallowed hard, throat tight. But instead of answering, she struck—like a cornered animal. Without warning, she lunged, letting anger take the reins. No technique, no strategy. Just raw desperation. Her fists flew toward his chest.
Dawson was faster. In one fluid motion, he caught her wrists and spun her, slamming her back against the weapons wall.
Her arms were pinned above her head in his iron grip, his body pressed against hers, trapping her completely.
His chest rose and fell against hers; the hard length of him molded to her curves.
She could feel his heartbeat matching her own frantic rhythm. Alaire struggled, but it only pressed them closer, her body betraying her with a rush of heat that had nothing to do with anger.
“There it is,” he crooned. “That spark of fire. Now, if only you knew what to do with it.”
She yanked free. “I know exactly what to do with it.” Her hands were clammy. He’d seen straight through her.
“Do you?” he asked, one dark brow arched. “Because all I see is someone so furious they can’t think.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” she retorted, shaking.
“And you don’t know a damn thing about what it takes to lead,” Dawson countered. “To carry a title you didn’t ask for and can’t give up. You think this is about what you’ve been through? It’s not. It’s about what comes next. And right now, you can’t see past your own pain.”
“And what about you? You think you’re so noble, so perfect. Doesn’t it get exhausting pretending you’ve got it all together?”
He stepped closer. “Every. Damn. Day.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I don’t have the luxury of wallowing. I can’t stop. People are counting on me. That’s what being a leader is.”
The rawness of his words knocked the breath out of her, her anger faltering. “I didn’t?—”
“Yes, you did,” he cut in sharply. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost something? Open your eyes. You’re not the only one hurting.”
He turned and walked away, shoulders rigid, steps purposeful—as if staying a moment longer would break him.
Her own shoulders sagged as the fight drained from her.
What have I done?
She’d lashed out, shattering the fragile truce they’d begun to build. She’d battered it with careless words, just to protect her pride. To drown out her own pain. For what? She was better than that. Wasn’t I?
Alaire retrieved the daggers he insisted she keep, replaying their exchange. She had a lot of work to do. She would get up. She would keep going—even without all the answers. Even if she didn’t know how.