***********************
"Promise me," she had whispered, the tips of her fingers brushing his wounded chest. "You won't become one of them."
His voice had been a ragged growl, somewhere between fury and longing. "You're the only reason I haven't."
**********************
Ashengar stank of blood and magic.
The once-grand capital of Duskarra now loomed before Lysara like a bleeding wound on the world—its towers broken, its spires hollowed out like ribcages after a feast. The black sun above it pulsed, thin rays stretching across the crimson sky like the fingers of some old, forgotten god. As her convoy of black-robed inquisitors neared the gates, the horses shifted nervously, hooves dragging against scorched ground.
"You smell that?" said Farris, the youngest of her squad. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Decay," Lysara replied. "And death magic."
Ashengar had been a thriving city—once. Now, the ruins thrummed with dark enchantments. Villagers from nearby towns had reported seeing pale-eyed figures dancing in the shadows, hearing voices crawl through their minds like spiders in their skulls. Every message carved into burned walls pointed to one name:
Dren Talovar.
They entered the city at dusk. Or what passed for dusk in this place. The light here was unnatural, soaked in the gloom of some unnatural hour. The streets were littered with bones—not skeletons, just bones, scattered as if tossed by something careless and cruel.
"Formation tight," Lysara barked.
It had been two days since she'd last seen the strange dream—the one where Dren had stood naked before her, his hands bloodstained and open, eyes full of a longing that crushed her breath even as she screamed herself awake. The dreams had grown more vivid since she first stepped into Ashengar's valley.
Was it his magic? Or hers?
The group came to a stop near the plaza. A statue stood there—new, grotesque, and wrong. Carved from bone, it depicted a woman chained at the throat and feet. Flames were etched along the pedestal, with the inscription:
"Mercy is the cruelest lie."
Lysara clenched her jaw. The woman in the statue bore her face.
"We're being watched," said Commander Vesik, appearing at her side.
"By him?" she asked.
Vesik nodded. "Or something worse."
She turned away from the statue and moved toward the central spire. It had once been the cathedral to the Old Flame, the sacred fire that bound Duskarra's noble bloodlines to divine law. Now, it was just a husk—charred, gutted, and ominous.
Inside, her boots crunched on ash. There were voices again—whispers in an old tongue, words she had once known but could no longer place. As if something in her blood stirred to answer.
"Lysara Vale." The voice that greeted her was not a whisper. It was velvet, smooth and dangerous.
She turned, hand on the hilt of her silverblade.
Dren Talovar stood at the altar.
He wasn't a vision this time. No illusion, no dream. He was flesh, real, and heartbreakingly beautiful in the worst way. Clad in black and crimson, with a smile that dripped poison and promise. His hair was longer, the white streak near his temple more pronounced. His eyes gleamed with the hunger of a starving god.
"I was wondering how many bones I'd need to stack before you came."
The inquisitors unsheathed their blades. Dren didn't move.
Lysara's heart betrayed her with a single, thunderous beat. She tried to recall the boy from seven years ago—the one who had shivered in her arms, who had begged her to run before he lost control. But that boy was gone. This man was darkness incarnate.
"I should kill you," she said.
"You should have, that night," he answered, stepping forward. "But you didn't. And now look at us."
The silverblade in her hand trembled. "What do you want, Dren?"
"You."
The word struck like lightning—fast, shameless, raw.
Gasps erupted behind her. Lysara didn't flinch.
"Spare me your theater."
"Spare me your righteousness." His voice dropped to something lower, something intimate. "You're not here to kill me, Lysara. You're here because part of you still wonders what it would be like to be mine."
Her hand moved before her mind caught up. The blade sliced the air and met the edge of Dren's palm as he caught it—bare-handed. Blood ran down his fingers, and he grinned through it like it meant nothing.
She hated how beautiful he looked like this—bloodied, half-mad, half-worshipping.
"Still warm," he murmured, licking the blood from his palm. "Do you remember what I whispered to you that night?"
"Don't."
His smile widened. "I said I'd find you again. And that when I did, it would be too late to run."
A loud boom shook the spire. Screams from outside echoed—monsters, or worse, followers.
Dren leaned closer. "Let your men handle that. You and I have unfinished business."
"You don't get to command me."
"No, but I do get to tempt you." He reached forward, cupping her face.
She slapped his hand away. But it wasn't rage that burned through her—it was heat, treacherous and consuming. Her breath hitched.
"You're still dreaming of me," he said softly. "Aren't you?"
Her silence was answer enough.
"You never killed me because a part of you wanted me. That's why mercy was your sin, Lysara."
"I spared you because I thought you could be saved."
Dren's eyes darkened. "Then let's test that theory."
Suddenly, he turned and walked into the shadows, disappearing into the ruined cathedral. Lysara's blood pounded in her ears. She motioned for her men to fan out, to secure the perimeter. But her feet refused to follow orders.
They followed him.