Chapter 10
Delia
Morning, Ashfell
I barely had time to breathe before Thorne was being summoned.
A message—carried by fire, no less, a whisper of flame spiraling in through the hearth and forming a sigil in the air—called him to The Ember Vein.
The name alone prickled along my spine.
The Ember Vein is the lifeblood of this realm.
A mine, but not like anything Earth had.
It pulses beneath the crust of Nightfall like a living artery, channeling raw magical ore that powered the Forges, the wards, the weapons—the dreams, even, Thorne said while dressing.
If the SoulTakers are targeting it, everything is at risk.
“I’m coming with you,” I say before I could think better of it.
Thorne’s head lifts slowly from where he’s studying a map. His gaze burning right through me.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You are not ready.”
“I don’t care.”
He takes a step towards me. Then another.
“It could be dangerous.”
“So could this,” I whisper, gesturing to the embers still flickering midair. “And I’m still here. I’m not made of glass.”
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t snarl.
He doesn’t even scowl.
He just looks at me—like he’s searching for something—and then he nods.
Just once.
I don’t realize how shocking that is until much later.
Not until the coach arrives. Or maybe it simply appears?
All I know is one minute I am standing outside the keep, a small army of servants and guards surrounds us, and the next it just appears in a cloud of flames and smoke.
The vehicle is massive.
Not elegant like a royal carriage—no delicate trim or glittering polish.
This is a war-wagon disguised as transport, all dark obsidian plates and glowing ward-runes etched along the side.
And the beasts that pull it?
Not horses. Not exactly.
Though there is a resemblance.
If horses and Greek mythology had a fiery baby.
Four immense creatures—like massive Clydesdales with jet black coats—snort sparks with every breath, their manes literal tongues of fire, rippling and alive.
Their hooves struck the red-black earth with echoing force, each impact sending ripples of flame across the rust-colored plain.
They are terrible. Frightening.
Beautiful.
As is the world I find myself in.
And I am very aware that I have absolutely no business being here, or riding in a chariot drawn by such mythical beasts.
But Thorne doesn’t blink. He doesn’t question it.
He merely holds out his hand to help me up, as if this were a ride in Central Park and not a journey across the scorched wilds of a world in danger.
“I honestly didn’t think you’d let me come,” I admit once we were inside, the heavy doors shutting behind us with a hiss of enchanted steel.
“I wouldn’t,” he replies.
I turn to look at him. “Then why did you?”
His eyes flick toward mine, then back out the window, where the fantasy savannah-like terrain unfurls in waves of cracked burgundy to black soil and towering, petrified trees that looked as though they’d once been struck by lightning and never stopped burning.
“You asked me and I could not refuse you,” he says simply.
My breath caught.
That is not a normal answer for a Demon Lord of Fire.
Not for him.
Not for Thorne.
“You’re serious.”
“I am always serious, Shula.”
I smile faintly, despite myself.
“Okay. Fine. You’re serious. But admit it. This isn’t like you.”
“No,” he agrees. “It is not.”
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable.
It just… is.
Heavy. Full of things neither of us knows how to say.
Why is he doing things he wouldn’t normally do?
Why does it matter if I ask something of him?
I glance out at the terrain as we ride.
It stretches out forever, copper and obsidian, speckled with thorny brush and veins of silver rock that shimmered beneath the surface.
In the distance, I see more fire beasts running wild—manes blazing, hooves kicking up sparks as they raced one another across the horizon.
In the sky, I see enormous birds like vultures circling, maybe for dead things to munch on?
“Those are Carrion Crows, they keep the Plains clean,” Thorne explains.
“And the creatures pulling the coach?”
“Fire Mustangs. It is impossible to domesticate them, but when the Lord of Fire calls, they come,” he explains without conceit, though I am aware of how awesome that is. “A drink, Shula?”
Thorne offers me a silver flask, and I take it.
Inside is warm spiced tea.
Like my favorite chai latte.
I sigh as I drink deeply.
I turn my head to the window and try to take it all in.
Another herd of Mustangs runs wild a few hundred yards away.
It’s like watching living stars gallop across a world made of ash.
Their coats shimmer as if dusted with starlight, manes streaking behind them like comets.
They leave trails of disturbed soot in their wake, kicking up embers that spark to flames only for them to die before they touch the ground.
It’s surreal. Haunting. Beautiful.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I whisper, breath catching in my throat.
The coach we’re riding in is silent save for the soft hum of magic beneath our feet.
It's not like any vehicle I’ve ever ridden in before—not a car, not a train.
The wheels don’t even touch the ground.
It simply glides, smooth and effortless, across the Broken Plains. A luxury barge cutting through shadow.
The seat beneath me is plush black leather, stitched with gold thread.
It's wide enough for two, but I sit a little too close to the edge, trying not to take up space.
The leather warms beneath my thighs, like it's enchanted to match body temperature, and smells faintly of firewood and something richer—amber and spice.
I glance at the windows—if you can call them that.
They look like crystal, but no crystal I’ve ever seen.
Giant panes stretch from floor to ceiling, seamlessly curved into the walls so there’s nothing to interrupt the view.
No seams. No frames. Just endless, unobstructed sky and scorched land rolling past, streaked with rivers of fire and glowing magma veins that snake through cracked earth like molten lifelines.
“How do you find your new home, milady?” Thorne asks.
His voice is low, rough silk over flame.
The kind of voice that slides beneath your skin and stays there.
And I know immediately—the question matters.
I look up.
He’s watching me.
He’s always watching me.
Even now, after the claiming, after the bond has been sealed and his mark still pulses faintly on the side of my neck, warm and comforting—he watches me like I’m some puzzle he’s only just been allowed to touch.
God, he’s so out of my league.
Massive. Inhumanly beautiful. Made of shadows and fire, and a ruthless, terrible power.
And yet—he stares at me like I’m the one that glows.
“It’s amazing,” I answer honestly, voice barely above a whisper.
A flicker. Just the tiniest one—but I see it.
Pride.
And something else.
Pleasure?
Is he happy I like his homeland?
That thought shouldn’t make my stomach flip the way it does. But it does.
A low curl of heat rises inside me, unexpected and completely inappropriate. I press my thighs together and offer a small smile before I can stop myself.
“Does everywhere in Nightfall look like this?” I ask quickly, hoping to redirect my thoughts before they spiral further into nonsense. Because that’s what it is.
Nonsense.
I mean, sure—he claimed me.
Said sex was part of the binding ceremony.
But for all I know, that’s the last time he’ll ever touch me.
Maybe that was just the ritual. Duty.
And what a shame that would be.
“You are seeing only the Broken Plains,” he says after a pause, his eyes flicking toward the window, then back to me. “There are vastly different kingdoms in the realm. Nightfall is layered.”
“So I’ve been told,” I say, trying to sound casual.
Trying not to get caught staring at the way his massive arms rest on his thighs, hands relaxed but still coiled with power.
Trying not to think about the heat of his mouth on mine, the weight of his body above me, the way he trembled when he came inside me.
Trying not to wonder if it meant anything to him.
Because it did to me.
And that’s dangerous.
That’s the kind of thinking that cracks things open.
That lets hope in through the seams, even when you’ve spent your whole life welding them shut.
I can still feel his mouth on my skin.
The heat of his touch.
The way he said my name like it mattered.
He turns toward me then—fully.
His body is still, but no longer distant.
And when his gaze locks with mine, it’s no longer remote or impassive.
It’s present. Fierce. Focused like flame drawn to oxygen.
“And what else has Masha told you?” he asks, low and slow.
There’s no mockery in it. No challenge.
Just… curiosity with teeth.
I take a breath, steadying myself, pretending the sheer force of his attention isn’t scrambling my pulse.
“She said matebonds don’t always mean the same thing here,” I begin. “That they’re sacred, but not always simple. That you don’t trust easily.”
His eyes narrow, unreadable.
“That this war has cost you more than you admit,” I continue softly, “and that even if it’s not popular opinion, there are those among your people who would follow you into the fire.”
His jaw ticks once.
A subtle tell.
But he says nothing.
Doesn’t deny or confirm any of it.
“And,” I add, my voice even though my throat feels tight, “she said that The Ember Vein is everything. If it falls—”
“—we fall with it,” he finishes grimly, the words leaving his mouth like iron.
The air between us sharpens.
Gone is the drifting quiet of awe. In its place, a tautness.
Like we’re standing on the edge of something that won’t let us look away.
Thorne shifts forward.
One deliberate motion.
Massive. Controlled. Commanding.
His body takes up nearly the entire space between the two bench seats, like a wildfire advancing in slow motion.
And yet, for all his size, for all his danger—he’s gentle with his closeness.
Like he doesn’t want to crowd me.
Like he’s trying not to overwhelm.
But oh, he does.
“You must understand this is no easy excursion, Delia,” he says, voice low and rough as scorched velvet. “This is a battlefront wrapped in shadow. I said yes to you because I wanted you near. I will not risk losing you for pride.”
Because I wanted you near.
Those words land like a live ember against my skin.
My heart slams once, hard enough to ache.
There’s so much he’s not saying—but what he does say?
It’s enough to unearth things I buried a long time ago.
Still, I lift my chin.
“Then keep me near and don’t do the other,” I say, barely more than breath. “Don’t lose me.”
My hands curl into fists on my lap.
“But don’t expect me to stay behind either.”
I see it.
The flicker.
The flash.
For just a second, the flames outside the window catch in his eyes—and they’re not distant anymore. Not even close.
They’re here, with me.
Wild. Untamed. Raw.
Just like fire.
Just like him.
Just like… us.
He doesn’t speak.
But the air between us crackles.
And I wonder—if I leaned forward just an inch, would he meet me the rest of the way?
Would he make me burn again?
And if he did… would I let him?
He leans forward slowly, deliberate as ever, but this time it’s different.
His hand reaches for mine—not commanding, not claiming.
Just reaching.
Like he wants to feel something real. Like he wants me.
“You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” Thorne murmurs, voice as low and warm as the embers still glowing outside the wide crystal-paneled windows.
I swallow, hard, pulse tapping fast beneath my skin.
“That’s not always a compliment,” I whisper, trying to lighten the moment, to break the spell he’s weaving without even trying.
But his eyes don’t flicker with amusement. They darken.
“In this case, Shula,” he says, “it is.”
And then the coach jolts.
Just a small bump in the road, but I lurch forward slightly—and his reaction is instant.
Powerful arms move around me, fast and sure. A reflex. A need.
He catches me like I weigh nothing, bracketing me with his body, pulling me tight against his chest.
The world outside blurs past in streaks of flame and ash and light, but I barely notice.
Because I’m not breathing.
Neither is he.
His body is so close—heat radiating in waves, his scent thick with smoke and spice and something earthy I can’t name.
My hands are trapped between us, splayed against the solid muscle of his chest.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
We’re caught in it. Whatever this is.
The air between us turns molten.
Not just warm—but magnetic. Alive.
I swear I can feel the mating bond humming again—shimmering just beneath the surface of our skin, curling between us like a spark waiting for oxygen.
It’s there in the pulse of the Vein below, in the tension in his jaw, in the way his gaze dips—not to my eyes, but to my mouth.
Just one breath.
One invitation.
That’s all it would take.
He could kiss me.
I could let him.
Hell, I want him to.
But he only closes his eyes for a moment. Inhales like it costs him something.
Then he exhales, slow and ragged.
And just like that, he leans back—pulling away with the kind of care that burns more than any rush of passion ever could.
His face is unreadable again. Masked.
Like the moment never happened.
Like he didn’t just almost set the world on fire with a look.
“We have some time left on our journey, Shula,” he says quietly. “Get some rest.”
He presses me gently back into my seat, his touch feather-light, respectful.
And I sit there, heart still hammering, trying to remember how to breathe.
The coach moves steadily onward, pulled by beasts of living flame.
A war-wagon headed for the belly of a dying world.
Time to see the best and worst of Nightfall.
And all I can think about is what happens after.
After the battles. After the saving. After the pretending.
Because somewhere in the space between his arms and that near-kiss—I already made a choice I can’t take back.
I’m not going back to my old life.
Not now.
Not ever.
I’m staying here—with him.
And I’m not sure if that means I’ve found my future.
Or if I just signed my own death sentence.