Chapter 14 Selene
FOURTEEN
SELENE
Iwake to darkness and pain.
Cold stone beneath me, rough and damp. Iron manacles on my wrists, chained above my head to a ring in the wall. Magic-suppressing chains that devour my fire with hungry cold, leaving me hollow where power should burn.
The bond with Drayke—so bright and warm just hours ago—is muffled to a faint whisper. I can still feel him, but distantly. Like hearing someone call your name from underwater.
But it’s still there. The claiming mark burns over my heart, warm even in this cold place, fighting the chains with stubborn persistence. He’s coming. I feel it through the muted thread that ties us.
The chamber around me is vast—cathedral-high ceiling lost in darkness, pillars carved with symbols, torches flickering in iron sconces. At the center stands a black stone altar, channels carved into its surface glowing sickly red.
Fresh cuts score my forearms. Shallow but numerous, still weeping crimson that drips down my elbows and feeds those hungry channels. My blood. Feeding the relic that stirs somewhere beneath this place, ancient and patient.
“Fire-Bringer awakens.”
Veylor emerges from the shadows behind the altar. Tall—over seven feet, with shoulders like a mountain and a face that’s a ruin of old scars. One eye milky and sightless. Right arm ending at the elbow. Left wing nothing but a twisted stump.
But it’s his remaining eye that holds me. Golden, but cold. Dead where Drayke’s blazes with life. This is a dragon who forgot what warmth feels like centuries ago.
“General Veylor.” My voice comes out rough, but steady. “The one-winged wonder. I’ve heard stories.”
He stops. Studies me with that single cold eye, head tilting slightly. Then his gaze drops to my chest—to the claiming mark visible through my torn shirt, still glowing faintly against my skin.
“Claimed.” The word comes out flat. Surprised, but not dismayed. “Your Guardian finally found his courage. Interesting timing.”
“Pity for you.” I force a smile despite the pain radiating from my arms. “A claimed mate can’t be drained. Your little ritual just became useless.”
“Is that what the old texts say?” He moves closer, crouching to meet my eyes.
Close enough that I can smell sulfur and decay and the copper tang of old blood.
“The old texts were written by dragons who wanted to protect their mates. Who wanted to believe the claiming mark made them untouchable.” His remaining eye glitters with something that might be amusement. “They lied.”
My blood runs cold. Colder than the chains. Colder than the stone.
“A claimed Fire-Bringer is harder to drain, yes. The bond interferes. The mark resists. It fights for you, protects you, slows the extraction.” He straightens, towering over me. “But not impossible. It simply requires... more effort. More blood. More pain. More time.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He gestures to the altar, where my blood already flows into the carved channels, pulsing with that sickly red glow.
“The Relic stirs regardless. Your claiming mark fights the extraction—slows it, protects you from the worst of the drain. But it cannot stop what has already begun. It can only delay.”
He leans in close. Close enough that I can see the individual scars mapped across his ruined face.
“The difference is now your mate will feel everything we do to you. Every cut. Every drop of blood. He’ll experience your agony through that precious link, and he’ll come running straight into my trap. The claiming mark that was supposed to save you will be the weapon I use to destroy him.”
The backhand comes fast. My head snaps against stone, stars bursting across my vision. Blood fills my mouth.
“Continue the extraction,” Veylor orders, straightening. “Slowly. Let her mate feel every moment. Let him suffer as she suffers. And when he arrives, we’ll be ready.”
A rogue approaches with a curved blade. Kneels beside me, traces the tip along my forearm.
The first cut burns.
But beneath the pain, the claiming mark pulses. Warm. Defiant. Fighting the extraction with everything it has.
Veylor’s wrong about one thing. The mark isn’t just slowing the drain—it’s fighting. Every drop of blood the channels take, the mark claws back a fraction. Every second the Relic tries to consume my fire, the claiming flame burns brighter, more protective.
I’m still dying. Slowly. But I’m dying slower than Veylor planned. And the mark is buying me time.
Time for Drayke to find me.
And through the muffled bond, faint but growing stronger with every passing second:
I’m coming. Hold on. I’m coming.
I close my eyes. Focus on the warmth of the claiming mark over my heart. On the thread of Drayke’s presence, distant but approaching, burning brighter as he gets closer.
The rogue makes another cut. The blood flows. The Relic stirs.
But I’m still here. Still fighting. Still his.
Hurry.