Chapter 25
Seph
I had been staring at my stranger for a full minute.
“Come,” he said finally, voice low and rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.
I swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay.”
He walked ahead of me, moving through a narrow path between the trees I swear hadn’t existed a moment ago.
He didn’t look back—but somehow I knew he was aware of every stumble, every ragged breath I took.
We reached the riverbed.
He pointed to a smooth rock beside the bubbling stream.
“Sit.”
I did.
He knelt at the edge of the water, silent and deliberate.
I watched him gather herbs with hands that were too steady for someone who’d just torn through three boys like paper.
He crushed them into a pulp using river water and a flat piece of wood, movements precise, focused.
Then he turned.
And knelt in front of me.
My breath caught.
He reached up—slow, careful—as if to touch my face.
I flinched violently.
His hand hovered.
He didn’t pull back.
Didn’t get angry.
He just looked at me.
Really looked at me.
Like he was weighing something ancient and dangerous inside me…
and finding it familiar.
His voice was quiet when he spoke.
“I know what you are.”
My breath hitched.
“What?” I squeaked.
He nodded once, utterly unshaken.
A tiny curve touched the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, not quite a warning. Something in between.
“You can’t hurt me,” he said at last.
Soft. Certain. Not arrogant—simply a statement of fact.
Something inside me cracked open at his certainty.
“How do you know that?” I whispered.
He met my eyes without blinking.
Slowly, he shook his head.
“Because nothing hurts me,” he said.
Not boastful.
Not proud.
Just true.
His hand touched my skin.
I clenched my fists.
Closed my eyes.
What if he’s wrong? What if he’s wrong—oh god—what if he’s wrong—
Bare flesh brushed my cheek.
Gentle. Soft. A touch I hadn’t felt in years.
And—
Nothing happened.
No pull.
No pain.
No surge of hunger.
Just… contact.
Warm. Human. Real.
My breath shuddered out of me.
I opened my eyes.
He was watching me, amusement flickering like a shadow across his face.
When he smiled—full, warm, devastating—it hit me with the force of something ancient rising from sleep.
“See,” he murmured, his voice like embers shifting. “You’re safe.”
He tore a strip of fabric from his own shirt, soaked it with the poultice, and lifted it to my cheek. His fingers brushed my jaw, slow and deliberate, and a tremor ran down my spine.
He didn’t miss it.
His other hand stroked my cheek once—soft, grounding—like touch was something he knew how to wield with perfect control.
“Hold this.”
I did. The poultice was cold and tingly, magic stitching through my skin almost immediately.
My stranger stepped back, eyes still locked on mine.
“Who are you?” I breathed.
He stepped away from me and sat on a log, watching me a stillness that amazed me.
His hair was black like silk. His body large and muscular.
He was stunning.
“A friend.” He said finally.
“Do you have a name?”
He hesitated, as if he didn’t want to tell me.
“Sy.” He said finally.
I watched him uncertainly. “You’ve been at the lake with me.”
He nodded.
“And the other night. You were the dragon.”
His gaze locked onto mine — unblinking, heavy, as if his eyes carried entire centuries behind them.
He nodded once. Slow. Controlled.
Like he was confirming more than a fact —
like he was acknowledging a truth he’d hidden from the world for far too long.
The forest felt suddenly smaller around us.
I swallowed. “How long have you been watching me?”
He didn’t shift, didn’t fidget, didn’t look away.
Dragons didn’t, I realised.
They observed.
“Since the first night you came to the lake,” he said. His voice was low, deep, threaded with something that hummed against my skin. “You walked through my territory without fear.”
“That’s not true,” I whispered. “I’m afraid of everything.”
His lips twitched — almost a smile.
“Not of me.”
The poultice cooled my jaw, but heat flooded my chest.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, huge hands hanging relaxed between them.
“Most people run from me,” he said. “Or they try to hunt me. You just… sat.”
I huffed a breath. “I was tired.”
“I know.” His voice softened. “I could smell it.”
My cheeks warmed. “You can smell… tired?”
He almost laughed — almost.
“A great many things.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or terrified.
Maybe both.
He watched me another long moment, as if the sight of my bruised face angered him more than he’d ever admit.
Then, quietly:
“You should not walk alone in the woods anymore.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” I muttered. “I just… needed space.”
His jaw tightened. “Space nearly got you killed.”
I blinked.
That sounded like something Dev would say — but deeper, older, with more grief layered under it.
He noticed my expression and looked away, the faintest flicker of shame crossing his face.
“I am not trying to hurt you,” he said quietly. “But you are… small.”
I scowled. “That’s rude.”
This time he definitely smiled — a slow, warm, devastating thing.
“Small,” he repeated, “but bright. And shiny things attract predators.”
My heart thudded hard.
He meant Ollie and the others.
But something in the way he said predators made me think he meant more than them.
That he meant everything hunting me.
Everything I didn’t yet understand.
He leaned back again, eyes softening.
“You are safe with me.”
The words weren’t a promise.
They were a law.
“Who hunts you?” I asked him.
He turned away. “Probably that which calls to you, small one. There are those who seek our particular power for themselves. And some are closer to it than others.”
“Do you mean Marr?” I asked, voice small.
“Marr…” His nostrils flared as if even the name had a scent.
“Dr Marr. From the institute.”
“There are many who would use you to serve their purpose.”
The way he said it — low, rough, almost reverent with disgust — made my pulse stutter.
“Many?” I whispered.
He didn’t look at me.
“Mankind can be a parasite,” Sy said. “Men who scrape power from blood, or bone, or fear. They cannot touch what you carry, so they try to steal the pieces left behind.”
I swallowed. Hard. “I don’t… even know what I am.”
That made him look at me.
Really look.
Everything stilled — the trees, the wind, the river — like the entire forest had paused just so he could hear the shape of my breath.
“You do,” he said softly. “Somewhere in you… you know.”
My blood went electric.
He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, and his voice dropped into a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the ground, through my bones, through the parts of me I tried so hard to pretend didn’t exist.
“You feel the pull,” he murmured. “The emptiness. The hunger.”
Each word hit like a truth I’d buried in the dark.
“It is not madness,” he continued, eyes glinting like obsidian catching a shard of moonlight. “Nor is it evil. It is power. In its purest form.”
He held my gaze as the silence deepened between us.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“And those who hunt you…” His lip curled faintly. “They follow the scent of what sleeps inside you.”
I swallowed again, throat thick. “And you?”
His head tilted just slightly — dragon-still, dragon-sure.
“I am not here to hunt you, Seph. I am but a guardian of the balance.”
My name in his mouth felt like twilight wrapping around my skin.
He blinked once, slow, controlled.
“I am here,” he said, voice like old storm clouds, “because the moment your power woke that first day, I knew what you were.”
My breath caught.
“And?”
“And,” he continued, “because even with all that you are, all you fear…”
His gaze softened, as if I were something sacred.
“You did not run from me.”