Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
NYXARA
I should kill her.
I should have killed her the moment I found her chained like a prized offering in the humans’ camp, before her siren’s voice slithered into my thoughts, before her tentacles curled around my thigh, before her icy white-blue eyes locked onto mine with that knowing smirk. She is dangerous.
Not just because of her magic, but because of the way she wields it. Vaela doesn’t use power like a blade. She uses it like a promise. A whispered lure meant to unravel even the strongest of us.
And I am not weak.
Yet when I walked away from her, when I felt her gaze lingering on my back, taunting, luring, I knew it then. She will be my undoing.
But not today.
The scent of human filth lingers on the wind, thick with sweat, iron, and the acrid stink of torch smoke. I move silently through Varellith’s shadows, the forest whispering around me, its ancient magic pulsing in time with my own. These human men do not belong here. Their very presence is a violation, an insult. They crush roots beneath their boots, disturbing a land older than their pathetic kingdom.
I perch in the crook of a withered yew, my talons curling into the bark, wings partially extended to steady myself. Below, a scouting party of six moves through the underbrush, blades unsheathed, their movements stiff with tension. They are nervous. They should be.
Their leader steps forward, a grizzled man with a jagged scar cutting down his jaw. He raises a hand, signaling the others to stop. He senses something.
Good.
I watch as they adjust their grip on their weapons, eyes darting through the shadows. They are looking for me. They will not find me.
I move.
I drop from the tree, the wind curling around me, my claws unsheathing, my black lace cloak billowing like a shadowed omen. For a moment, they don’t realize. Then the nearest soldier turns, his eyes widening—
Too late.
My claws slice through his throat in a clean arc, a wet gurgle escaping his lips before he crumples. The hot spray of blood spatters against the leaves, the scent of iron thick in the night air. The others whirl toward me, their shouts shattering the silence. Their blades rise, but I am faster. I strike the second soldier before he can lunge, grabbing his wrist mid-swing. His sword clatters uselessly to the ground as I twist. His bones snap like brittle twigs, the sound drowned beneath his scream. I release him, letting him stumble back, clutching his ruined arm.
The leader does not hesitate.
He swings his longsword in a wide, practiced arc, forcing me to step back. The others fan out, circling me like a pack of starving wolves. They think numbers will save them. They are wrong.
The leader sneers, his grip tightening on his sword. "The beast herself," he mutters, voice dripping with contempt. "Never thought I'd have the honor."
Honor. The word tastes foul.
"You were dead the moment you entered my land," I say coldly, eyes locked onto his.
One of the younger soldiers shifts uneasily beside him, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. He is afraid.
The leader snaps his head toward him, scowling. "Stay sharp. Remember why we're here."
The younger man swallows hard, glancing briefly at his fallen comrades. "We can still turn back." His voice wavers. "This isn’t—this isn’t right."
The leader scoffs, his grip tightening on his sword. "You think turning back will save you? You think she’d let you?" He spits onto the ground, eyes burning with hatred. “Creatures like her don’t leave men alive.”
I let a slow, deliberate smile curve my lips. "You're right," I murmur. "I don’t." The young soldier flinches.
One charges.
I sidestep, my wings flaring, catching the wind. I let the momentum carry me into a spin, my claws slicing through the exposed flesh of his stomach. His body folds in on itself, spilling onto the earth in a mess of blood and entrails. A fourth man lunges from behind. I sense him before I see him, but his blade is fast, too fast. A sharp sting burns across my ribs as the steel bites into my skin.
I snarl.
Pain ignites across my side, the wound warm and wet, but it is not enough to stop me. I pivot, grabbing the fool by the throat, my claws digging deep into his flesh.
"You dare spill my blood?" I hiss, venom curling around each syllable.
His fingers claw at my grip, his pulse hammering wildly beneath my claws.
I tighten my hold, lifting him off the ground. His face turns red, his legs kicking. Pathetic. I turn my gaze to the last two men—the leader and his final soldier. Their faces are masks of horror, their bodies trembling as they watch their comrade suffocate beneath my grasp.
The young soldier's voice shakes. "This—this isn't what I signed up for—"
"Shut up!" the leader snaps.
I squeeze.
The soldier's neck crushes with a sickening snap. I let his body drop. The leader does not run. I expected nothing less. He grips his sword tighter, shifting into a defensive stance, his breath even. A seasoned warrior. A fool all the same.
"You’re making this difficult," I muse, tilting my head. The wound in my side throbs, warm and wet, but I push the pain away. The soldier beside him, however, is shaking. His fear is so thick I can taste it.
"Leave," I tell him, my voice smooth, edged with warning. "Run back to your king. Tell him his army is next."
He hesitates. The leader does not.
"You think you can scare us?" he growls. "We've faced worse than you."
I arch a brow. "Have you?"
He lunges.
I exhale. And I burn him. Viridian Wrath erupts from my lips, spiraling toward him in a violent blaze of searing emerald fire. His armor warps, the metal twisting like melted wax. His screams shatter the night, raw and desperate—until his flesh peels away, curling into nothing but blackened bone. In seconds, there is nothing left but ash. The last soldier does not waste time. He flees into the trees. He will carry my message.
My vision blurs at the edges. The wound is worse than I thought.
I press a hand to my ribs, breathing heavily, my fingers slick with blood as the warmth seeps through the torn fabric. The wound isn’t fatal, but it’s deep, and every breath sends a sharp pulse of pain through my side. Annoying . The scent of burning flesh lingers in the air, clinging to my skin, mingling with the iron tang of my own blood.
I grit my teeth, forcing my wings to unfurl, the motion tugging at the gash in my side. I don’t have time to linger. More will come. They always do.
With a powerful beat of my wings, I launch into the sky, the force of it sending a gust of wind howling through the charred clearing. The air is cool against my fevered skin, biting at the open wound, but I push higher, away from the wreckage, away from the stench of human filth.
Pain burns through me with every movement, each wing stroke jarring the torn flesh, but I don’t stop. I can't. Below, Varellith sprawls in all its ancient, wounded beauty, the trees whispering beneath me, their magic faint, weakened from the encroaching war.
The king is pressing harder.
His forces are growing bolder.
And this is only the beginning.
I push forward, forcing my wings to cut through the wind, ignoring the fire burning in my side. Varethorne looms ahead, its obsidian towers reaching toward the night sky, its silhouette sharp against the moonlight.
I descend swiftly, the effort dragging a pained snarl from my lips, my landing harder than it should be. My claws scrape against the stone as I stumble, catching myself against one of the castle’s great pillars. I swallow the pain, straighten, compose myself.
I will not collapse here.
I will make it to my chambers, and I will tend to this wound.
Gritting my teeth, I push forward, forcing my legs to move, though each step sends a fresh wave of pain searing through my side. The grand doors of Varethorne loom ahead, towering and unforgiving, their dark stone slick with rain.
With a sharp flick of my wrist, the doors groan open, the ancient hinges protesting as I step inside. The dim green torchlight flickers against the polished obsidian walls, casting long, jagged shadows that stretch and shift as I pass.
The corridors feel endless, the stone beneath my boots suddenly too uneven, the air too thick. My vision wavers for half a breath, the edges darkening.
I stumble.
One hand snaps out, catching against the wall, claws scraping over the rough stone. A snarl curls from my lips, frustration warring with pain.
I refuse to fall here, bleeding and weak within my own halls.
With a steadying breath, I push forward, dragging myself through the corridors toward the one place I can gather my strength.
A sharp rustle of fabric makes me pause. I lift my gaze. Vaela leans against the doorway of her cell, her head tilted in mock sympathy.
"Well, well," she purrs, voice like silk dipped in poison. "The mighty Dragon Queen bleeds just like the rest of us."
I bare my teeth. "Silence, siren."
She steps closer to the gate, her icy gaze flicking to the wound, her smirk widening.
"You’re not looking so invincible now, Dragon Queen."
I straighten, squaring my shoulders despite the throbbing pain radiating from my side. "I’ve suffered worse," I bite out, voice cold, dismissive.
She hums, unconvinced, tilting her head. "Have you? Because from where I’m standing, you’re bleeding all over the floors of your pretty little castle."
I clench my jaw. The wound is deep, annoyingly so, but I do not need her.
Her smirk sharpens. She sees the hesitation. The reluctance.
"You need me," she says again, softer this time. Certain.
"I need nothing from you," I snap.
She steps closer, slow and deliberate, her presence tauntingly calm as her fingers skim the pearls embedded into her bodice. "Oh, but you do," she purrs. "You burn. I heal. I think that makes us… useful to each other."
I narrow my eyes. "You?"
She sighs, rolling her shoulders. "The sea isn’t just destruction and power, Nyxara. It gives life, just as much as it takes. I may not be able to call forth my full strength from within these walls, but I can mend. I can take that nasty little wound and make it disappear." She leans in slightly, her voice dropping into something dangerously smooth. "Unless, of course, you'd rather bleed out on your own floors out of sheer pride."
I inhale sharply through my nose, hating every word that leaves her lips—because I know she’s right. But letting her touch me? Letting her use magic on me? I don’t trust her. Yet my fingers twitch, blood slick between them. I can already feel my body growing heavier, the edges of my vision flickering.
She notices. Of course she does.
Vaela watches me, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Admit it, Nyxara," she taunts. "Just this once, you need me." My fingers curl at my sides, my claws biting into my palms. I should refuse. I should let the wound knit itself together in time, should push her away and let her rot in that cell where she belongs.
But if I collapse here, I will die.
And I am not ready to die.
I exhale sharply through my nose, lifting a hand. The barrier shatters, the magic dissipating like mist, the air thrumming as the wards unravel. A sharp click echoes through the chamber as the lock on the door releases, the heavy chains slipping free, falling away like dead weight.
Vaela steps forward, slow, deliberate, like a predator scenting fresh blood. I don’t stop her when she brushes cool fingers against my ribs, her touch featherlight, almost reverent. I grit my teeth, suppressing a snarl as pain flares hot and sharp through my side. My vision wavers for a fraction of a second, and I hate that she sees it.
Her smirk widens. "Tell me where your chambers are, Dragon Queen."
I bare my teeth. "I can make it myself."
She clicks her tongue, mock sympathy lacing her voice. "Oh, of course you can. That stumble back there was purely for dramatic effect, I’m sure."
I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I push forward only for my knee to nearly buckle beneath me. Vaela doesn’t lunge to catch me. No, she waits. Watches. Lets me struggle. I snarl under my breath. Hating this. Hating her. Hating that she’s right.
"East wing," I grind out, jaw tight. "The highest tower."
Vaela hums, tilting her head. "A tower? How brooding of you."
"Shut up and move."
She laughs, a slow, decadent sound, but she steps closer, slipping an arm around my waist as I begrudgingly lean into her.
Her touch is cool against my fevered skin, steady and sure, and I loathe the way my body relaxes slightly beneath it.
"You’re heavier than you look," she muses, voice mocking, teasing.
"Or perhaps you’re weaker than you think," I counter, though the words come out rougher than I intend.
She grins. "Oh, I like you injured. You’re easier to deal with."
"Keep talking, and I’ll find a way to burn you with what little strength I have left."
Her chuckle is dark, pleased.
We push through the corridors, my pace slow, forced. Every step sends a fresh pulse of pain through my side, but I refuse to stop, refuse to let my weakness become another thing for her to toy with. At last, we reach my chambers, and Vaela kicks open the door with an amused little smirk. She guides me inside, then steps back just as I begin to sway.
"Sit, Nyxara," she murmurs, her voice like the pull of the tide.
A command. A dare. A challenge. I hesitate for a moment longer, but the exhaustion pressing against my bones is winning. So I sit. She kneels beside me, reaching for the jug of water left on the nearby table, likely placed there by one of the castle’s unseen servants. Practical. Convenient. Lifting it with ease, she pours the cool liquid into a basin, her fingers trailing through the water as it ripples at her touch. Magic thrums in the air, faint but undeniable, responding to her call. She dips her fingers into it, the liquid glowing softly, wrapping around her hands in tendrils of silver-blue light. Magic hums in the air, thick, charged. I inhale sharply as the water seeps into my skin, pulling the wound closed, knitting flesh together.
Cool, soothing, intimate. She glances up, her breath ghosting over my collarbone.
"Careful, Dragon Queen," she murmurs, her voice like velvet and sin. "You might enjoy this."
I should push her away.
I don’t.
Her nails trail lightly down my abdomen, teasing, just enough to make my breath catch, just enough to make something coil low in my stomach.
"You swore to help me defeat the king," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
She nods, slow, deliberate.
"And when that’s done…" She leans in, her lips inches from mine, her breath cool against my skin.
"I’ll claim my reward."
A warning rumbles in my chest, low and edged with something almost dangerous.
"Try anything, siren, and you’ll regret it."
Vaela laughs, soft, husky, taunting.
"Oh, Nyxara," she purrs, her voice slipping through the air like silk laced with poison. Her nails trail lightly over my ribs, the barest touch, but it’s enough to make my breath hitch. Not from pain. From something far more treacherous.
I keep my face blank, but my body betrays me.
She notices. Of course, she does.
Her icy white-blue eyes gleam with amusement, catching the flickering candlelight, reflecting it in a way that makes them look almost unnatural. Ethereal.
She is beautiful. Dangerous.
Something otherworldly, crafted from the abyss itself. Her luminous, pearl-like skin catches the dim candlelight, reflecting a soft, iridescent sheen that makes her look almost unreal—otherworldly, as if sculpted from the ocean itself. The cool undertones shimmer faintly, shifting with every movement, as if her very skin holds the whisper of the tides. The pearls laced through her hair shimmer like stars caught in the sea, glinting every time she moves, every time she breathes.
My jaw tightens.
I have never been drawn to someone before. Not like this. Not with this slow, creeping pull that coils in my gut and tightens with every brush of her hands against my skin.
I tell myself it’s the siren’s magic.
Her kind was made for seduction, for deception, for luring unsuspecting prey to their doom.
And yet—there is something different about this. She tilts her head, watching me like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, exactly how my body betrays me in ways my mind refuses to accept.
"Do you think so little of me?" she muses, her fingers tracing just outside my wound, pressing lightly into my skin as she maps the ridges and dips of my body.
I swallow hard, ignoring the way her touch sends a slow trickle of heat pooling in my stomach.
This is nothing.
This is her magic.
This is—
"We made a deal," she continues, her voice as smooth as the water she bends to her will. Her hands drift lower, exploring, teasing, lingering at the sharp edges of my hips as though she has every right to touch me.
She doesn’t.
"We are bound," she murmurs, her lips so close, I can feel the ghost of her breath against my skin.
Her nails graze my ribs again, slow, deliberate.
"If I were to harm you," she continues, her voice a dark whisper, "I wouldn’t be keeping up my end of the bargain." She leans in, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder what it would feel like to have her hands roaming the places no one else has ever dared touch. To feel those cool, delicate fingers against the hottest, most heated parts of me.
The thought burns through me like a slow, consuming fire.
She smirks.
She knows.
Her gaze flickers to my lips, then back to my eyes.
"And I," she says softly, "always collect what I’m owed."
The weight of her words settles between us. A small relief, knowing she is bound by the same magic I am. That some part of her—no matter how wicked, no matter how cunning—cannot betray me.
But it also means something else.
It means avoiding my own end of the bargain may be harder than I thought. I let my head rest back against the pillows, masking the war in my thoughts behind a slow smirk.
"Then let the games begin."