Chapter 12 Vaelrik
TWELVE
VAELRIK
Vaelrik watched the last of the elders file out of the Council chamber, their fear trailing behind them like smoke. Cowards. They’d rather bury their heads in politics than face what was coming for all of them.
Serenya remained hunched over the map, her fingers tracing the spiral pattern she’d drawn.
The chalk marks still glowed faintly where her lumen sigils had reacted, and Vaelrik could feel the residual magic through their bond—sharp, electric, and dangerous.
She trembled as she stared at the center point. The Gloam.
Vaelrik stepped toward her, his boots echoing against the polished stone. He could feel the exhaustion radiating from her—bone-deep weariness masked by stubborn determination. She was running on fury and fumes, and that wouldn’t sustain her through what waited ahead.
“Then we’ll leave at dusk,” he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority that had commanded armies. “Not before.”
She blinked, confusion flickering across her features before stubborn refusal tried to surface. Her jaw set in that familiar line that meant she was about to argue with him. “We don’t have time to delay—”
He interjected, his tone brooking no argument.
“We do have time. We don’t survive without proper nourishment and rest.” The words carried no heat, no command—just fact delivered with the weight of centuries of battlefield experience.
“Plus, you’re shaking like a leaf in a storm, and I can barely stand.
The Gloam will chew us up and spit out the bones if we stagger in like this. ”
She opened her mouth to argue, fire sparking in her green eyes, then closed it. The fight drained out of her shoulders as reality settled in. They’d been running on adrenaline and desperation for days, and even dragons had limits.
She finally nodded once, the movement small but surrendering to practicality rather than his authority. It mattered, that distinction. She wasn’t yielding to him—she was acknowledging the truth.
“We’ll meet in the armory when the sun hits the western ridge,” he said, already planning their departure in his mind. “Pack only what you can carry and make sure to eat something.”
“And after the armory?” she asked, raising an eyebrow with a hint of her usual defiance returning.
“We make camp outside the city,” he replied. His gaze held hers, steady and absolute. The mate bond pulsed between them—agreement, tension, fear, trust all tangled together like threads in a tapestry. “The Gloam will be more stable at dawn. We approach at first light.”
Serenya exhaled shakily, some of the tension leaving her frame. “Fine.”
She turned to leave, and for a moment, he thought she might stumble. Vaelrik’s dragon surged with instinct—to lift her, carry her, shield her from every burden she carried—but he forced himself to remain still. She needed space as much as safety. Distance to process what they were about to face.
“Try to sleep some,” he added softly, unable to keep the gentleness from his voice entirely.
Her breath hitched at the tenderness, but she nodded and disappeared down the corridor without another word.
The moment she was gone, the weariness he’d been holding back crashed down like a collapsing mountain.
His shoulders sagged, and the curse stirred restlessly beneath his ribs, feeding on his exhaustion.
He made his way through the Citadel’s corridors toward his quarters, each step heavier than the last.
Once inside his chambers, he stripped off his tattered clothes and strode to his small washroom. He turned on the shower with mechanical precision, stepping under the volcanic-heated water and letting the scalding spray burn away the residue of corruption magic that still clung to his skin.
The heat soothed his aching muscles, but it couldn’t touch the deeper exhaustion. He felt that Gloamrot still humming beneath his ribs, an echo of recognition that made his stomach turn. His curse knew what waited in the Gloam. Recognized it like a long-lost relative.
But he also couldn’t get the memory of Serenya’s breakdown out of his head—the way she’d shattered in his quarters while grief tore through her.
The shadow-plague had used her mother’s image as a weapon, turning her deepest loss against her.
The cruelty of it made his dragon restless with protective rage.
He would do whatever it took to defeat whoever was behind this corruption. Would burn the world to ash if it meant she never had to face that kind of pain again.
Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the shower and dressed in clean clothes, trying to focus on the mission ahead.
First, meet Serenya at the armory at dusk.
Get properly equipped for whatever waited in the Gloam.
Then head to the outskirts of Cinderhollow, make camp for the night, and keep watch while she rested.
At dawn, they’d face whatever evil had awakened in that cursed place.
Once fully dressed, he made some soup in his small kitchen—simple fare of meat and potatoes meant to rebuild what his shadowfire had stripped from him during the day’s battles. He ate mechanically, each bite fuel for the fight ahead rather than pleasure.
Suddenly, a sharp rap sounded at the door, breaking through his thoughts. Kyr pushed in without waiting for permission, his storm-gray eyes—nearly a mirror of Vaelrik’s but brightened by agitation—scanning the room with military precision.
“You’re really doing this,” Kyr said. Not a question. A condemnation laced with the weight of their centuries-long friendship.
Vaelrik didn’t pause in his eating, simply met Kyr’s gaze with calm certainty. “Yes.”
Kyr shook his head, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair. “You’re taking her into the Gloam.” His voice cracked slightly, then hardened with desperation. “Vaelrik, that’s suicide. Something there wants you. Can’t you feel it calling?”
Vaelrik set down the bowl, finally giving Kyr his full attention. The curse stirred at the mention of the Gloam, a hungry recognition that confirmed his friend’s fears. But fear had never stopped him before.
“That’s why we have to go,” he said quietly. “To find out what and stop it before it comes here again.”
Kyr shook his head violently, his hands clenching into fists. “House Obsidian doesn’t survive if you don’t come back. She doesn’t survive if you don’t come back.”
Vaelrik stood, his full height adding weight to his words.
“That’s precisely why I’m going.” His voice deepened into something ancient and resolute—the tone of a dragon who had made his choice and would not be swayed.
“If we do nothing, the shadow-plague takes her. Or takes me. Or takes this city stone by stone.”
Kyr froze at the finality in Vaelrik’s voice.
Vaelrik continued, his tone gentling but losing none of its certainty. “There is no scenario where inaction saves anyone. The only path that leads to survival is the one we carve ourselves.”
Kyr swallowed hard, understanding the truth even as it terrified him. “Then let me come with you.”
“No.” Vaelrik’s refusal was immediate, immovable as granite. He stepped closer to Kyr, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The Gloam will try to use you against me. You are a weakness I can’t afford in that place.”
Kyr flinched as if struck, but he understood. In a place where corruption fed on bonds and twisted them into weapons, love became liability.
“Just do me one favor then,” Kyr whispered, his voice rough with emotion he rarely showed. “Come back alive.”
Vaelrik led him to the door, their brotherhood a weight he would carry into whatever darkness awaited. “I will.”
The words tasted like an oath sealed in dragonfire.
Dusk finally bled down the Citadel walls as Vaelrik entered the armory, finding it empty except for the faint smell of oil and steel. The volcanic heat that perpetually warmed Cinderhollow seemed muted here, replaced by the cool touch of weaponry and the metallic tang of sharpened blades.
He was cleaned, armed, but restless—his shadowfire pacing under his skin like a caged storm.
The curse had been unusually quiet since their kiss attempt the night before, as if his dragon’s protective instincts had finally found something worth subduing the darkness for.
But that only made him more on edge. Quiet shadowfire meant it was gathering strength, coiling like a serpent preparing to strike.
He sharpened blades he didn’t need to sharpen, testing the edge of his obsidian dagger against his thumb until a thin line of blood welled up.
The pain helped focus his scattered thoughts.
He tested armor he already trusted, checking and rechecking buckles and straps with the methodical precision of a man trying to control what he could when everything else felt like chaos.
Because waiting meant thinking and thinking meant remembering how Serenya had broken in his quarters earlier.
How her tears had made something primal in his chest roar with the need to destroy whatever had hurt her.
But then—how strong she’d stood minutes later in the Council chamber, chin lifted in defiance, fire dancing behind her green eyes as she faced down dragons who could incinerate her with a thought.
She was contradiction incarnate—vulnerable and fierce, breakable and unbreakable, human and somehow more than human. And his dragon had decided, with the absolute certainty that only ancient magic possessed, that she was theirs.
The thought sent heat spiraling through his veins, and he fought it back with gritted teeth.
Not now. Not when they were about to march straight into the Gloam, the place all dragons avoided for good reason.
The wound in the earth that had swallowed armies and spit back nightmares.
The source of whatever corruption was teaching shadows to think and hunt with purpose.
He couldn’t afford to be distracted.