Chapter 21 Izan
TWENTY-ONE
IZAN
The intelligence report burns in my hands.
Seravax delivered it personally—unusual enough to make me pay attention even before I read the contents. The cold pragmatist doesn’t leave his tactical chambers for anything less than catastrophic developments.
This qualifies.
“A city-wide binding ritual.” I read the words aloud, letting them settle into the air of the strategy chamber.
The volcanic glass table between us displays troop positions and ritual node locations, but none of it matters if this intelligence is accurate.
“The Blood Regent intends to bind every citizen of Pyraeth simultaneously.”
“Our sources believe the infrastructure is nearly complete. The ritual nodes we’ve been destroying—they’re not the primary network. They’re decoys. Anchors designed to draw our attention while he builds a far larger working beneath the city’s notice.”
I stare at the map without seeing it. The strategic implications are staggering.
If the Blood Regent succeeds, he won’t need an army.
He won’t need allies or resources or careful political maneuvering.
He’ll have a city of slaves bound to his will, and the Cinder Flight will face the impossible choice of slaughtering the population we’re sworn to protect or watching Pyraeth fall.
“Timeline?”
“Days. Perhaps hours. Our sources couldn’t confirm specifics before—” Seravax’s mouth thins. “Before they stopped responding.”
Compromised. Dead. Same outcome either way.
My hands clench around the intelligence report, crumpling parchment that probably cost lives to obtain.
“Enforcer?”
Seravax’s voice pulls me back. I smooth the parchment with deliberate care, refusing to acknowledge the lapse.
“Assemble the tactical council. War footing, full mobilization. If the Blood Regent wants to bind the city, we’ll find his infrastructure and burn it to the ground before he gets the chance.”
“And the Vireth witch?”
“What about her?”
“Her abilities would be invaluable in countering a binding ritual of this scale.” Seravax’s expression remains neutral, but I can see the calculation behind it. “Assuming she’s recovered from this afternoon’s engagement.”
She’s not recovered. I know this the way I know my own heartbeat—with certainty that bypasses logic and settles directly into instinct.
I still feel the echo of her fear from the alley, the spike of her panic when the dampening field strangled her magic.
Can still see the blood soaking through her shirt.
The scratch on her ribs, she called it.
The wound that was deep enough to scar.
“The witch will be available when I determine she’s fit for deployment.” Cold. Colder than I mean it to be. “Not before.”
Seravax’s eyes narrow fractionally. He sees more than he should, this one. Calculates implications that others would miss.
“Of course, Enforcer.” He inclines his head with the precise deference of someone who knows exactly when to retreat.
“I’ll convene the council within the hour.
” He pauses at the door. “One additional item. Corveth’s people tracked your witch’s informant—Maelin—to a safehouse in the harbor district.
She’d been blood-oath bound for at least two weeks. The message was never hers to write.”
“And Maelin herself?”
“Freed. Corveth’s team dissolved the oath before it could be triggered. She’s been moved to a secure location outside the harbor district.” He pauses. “She asked about the witch.”
Another puppet. Another weapon the Blood Regent pointed at Alerie without her knowing.
I stand alone in the strategy chamber, staring at intelligence that should consume my attention, and think about nothing but the woman three corridors away.
The guard outside her door stiffens when I approach.
“Report.”
“She’s resting, Enforcer.” The soldier’s eyes stay fixed on a point past my shoulder—the posture of someone who’s learned that meeting my gaze directly invites attention he doesn’t want.
“She dismissed the healer two hours ago. Refused assistance with the wound treatment. Insisted she could handle it herself.”
Of course, she did.
The irony burns. She’s safer here than she’s ever been, protected by wards and guards and a dragon who would burn the realm to ash for her, and she still can’t let herself be vulnerable.
I hate that I understand this about her. Hate even more that understanding changes nothing about my response.
“Return to your post at the corridor entrance. I’ll see to her myself.”
The guard doesn’t question the order. He simply nods and retreats, leaving me alone outside her door.
Knock.
Civilized creatures announce their presence instead of standing here fighting the urge to tear the door from its hinges and verify with my own eyes that she’s still breathing.
I’m not civilized. This is her space—the chambers I assigned to her, yes, but hers, nonetheless.
She deserves the dignity of a warning before I invade.
The dragon doesn’t care about dignity.
My hand finds the handle. Turns it.
The door opens silently—everything in my stronghold is maintained to perfection—and I step into her chambers without announcing myself. Without giving her time to compose her face or hide whatever she’s hiding.
She’s not resting.
She’s standing near the window, her back to me, and her shirt is pulled up to expose the wound along her ribs.
Bandaging supplies are scattered across the nearby table—strips of clean cloth, a pot of healing salve she’s barely touched, a basin of water turned pink with diluted blood.
She’s trying to wrap the injury herself, twisting to reach the angle, and even from here, I can see her wince with every movement.
The wound is worse than she told me.
Much worse.
She spins. Drops the bandages. Her eyes go wide when she sees my face—when she sees whatever expression is written there that I can’t feel through the rage flooding my system.
“Izan—”
She stands her ground as I reach her, and that stubborn refusal to cower makes everything worse because it makes me want her more.
“I’m handling it.”
“You’re handling it badly.” My hands find her waist. Move her shirt aside to see the full extent of the damage. The touch is clinical. Professional. The assessment of a soldier evaluating an injury.
My body’s response is anything but.
Her skin feels like a brand, a heat that demands I bite down and mark it as my own.
My teeth ache with the need to taste the copper of her blood—not to hurt her, but to ensure every drop is filtered through my own fire.
This isn’t touch; it’s a siege. It makes the dragon howl with need I’ve spent decades learning to silence.
“This should have been stitched.” My thumb traces the wound’s edge. “This should have been treated by a healer, not dismissed so you could face it alone.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“I don’t care what you’ve survived.” The admission tears out of me with more force than I intend. “I care about what happens next. What happens now. I care about the fact that you’re standing in front of me with a wound that should have been properly treated hours ago.”
“Izan, I’m fine—”
“You’re not fine.” I step closer. Press her back against the wall with my body.
My hands are still on her waist, her shirt still hiked up to expose the wound, and some rational part of me knows I need to stop.
The distance I’ve carefully constructed over weeks of proximity can’t be dismissed.
I’m the Enforcer of the Cinder Flight, and she’s a tactical asset, and this is inappropriate on levels I can’t even begin to calculate.
That rational part is losing badly.
“You could have died.” A snarl, barely governed. “In that alley. Against those odds. With your magic dampened and no backup, and a wound you didn’t even feel because you were too busy surviving to notice you were bleeding out.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t.” I brace one hand against the wall beside her head.
Lean in until my forehead nearly touches hers.
“Don’t tell me it wasn’t serious. Don’t tell me you had it under control.
Don’t tell me any of the lies you tell yourself to keep functioning, because I can see you, Alerie. I see everything you try to hide.”
Her eyes are dark. Dilated. Her pulse races against my palm where it rests on her ribs—rapid, uneven, a rhythm that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the same consuming need that’s currently destroying my self-discipline.
“What do you want me to say?” Her voice drops low. Rough.
“I want you to understand what it would do to me if you died.”
The words land in the space between us and stay there.
I watch them hit. Watch her process them. Watch her eyes widen as she grasps what I’m admitting—what I’ve never admitted to anyone, including myself.
“Izan...”
“I’ve built empires on control.” My free hand rises to her face.
Cups her jaw. Tilts her head so she can’t look away from whatever’s burning in my expression.
“I’ve maintained order in a city that should have torn itself apart centuries ago.
I’ve kept the dragon leashed through situations that would have broken lesser beings.
And none of it—none of it—matters when you’re bleeding in front of me. ”
Her lips part. An invitation I don’t have the strength to refuse.
I close the distance.