Chapter 13
Elora
She didn’t go looking for Viliam calmly.
She left because the pressure inside her chest had nowhere left to go.
Her body was already half-shifted by the time she reached the ground, claws as sharp points, jaw tight with the ache of elongated teeth. She hadn’t decided to let the beast close. It had followed her anyway, drawn by the same thing she was.
Him.
Viliam stood alone near the pools, his back turned, posture infuriatingly composed. Of course he was. Of course, he could stand there like the world wasn’t splitting her open from the inside.
The sight of him snapped something loose.
Three endless days of waiting, of half-answers and lessons that meant nothing while Thorn’s name remained unspoken.
“You reth’kar,” he said calmly, without turning. “Restless.”
She lunged forward, a snarl ripping from her throat.
The beast surged with her movement, answering her fury without hesitation, closing the distance between them in seconds. Her claws sank deep into his shoulder as she wrenched him around, drawing blood that ran hot between her fingers.
Viliam didn’t flinch. Didn’t bare his teeth. Didn’t even blink. He simply looked down at her. Gaze shifting between her eyes and her mouth as she spoke.
“Stop trying to teach me,” she said, voice shaking despite the growl under it. “I don’t need lessons about balance. I don’t need stories about trees and patience and peace.”
Her grip tightened involuntarily. She felt his blood bead beneath her claws and hated that it didn’t stop her.
“I need you to help me,” she pleaded, the word tearing out of her raw. “I need direction. I need something to do with this—” She gestured between them, claws trembling. “With me.”
Viliam’s hands rose with caution and placed them over her forearms. His touch was gentle. Grounding. Infuriating.
“Kar’ral thrask vek,” he said, the words meaning nothing to her. “Balance is purpose.”
She ripped her arms free and shoved him back a step.
“No.” The word cracked like a whip. “Balance is righting the wrong Thorn created.”
Her chest heaved. The beast pressed harder now, snarling just beneath her skin, feeding on the fire in her veins.
“Balance is destroying his research. Burning his work to the ground. Balance is a life for a life.”
Her eyes burned gold as she stared up at him. “He stole from you too? When he carved into your body, rotted your sacred tree, corrupted your people with stolen magic—”
Her voice broke, then sharpened. “Where is the balance in that?”
The pools behind them rippled faintly, disturbed by the force of her emotions.
“How is Thorn not your top priority?”
Viliam shook his head, either not understanding her or disagreeing with her. Probably both.
He gestured to the village around them. “Your home,” he said quietly. “Your tree. Your people.”
She laughed, sharp and bitter.
“No.” She stepped back, claws still extended, shaking with the effort not to strike him. “Don’t do that. Don’t rewrite me into your world so it’s easier to swallow what you’re asking.”
“I not—”
“I’m not Al’teran,” she snapped. “I was born in the Empire. I was raised in a cage. You learned balance and peace from the moment you could walk.” Her voice dropped, rough and raw. “I learned pain. I learned what happens when the powerful decide the weak don’t matter.”
“You want me to sit by sacred pools and listen to lessons,” she said, tears burning but unspilled, “while the man who did this is still breathing?”
She stepped closer again, dangerous and desperate. “I don’t want peace. I want justice. I want vengeance.”
The words felt truer than anything she’d said since the arena.
For a moment, Viliam only watched her. Eyebrows creased until she said the two words she was sure Kaela taught him specifically for dealing with her.
“Vengeance,” he said carefully, “is not justice.”
Her jaw clenched. “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one he—”
“Zeth.” he barked, not bothering to translate first. She learned that one fast, No. “We no kill Thorn. Ever.”
The finality of it struck her like a slap.
“What?” her breath stuttered. “That’s not your decision to make.”
“It is,” he said. “He would not be the end.”
Her hands curled into fists, claws pricking beneath her skin again. “You don’t get to decide what the end is for me.”
Viliam stepped closer. “Elor’ah. Killing Thorn bring vorn.” He paused. “War.”
Her laugh was sharp, incredulous. “Good.”
“Zeth,” he said, more forcefully now. “Al’tera and Empire do not fight freely.”
Her stomach twisted. “Then I won’t do it as an Al’teran.”
He shook his head.
“I’m Empire-born,” she shot back. “I’m not one of your people. I wouldn’t be declaring anything.”
Viliam’s eyes flashed. “You Thrask. Marked by The Mother.”
Elora stepped back, shaking her head. “You were never going to touch him, were you? You just wanted me quiet. Contained. Learning your ways while he breathes.”
Heat spread through her ribcage as her pulse hammered against her throat, each beat demanding action. The beast inside her surged, sensing the fracture, sensing the moment.
“I am not Al’teran,” she said again, louder. “I didn’t grow up with sacred trees and choices. I grew up under men like Thorn.”
She pointed at him. “You think waiting is restraint. Where I’m from, waiting is how people die.”
Viliam’s control finally snapped.
“Zeth’kar!” he said—shouted—the word cracking through the clearing like thunder.
The sound hit her harder than any blow. She’d heard it before.
Forbidden.
Her vision went white at the edges.
“Your home. You remain.” he continued, voice raised now, iron-hard.
Her restraint dissolved, leaving nothing between her rage and the world.
There was no decision at all.
The beast answered.
Her bones flowed instead of breaking. Wings tore free in a rush of air and shadow. Her body surged forward, vast and powerful and furious, the roar ripping from her chest without permission or restraint.
She lunged.
Straight at him. On four paws.
Claws flashing.
Fangs barred.
All the rage, grief, and stolen choice given form.
The air around Viliam seemed to fold inward, his body flowing out of its human shape with terrifying restraint—muscle expanding, bones reshaping without frenzy, wings unfurling in a controlled sweep.
Elora barely registered the beast in front of her before she struck, missing his chest by an inch.
She lunged again, faster now, stronger, claws carving through air until they hit. She felt resistance, then heat, then the wet drag of skin giving way beneath her strike.
Viliam’s shoulder split open under her claws.
Blood splashed dark against black fur. She knew—somewhere, distant and small—that she should feel horror. Guilt. Regret.
Instead, the beast surged forward, thrilled by the proof of its own power.
More.
Viliam recoiled but didn’t retaliate. He let the blow land. Let her feel it. Let her experience the difference between unleashing force and directing it.
Then he moved.
One powerful beat of his wings lifted him out of her reach, just high enough that her next swipe met empty air. Elora snarled and rose onto her hind legs, wings flaring wide in a clumsy, furious attempt to follow.
Flying wasn’t instinct.
The weight of wings pulled at her spine and unbalanced her center. She overextended, reaching, clawing, desperate to drag him back down—
And that was when he struck.
Viliam slammed into her from the side, his massive body knocking her sideways with such force that bones would have shattered if she’d been human.
The impact drove her into the ground, crushing her chest against unyielding earth until her lungs emptied in a strangled roar.
Dirt exploded around them, her body carving a furrow in the soil as he pinned her with the full weight of his transformed self.
She thrashed wildly, feral, her claws gouging trenches in the earth, wings beating frantically against his weight until the pressure shredded her feathers. Her rage wasn’t just roaring now—it was screaming, a primal howl that threatened to rip her throat raw from the inside.
She couldn’t reach him.
Couldn’t rise.
Couldn’t control it.
Viliam’s jaws clamped down on the back of her neck, teeth piercing just deep enough to send lightning through her nerves without severing anything vital. Primal. Dominant. Absolute.
Her roar ripped through the clearing, raw and furious, and then broke apart mid-sound. The primal fury that had driven her forward suddenly froze, leaving her suspended between rage and surrender.
Her muscles became slack all at once, breath coming in harsh pants as the fire drained out of her veins. The beast receded, slipping back beneath her skin with a reluctant snarl. Viliam let go of her neck as her body shifted, bones folding inward until she was human again.
Viliam shifted as well.
His weight remained.
Elora lay there, shaking from adrenaline and how close she had come to not wanting it to stop.
She swallowed hard, tasting iron and soil, her cheek pressed against the earth. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each beat carrying equal parts shame and defiance.
Her fingers curled weakly against the ground.
Viliam eased his weight off her slowly.
His posture and the steady weight of his gaze said everything: cross the line again, and he would put her down just as quickly.
Elora didn’t move until his feet stepped back, leaving twin impressions in the dirt beside her head.
Only then did she plant her palms flat against the earth and push.
Her breath came in fractured, uneven pulls, chest tight, throat burning.
The rage was still there—coiled, resentful—but it no longer owned her body.
It sat beneath her skin now, restrained and watchful.
She rose to her feet.
Viliam stood a few steps away, blood dark and drying across his chest. His expression wasn’t triumphant. It wasn’t even stern.
It was concerned.
“Elor’ah,” he said quietly.
She flinched at her name.
He stepped closer, slow, careful, as if approaching something wounded. He lifted a hand and brushed dirt from her shoulder, his gentle touch meant to soothe.