Chapter 33
He could see, hear, and feel, but the thoughts swirling in his mind, the words slipping from his lips, were not entirely his own.
He sat upon the cold black stone of the dais, positioned beside her…
His queen, his woman. She was breathtaking, draped in dark silks, a crown of black obsidian and gleaming gems resting atop her silken white hair.
He spent most of his time watching her, studying how she moved, the effortless command she held over the room.
One by one, demon warriors entered to report on the state of the land: disruptions, victories, the successful acquisition of new Noskari.
They were grotesque, twisted things—leathery gray skin stretched tight over their muscular frames, with pulsing black veins writhing beneath the surface.
Their soulless black eyes remained fixed on one figure alone: Vaelora.
Her name ignited something within him, a warmth coursing through his veins despite the cold pallor of his skin.
Outwardly, he was unchanged, his complexion pale, his body chilled, but inside, he burned for her.
His eyes had darkened like hers, like the Noskari, and he embraced it.
Welcomed it. He was no longer who he had been.
He was something more. Something powerful.
And with every word she spoke, every glance she bestowed upon him, she tightened the chains around his soul, binding him to her in ways he no longer resisted.
She did not see a boy when she looked at him. No, she saw a man, and he was hers.
It was more than control. More than devotion. It was possession. She commanded not just his body but his very mind, shaping his thoughts, twisting his desires with nothing more than a look, a touch, a whisper.
And he did not fight it.
He would give himself over completely, drowning in the intoxicating pull of her presence, if only to remain in this existence forever. But were those truly his wants? Or was something still buried deep within him, something that resisted, however faintly?
“My queen,” a voice rasped, cutting through the haze in his mind.
One of her Noskari stood before them, his darkened eyes locked onto Vaelora. She tilted her head slowly.
“Yes…?”
“I’ve received word that the girl has been seen beyond the southern territories.”
He avoided naming her, but there was a deliberate meaning behind his words, a silent warning that Cillian was not meant to know who she was. What girl? Cillian thought distantly, the question flitting through his mind before slipping away like smoke.
“Where?” Vaelora hissed.
The Noskari flinched as tendrils of inky black mist curled from her fingertips, coiling and writhing like living things. “Mokkvyrn Forest,” he answered quickly. “She’s traveling with a wolf pack.”
Vaelora’s eyes flashed with something darker, something lethal. “Which pack?”
“The Ironwolf, Your Grace.”
“And she was left alive?” Vaelora spat.
The Noskari bared his teeth in a low snarl, black veins pulsing with frustration. “Our scouts in the area reported that the pack arrived too soon. They were outnumbered before the task could be finished.”
Vaelora let out a slow, dramatic sigh. “I can’t open another portal to retrieve her,” she said. “I drew too deeply on my magic when I pulled my… lover through.” Her eyes slid to Cillian, a purr in her tone.
He stiffened. She’d opened a portal? All he recalled was the warmth of her kiss and a glimmer of golden light flickering through his mind before darkness had claimed everything.
The witch queen exhaled again, and a wicked smile curved her lips. “Perhaps,” she said, almost lazily, “it’s time we send another message.”
Cillian stayed quiet, watching. Listening. Because there was no room for questions here. Vaelora allowed none. And still, something in him twisted.
Who was this girl the queen wanted dead so badly? And why did something deep in his hollowed soul stir at the mention of her?
***
The vast clearing spread before them, the eastern reaches of Centaro opening wide after their long escape from Mokkvyrn Forest. For nearly a week they had crossed the quiet expanse of the Sunmere Stretch, and Alaric relished its stillness after the forest’s tangled depths.
The Stretch was a bridge between wilderness and the world beyond—and with its end in sight, civilization lay ahead.
Centaro felt like an entirely different world from the one they had left behind.
Soon, they would arrive in Cindermoor, where settlements and people awaited.
But for now, it was just them, the pack and the endless open land rolling in golden waves beneath the sky, broken only by the occasional treeline on the horizon.
Throughout the journey, Alaric had watched Evelyne change completely.
She was relentless with waking at dawn, training until her muscles shook, and mounting her horse with unwavering determination.
He knew the search for her brother drove her forward, pushing her past exhaustion, but there was something else, too.
jouShe was growing into her strength, and for the first time, it seemed like she was learning to love it.
She took the training seriously. Fiercely.
And though she had suffered a few bruises and a busted nose from her early missteps, she had improved.
Alaric had also become sharper and faster—learning the nuances of hunting and surviving in the wild.
He had always loved the outdoors, but now he saw the world beyond what had been allowed in the south.
Could he ever go back to that life? To a world of wealth and privilege, of polished floors and gilded cages? The thought felt more foreign with each passing day. Not that it mattered. He doubted he’d even survive long enough to have that choice.
Thankfully, they hadn’t encountered any Noskari since the night of his attack. He tried not to think about it, about the pressure of their hands pinning him down, their razor-sharp teeth sinking into his skin. Instead, he focused on the present.
Today, Kaldrek was running them through dagger maneuvers, and Evelyne was… struggling. Badly.
Alaric hid a chuckle as he watched her drop the dagger for what had to be the fifth time.
Unlike him, Heidara didn’t laugh. She never did.
The blonde warrior was as skilled as any man in the pack, powerful, but with a softness in her smile that could make Alaric forget his own name.
He’d caught himself staring into those emerald eyes more than once, and each time, she met his gaze without flinching, unshaken. And then she’d smile.
Once, Holden had noticed and, true to form, growled his disapproval. The warning hadn’t been subtle, and Alaric understood it well enough.
No matter how often he tried to dismiss it, guilt crept in every time he found himself admiring someone else, even if the idea of marrying Evelyne was something he’d let go of. Still, no passing distraction could keep him from noticing how Kaldrek had been treating Evelyne lately.
The alpha had always been hard on her, on both of them, really, but this was something else.
It wasn’t just about dominance or proving a point.
There was something sharper in his training with Evelyne, something relentless.
He wasn’t just trying to make her stronger.
He was trying to break something in her. Or maybe… to bring something out.
And today, he wasn’t holding back.
Kaldrek switched up the partners, pairing Evelyne with Nathan after noticing Heidara was too easy on her.
Nathan was one of the pack’s most seasoned scouts, and the difference was brutal.
His strikes were fast and fluid, his blade movements controlled and deadly.
However, Evelyne was still too stiff and slow in her counters.
She was getting better at holding her stance, but her footwork was predictable, and her parries were reactive instead of instinctive.
Every block sent her reeling back slightly, every deflection off-balance.
And Kaldrek saw.
“Is Lady Defiance struggling to keep up today?”
His voice cut through the clash of steel, loud enough for everyone to hear. A few of the trainees chuckled, but Evelyne froze. Alaric saw the moment she blocked out the noise, the laughter, Nathan, and the rest of the pack. Now, it was just her and Kaldrek.
She locked onto him, golden eyes blazing, her grip tightening around the dagger. She was furious. But anger made people sloppy, and Evelyne was still learning.
She lunged too early. The blade missed by an inch. Nathan shifted effortlessly, catching her movement and knocking the dagger from her hand in one smooth motion. It hit the dirt with a dull thud.
Kaldrek sighed.
“Again.”
Without a word, she picked it up. Again. And again.
But Kaldrek didn’t watch her like an alpha sizing up a trainee. No—it was different, like a man staring at something he didn’t quite understand, but couldn’t look away from.
Evelyne was embarrassed. Anyone could see that. Still, she never quit. And Kaldrek’s gaze never left her.
Alaric couldn’t help but wonder exactly what was building between them and how long it would be before it boiled over.