The moon hung low, casting a silver veil over the ruined courtyard. Smoke curled like restless spirits from scattered embers, and silence fell over the ground that had moments ago echoed with screams. Bodies littered the marble floor—his men, a hundred strong. Now dead. And there she stood in the middle of them, untouched.
Kieran stepped forward, boots crunching against shards of shattered swords and broken lives. Blood smeared the soles, but he no longer felt it. He barely felt the dull ache in his shoulder, or the gash across his side. What he felt was rage—hot, unfiltered rage mixed with a strange, terrifying sense of awe.
She turned slowly, her movements elegant and deliberate, like a dancer twirling on stage after a perfect performance. Her black hair clung to her face, damp with blood and sweat—none of it hers. The blade in her hand gleamed under the moonlight, stained and dripping. And her lips—those lips he remembered from another lifetime—curled into that same sinister smile. The one that never reached her eyes.
"Impressed?ˮ she asked, voice smooth and venomous.
"You killed all of them,ˮ Kieran said, not a question, but a bitter observation. "A hundred men.ˮ
"They were in my way.ˮ She stepped over a fallen body, heels clicking softly against the marble. "You shouldʼve known better than to send them after me.ˮ "They were loyal,ˮ he muttered, more to himself.
She cocked her head. "Then they were fools.ˮ
Kieran moved closer, slowly circling her. He had to see her from every angle, to make sure this wasnʼt some illusion. The last time he saw her—three years ago— she vanished in a plume of smoke, leaving him wounded and humiliated. And now, here she was, in the heart of his territory, standing on the graves of his men like it was a throne.
"Youʼve changed,ˮ he said.
"So have you.ˮ Her gaze was steady. Cold. "Though not enough.ˮ
The moon shifted behind the clouds, darkening the courtyard. A breeze carried the scent of iron and ash between them. He wanted to hate her—needed to. But the hatred tangled with something else. Fascination. Longing. That same madness that had once drawn him to her.
"Youʼre smiling,ˮ he said. "You just killed a hundred people, and youʼre smiling.ˮ
"I smile because it keeps me from screaming.ˮ
He stopped circling. They were face to face now.
"I should kill you.ˮ
"Try.ˮ
His hand twitched toward his blade. But instead of drawing it, he grabbed her wrist. The contact jolted both of them. He expected resistance, maybe a counterattack. Instead, she let him hold her—just for a breath.
"I should wipe that smile off your face,ˮ he said, his voice low. "With something sharp.ˮ
She leaned in slightly. "Or something softer?ˮ
For a fleeting moment, their lips were a whisper apart. He could smell the blood on her breath, feel the heat of her rage against his chest. He hated how much he wanted her.
Then she laughed. A cold, beautiful laugh that echoed across the stones. "Youʼre still weak,ˮ she whispered. "Still torn between killing me and kissing me.ˮ Kieran released her, fingers tingling.
"Come inside,ˮ he said, turning on his heel. "We have unfinished business.ˮ She followed without hesitation, sword still dripping.
And just like that, the war began again.