Chapter 22 #2
“Both the strength of your body and power.”
“I can beat myself,” I shrug, then add under my breath: “Of all the enemies, I will be the easiest, and it ends as soon as one of us points our weapons at a vital point, like the throat or heart. Easy.”
“Are you serious?” he crosses his arms, the silver eyes challenging. “Make a sword.”
“What?” I stare at him in pure shock.
“What were you thinking? You need to summon it. You keep avoiding it each time I train you. I won’t tolerate excuses today.”
The nice Riven is gone. Now I’m face to face with the Great General of Dragthralls.
Anger flares. I clench my fists and focus on my power, trying to visualise a sword like Riven taught me, but nothing happens.
“Try harder. Think about specific details: the shape, the sharpness, the length, the handle.” He squats beside me, pinching my chin. “You need practice, Miss Architect. If you can’t do it here, you’ll never manage under pressure.”
“Who won the Curse Dice?” I totally ask him only to get some break.
“Me, of course,” he fixes me with a hard stare, folding his arms. “Create a sword.”
I sigh in exasperation. “You will have your sword,” I say dryly and dip into the well of my power; the access is easier than ever without the wicked storm on the edge.
Yet stirring the well adds to the ache.
The itch lingers, and neither breathing nor bracing myself helps.
Think about Grams. She wielded her power without any trouble. She acted as if the things she architected had already been in the world and she only revealed them for the rest of us.
I reach out and open my fist, as I would if I were holding a handle, then tap into the power. It is easy. I draw it and it stays still, obedient and compliant.
I feel the substance taking shape in my hand, but there’s no time to feel smug, because my hand is on fire. I drop the damn sword and glance down. My skin’s already red, and a blister is beginning to form.
“You need to take the quality of the sword under consideration, as well as the shape,” Riven says, with a smile tugging on his lips.
He reaches for my injured hand, “You did well.”
“I used iron,” I sigh.
I am a disaster. At least the burn distracts me from the itch.
“Yes.” He stares at my hand, and his moon-kissed depths shift; the irises change vertically. The pain fades, and I blink at the red mark left behind.
“You’re a healer!” I gape at him in shock.
“A weak one,” he says with a faint smile, releasing my hand.
I meet his gaze. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since our dance. Then, he was a mystery. Now, he’s a General with an agenda.
“Let’s try again,” he says, turning his focus back to my wielding.
I obey, channelling my power, and this time, I succeed. But with each idea I bring into existence, the hunger sharpens, growing more intense.
I turn away from Riven to prevent him from reading the agitation on my face. “I need to see Karo; we will come back to it.”
“What are you hiding?” Riven asks, and I feel him behind my back. I force myself to stay relaxed and give nothing away.
“What’s it to you?” I reply, flattening my tone and letting my voice echo in the terrifying emptiness of the mountain.
He grabs my arms, and I don’t want him to let go. His touch soothes my skin.
“I understand you’re hurt by my dishonesty,” he says softly, “but there’s no need for the kind of animosity you’re directing at us… at me.”
Warmth pulses where his fingers rest against my skin. I step back before he can use his divination magic.
The silence stretches between us, too wide to bridge.
Riven sighs. “My parents kept score of their battles. Their mating wasn’t fulfilling, their relationship was like a chessboard. What mattered most was who won the argument, and how. Even if they preferred silent wars over loud outbursts, they were never truly happy.”
I feel a flicker of sympathy for him. My mom abandoned me, but my grandparents were a unit, together, a force to be reckoned with. But they never turned that force against each other.
“I don’t want that for our relationship. I want vulnerability and safety.”
“We have a relationship?”
“Don’t we?” A hint of a smile dances on his lips. “The shapeshifter told me who found me attractive on the dance floor.”
“His tongue is too long,” I mutter.
Riven bursts out laughing, the deep, belly-gripping kind.
I watch him. The body forged by relentless training, the scars, those silver eyes brimming with ancient knowledge… and something gentler. Hope. Kindness. And with that laughter, I could spend the rest of my life finding new ways to make him laugh again.
I’m overwhelmed by the urge to kiss him. To cross that invisible line. To connect in a different way. To taste his lips. To taste him. To feel what it’s like to be wrapped in those strong arms.
I bite my lower lip to relieve the desire.
He stops laughing. His jaw flexes, and his wings flare. Hunger. That’s the only word I have for what I can see on his face.
I take the risk and close the distance between us. He stiffens, and for the longest second, I’m sure he’ll reject me. But then he’s on me, and I melt into his arms.
He kisses me with a bloodthirstiness I’ve only ever read about in novels, seizing my neck with sheer ownership. It’s as if he had kept himself in check his entire life, and now he’s unleashing all the tension he held back onto my lips. I don’t complain at all.
I move to tear my clothes off, desperate for his skin against mine, but he jerks back—out of nowhere. “We need to stop,” he barks.
I stare at him, breathless, flushed, and unfulfilled. “You don’t find me attractive?
“I don’t find you attractive?” He echoes, incredulous, holding me in place with nothing but his eyes. “I am very old. I’ve waited a long life for you. But you cannot have me today. It would cost you a war.”
“Why?” I growl, crossing my arms and glaring at him. “And anyway, that’s very presumptuous of you.”
His face shifts, revealing a torrent of emotions so foreign I recoil. I don’t know him at all.
“The first time I have you, I won’t be able to stop. And not because you’re too damn tempting or I’d lose control, but because I simply wouldn’t want to.”
He steps closer. “So, My Lady, if you want to prevent the war and make it to the palace in time to save your subjects, you’ll need to wait for another kiss.”
I lose the ability to speak. I open my mouth to say something. Then close it. Try again. Nothing.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen you speechless,” he smirks.
And that only stuns me more.
I want to say a million things, and I nearly do, but it isn’t only about being betrayed or manipulated. It’s about feeling robbed. About the loss of something I could have, but never got the chance to reach. Like their ‘omission’ stole the future I had let myself hope for.
I know I’m being dramatic. I’m self-aware enough to recognise that. But even with that awareness, I seal my lips shut.
“What do you want me to do? How can I make it better?” he asks, voice soft and careful, like a fisherman baiting his hook.
I clench my fists, holding the words back with the same force I hold my ground.
“I didn’t know you yet. I was tasked with retrieving the Queen,” he says quietly.
“By whom?”
He looks away, like he said too much, like he’s weighing his options. But I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of secrets. Lies.
“By whom?” I repeat, sharper.
“Could you give me just a seed of your trust?” he asks.
I slowly shake my head, but he takes my hand gently in his and I let him.
Those males make me question everything.
“The pieces on our board are much more powerful than you imagine. I’m nothing but a lowly servant.
I know war, obedience, and loyalty; the politics and scheming aren’t for me.
Yet, I think you don’t need heavy truths in your mind before your test tomorrow.
” His voice is soft, almost a whisper. “I only want what’s best for you.
Never doubt that. I know you are capable of making your own choices, but please… consider my counsel.”
“Will you tell me after the test?” I press, sighing and letting my shoulders slump. My head’s a mess; I don’t want to hear any more bad news.
“If you want me to.”
“I do.”
He bows his head, tucking his wings in with grace.
“Take me to the cottage,” I order.
He fixes his gaze on me with an emotion I can only call longing. It’s a dangerous invitation, pulling at the frayed edges of my resolve. And I want to stay. I want to give in, even with the turmoil he made in my heart.
But the itching is practically unbearable.
“Now, Riven,” I repeat.
The pain on his beautiful face might be one of my greatest crimes, and I am the Savage, Murderous Queen.
Maybe I should try again with that cliff?