The morning sun rose over our camp like a warm embrace, its gentle rays filtering through the tent's fabric. My eyes, still heavy with sleep, fought to stay closed, savoring the last moments of slumber. But then, something irresistible began to creep into my awareness—an aroma so rich, so inviting, it stirred me from my haze.

  At first, it was subtle, a whisper of something savory mingling with the crisp morning air. My senses sharpened, piecing it together—a smoky hint of sizzling ham, the warmth of toasted bread, and the faint sweetness of something caramelized. Slowly, the realization dawned: decadence awaited me just beyond the tent flap.

  A small smile tugged at my lips, fleeting but undeniable. I sighed deeply, stretched my limbs, and reluctantly rose from the cocoon of my bedroll. As much as Alexander’s company grated on me most days, I had to admit—begrudgingly—the man could cook. And this morning, his culinary skill might just make up for his otherwise obnoxious presence.

  I pushed open the flaps of my tent, and the tantalizing aroma hit me full force, even more intoxicating than before. I inhaled deeply, savoring the symphony of scents wafting through the crisp morning air—sweet, smoky, and rich with promise.

  Rhys was already by the campfire, tearing into Alexander’s masterpiece with evident delight. My gaze shifted to a makeshift table next to Alexander’s tent and settled on a plate of pressed flatbread breakfast sandwiches, gleaming in the golden morning light. Each sandwich was a work of art—crisp, toasted flatbread generously smeared with a ruby-red layer of tangy tomato jam. Inside, fluffy scrambled eggs embraced slices of savory ham and turkey, all bound together by the gooey perfection of melted provolone cheese.

  Beside the sandwiches stood a towering stack of thick, rustic cinnamon star apple pancakes, each one a testament to indulgence. Their edges were kissed by the fire to a delicate crispness, while the centers remained soft and impossibly fluffy. On top, caramelized star apple slices glistened under a dusting of cinnamon, all crowned with a luscious drizzle of maple syrup that caught the sunlight like liquid amber.

  The finishing touch was the pot of warm spiced cider simmering beside the fire, its heady aroma of cinnamon sticks, cloves, and orange zest mingling with the morning air. It bubbled softly, a fragrant promise of warmth to accompany the feast. The spread was so inviting it almost felt like a celebration—decadence brought to life in the wilderness.

  “A girl could get used to this,” Rhys grinned, her plate already stacked high as I settled down beside her, my own breakfast ready to be devoured. She took a hearty bite of her sandwich, letting out an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction.

  “Indeed,” I chuckled, shaking my head at her enthusiasm.

  One by one, the others began to emerge from their tents, each drawn by the tantalizing aroma of warm comfort lingering in the air. Bleary-eyed and groggy, they were no match for the seductive pull of Alexander’s culinary handiwork.

  Lyra was the last to join us. She stepped out of her tent with the languid grace of a cat, stretching her arms above her head as though she’d just awakened from a dream-filled slumber. Her eyes stayed closed for a moment as she inhaled deeply, the scents coaxing a wide, radiant smile to bloom across her face.

  Drawn by the feast, she made a beeline for Alexander’s makeshift table. Her eyes sparkled as they took in the spread, and her delight was contagious. She piled her plate high with eager, almost childlike excitement before plopping down next to me. With a little clap of her hands, she prepared for her first bite, her joy so palpable I couldn’t help but soften.

  I watched as she savored her first forkful of pancake, her expression one of pure bliss. Catching my gaze, Lyra leaned in conspiratorially, her voice low but teasing. “You’re looking at me like you’ve never tasted anything as delectable as these pancakes.”

  My lips curled into a Cheshire grin as I leaned closer. “Eat up, darling. You’ll need your strength… for later.”

  Her fork paused mid-air, her eyes widening just slightly at my flirtation. But she was quick to recover, a coy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she turned back to her plate. Without a word, she continued eating, the hint of a blush warming her cheeks.

  "Where is Corran?" Mylena asked, pausing to glance up from her plate and survey the camp.

  "Ah, he's resting," Alexander replied, his voice carrying a note of appreciation as he spoke between bites. "I've given him the use of my tent this morning. He deserves it after last night—flitting between our dreams, warding off nightmares. It’s no small feat, keeping us, all shielded like that."

  Lyra looked up, her expression thoughtful. "Then we’ll leave him to recover. The Shadepyre would recognize him anyway, and it’s best we scout the temple on our own. We can’t afford to jeopardize our chances of saving Yalela—or ourselves—before we even get started." She gave a small nod before returning to her meal.

  Rhys stood and stretched, raising her arms high above her head before letting out a satisfied sigh and patting her belly. "Best grab another plate or two before we head out," she declared with a broad grin, already making her way toward Alexander's table like a predator homing in on its prey.

  "Eat quickly, Rhys," Lyra called after her, a hint of exasperation in her tone. "I want to set out as early as possible."

  Rhys turned, her grin widening as she waved a hand dismissively. "Sister, quickly is the only way I know how to eat!" she shot back, already loading up her plate with a speed that was nothing short of impressive.

  As breakfast wound down, Emre and Mylena pored over the map once more, their fingers tracing the landscape and pointing out two possible crossing points. Lyra leaned over Mylena’s shoulder, her sharp eyes scanning the directions they were fixated on. I joined them, studying the terrain surrounding the temple grounds.

  “For the sake of time, we should split up. We’ll cover more ground that way,” I suggested, leaning in closer.

  Emre’s glare could have frozen fire. “I agree with Kieran,” she said through gritted teeth, her tone making it clear just how much it pained her to admit it.

  A wicked grin spread across my face. “We do see eye to eye after all,” I quipped, savoring the chance to needle her.

  “Kieran and Alexander will come with me,” Lyra interjected before Emre could retort. “Emre, take Mylena and Rhys and head toward the western banks.”

  My grin vanished in an instant, replaced by a scowl as Lyra saddled me with Alexander—again. Across the camp, Emre’s grin grew wide, her delight at my disappointment unmistakable as she turned to gather her party. I could almost hear her smirking.

  "Can’t we trade Alexander for Rhys?" I pouted, looking at Lyra with exaggerated pleading.

  She turned to me with a knowing smile. "I need you alive for the battles ahead," she replied lightly. "You started it with Emre this morning. If I paired Alexander with her, one of your oh-so-charming comments would send her over the edge—and you straight to your final resting place."

  "Darling! You wound me," I teased, clutching my chest as though her words had struck deep. "I’m perfectly capable of holding my tongue… when it suits me."

  Lyra’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she gave me a sharp jab to the stomach with her elbow while passing by. "We both know it rarely suits you," she quipped over her shoulder.

  A grin spread across my face as I fell into step behind her, enjoying the game more than I cared to admit.

  Our parties departed the camp and set off toward Thornreach Tower, the forest around us cloaked in a tranquil morning stillness. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, their movements like a secret dance to music only they could hear. Despite the perils ahead and the unknown dangers lurking in the shadows, the Netherwood carried an undeniable serenity, a fleeting respite amidst our growing worries.

  As Emre and her party veered off in the opposite direction, I found my attention drawn to Lyra walking ahead. Her long ebony hair flowed lazily with the breeze, catching the occasional golden rays of sunlight that filtered through the canopy above. Each step she took was a balance of elegance and caution, as though the forest itself bent to accommodate her presence. Even in this moment of calm, her poise was captivating, a contrast to the chaotic path that lay ahead.

  My admiration was abruptly cut short by a faint sound to my left—a soft, aimless humming. I turned my head and, with a sigh, rolled my eyes as I caught sight of Alexander. He strolled along as if on a leisurely holiday, hands clasped behind his back, his head tilting slightly as he hummed an unrecognizable tune. His sheer indifference to the tension around us grated on me in ways words could hardly capture.

  How could someone so infuriatingly content exist in a place like this? I shook my head, pushing away the idle thoughts. Now wasn’t the time for distractions; our focus needed to be on surveilling the Shadepyre Gremlins’ encampment in the temple. Rescuing the captured Runeclaw Lynx from their clutches would be no small feat—it promised to be a trial of both wit and endurance.

  The gremlins had chosen their stronghold well. The ancient temple loomed ahead, nestled within the grasp of a raging river that flowed with both beauty and menace. Its waters shimmered like liquid crystal, belying the swift currents and hidden dangers beneath the surface. Surrounding the temple, countless waterfalls tumbled from rocky heights, their mist weaving a delicate veil that both concealed and revealed the structure within. The roar of the water echoed through the valley, a feral symphony that demanded attention and respect.

  The temple itself was a haunting blend of grandeur and decay. Once a sanctuary devoted to light and nature, it now stood as a battered relic of its former splendor. Constructed from timeworn stone that seemed to grow from the rocky terrain, it exuded a quiet dignity, even in its corruption. Towering columns reached skyward, their surfaces adorned with intricate carvings of mythical beasts and forgotten deities. Sprawling staircases climbed toward entrances that had been largely sealed, their darkened thresholds whispering of secrets and dangers hidden within.

  It was both a monument to its glorious past and a harrowing reminder of what lay ahead. We would need more than strength to conquer this challenge—we’d need ingenuity, resilience, and a fair share of luck.

  I spotted a hillside path that would lead us to a ridge line with trees, perfect for providing us cover while we observed the temple. We spent the next few hours making our way up the steep path to the top of the ridge. The climb was brutal. Each step felt steeper than the last, the path winding and treacherous, with loose rocks that slipped underfoot and roots that threatened to trip you if you weren’t paying attention. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck, and I could hear Alexander grumbling behind me, his breath coming in short, irritated bursts. Lyra, on the other hand, moved with her usual grace, as if the effort didn’t touch her. If she was tired, she didn’t let it show.

  “I’d trade half my coin purse for a flatter path,” Alexander muttered, brushing a hand through his damp, dark hair. “Or a teleport spell. Either works.”

  “Wouldn’t help you build character, now, would it?” Lyra teased lightly from behind him.

  He snorted. “I’ve got plenty of character. What I need is a drink.”

  We finally reached the top, all complaints—Alexanders, anyway—died in an instant. The view stopped us in our tracks. Below, the temple stood like a forgotten relic, swallowed by the forest’s relentless grip. It wasn’t just a ruin; it was a monument to the kind of ancient power that could withstand both time and the Shadepyre’s.

  Despite the gremlin’s influence, the temple’s surroundings brimmed with life. Thick vines curled up its cracked stone walls, weaving into intricate patterns that almost looked intentional. Patches of wildflowers bloomed in vivid colors, standing out against the muted grays of the stone. Even the air felt alive here, carrying the scent of damp earth and wild blossoms, fresh and sweet. It was a sharp contrast to the foul stench I’d come to associate with the Shadepyre’s’ corruption.

  The river shimmered as it wound past the temple’s southern edge, its surface catching the sunlight like molten silver. Its banks were alive with motion—birds flitting between the reeds, dragonflies hovering like tiny jewels, and the distant hum of insects adding to the vibrant symphony. The sound of rushing water mingled with the life around it, creating a harmony that felt out of place next to the looming shadow of the temple itself.

  “There,” I said, pointing to the ridge’s crown, where a massive tree sprawled like a natural fortress. Its trunk was impossibly thick, rising high into the air before its branches twisted outwards in wide arcs. Moss coated its bark in a soft, green glow, catching what little sunlight filtered through the canopy above. The tree’s broad limbs and smaller curling branches formed natural platforms, perfect for providing cover while we scouted the temple below.

  “Looks sturdy,” Lyra said, already moving toward it.

  “Up we go,” I said, gesturing toward the tree with a grin. “It’s the best vantage point, and it comes with natural cover.”

  Lyra didn’t need convincing. She was already climbing, her movements fluid and deliberate, as if she’d been born to navigate this kind of terrain. Alexander, on the other hand, let out an exasperated breath.

  “You want us to climb into the tree?” he asked, his tone hovering between disbelief and frustration.

  “Stay in the open if you like,” I said with a casual shrug, pausing before adding, “Though I believe we’re well within range of their archers, so… do watch your step.”

  That was all the motivation Alexander needed. “Up it is! What are we waiting for?” he sighed, hauling himself into the tree with surprising speed for someone who’d been complaining about the climb mere minutes ago.

  I followed last, sticking close to the trunk for stability. Once settled, I leaned forward, my eyes narrowing as I studied the temple below. From this height, it was clear just how well the gremlins had fortified their stolen stronghold. Sentries patrolled every visible entrance, their movements deliberate and synchronized. Sharpshooters perched atop balconies and boulders, their positions strategically chosen to maximize their field of vision. My brow furrowed as I mapped their positions in my mind, my thoughts racing through potential approaches and their accompanying risks.

  Satisfied for now, I shifted to sit beside Lyra, who was perched cross-legged on a nearby branch. A partially unrolled map rested on her lap, and she was sketching notes with quick, precise strokes. Her eyes darted between the map and the temple below, her expression sharp with focus.

  Alexander had taken a position on a lower branch, leaning slightly forward as he surveyed the sprawling structure. His face was a mixture of awe and caution, his gaze lingering on the intricate stonework now entwined with creeping vines. “They’ve turned it into a fortress,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

  “They’re clever,” I agreed. “Too clever. Those defenses aren’t just thrown together—they’ve thought this through.”

  As we continued our watch, Lyra’s sharp eyes caught something unusual. She leaned slightly forward, pointing toward a dark opening tucked into the temple’s base. A narrow path led up to a vine-covered ledge. Beneath it the wide mouth of a cave sat openly silent, and remarkably, there didn’t seem to be any guards stationed nearby.

  “Do you see that?” she asked, her voice low but insistent.

  “How odd,” Alexander mused, squinting toward the cave. “They’ve left it completely unguarded.”

  “Odd, yes,” Lyra agreed, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the area. “But there’s got to be a reason.”

  I couldn’t help but scoff. “If you think I’m going to climb up there on those ancient vines…”

  Alexander chuckled lightly. “Trees are perfectly fine to climb, but vines are where you draw the line? Ah my good man I have an idea, you could always bloop right down.”

  Lyra giggled but quickly refocused, her tone turning more serious. “It’s the only path that seems to have minimal defenses.” She glanced toward the horizon, where the sun was sinking rapidly, casting long shadows over the forest. “We’ll need to check it out, but we’re losing light. Let’s head back to camp and see if the others found anything better. If not, that cave might be our best option.”

  With a nod, I silently agreed. The temple’s foreboding presence lingered in my mind as we descended from the tree and began the trek back through the dense undergrowth. The forest whispered around us, the sounds of life persistent but distant as we moved toward the relative safety of our camp. Whatever awaited us inside that temple, we would face it soon enough. For now, it was time to regroup.

  Once we descended the steep hill, Alexander eagerly rushed ahead to prepare dinner. Lyra and I lingered, savoring a tranquil stroll through the forest’s enchanting evening air. Our pace slowed as we neared our little sanctuary, nestled in a small clearing surrounded by ancient trees. This camp offered a refuge that stood in stark contrast to the cold, bleak existence Killian had confined me to.

  In that rare moment of quiet with Lyra, I was struck by the profound change in my surroundings. The warmth of a crackling fire, the promise of hot food, and the simple serenity of this magical place were luxuries I had never dared to imagine. Killian had denied me such comforts, his world carved from unyielding stone and bitter frost.

  Here, though, the camp felt like a home—a comforting retreat beneath a vast canopy of leaves, their interwoven branches creating a natural roof high above. Fireflies flitted around us, their soft glow casting a whimsical light over our little haven. It was a fragile, fleeting moment of peace, and I found myself silently grateful for the small mercy of such a place.

  As we neared the camp, a rush of enticing aromas enveloped us. Lyra inhaled deeply, her lips curving into a radiant smile as she soaked in the comforting scents wafting from the fire.

  “Hungry, darling?” I teased, catching her eye.

  “Famished!” she giggled, her excitement contagious.

  Alexander stood over the fire, vigorously tending to a bubbling pot of hearty stew. The fragrant medley of mistveil carrots, wild onions, and morel mushrooms mingled with the bright tang of freshly picked pepperberries. Each ingredient seemed to have absorbed the essence of the forest, their earthy, vibrant scents blending perfectly in the rich, savory broth. Tender pieces of rabbit, slow cooked to perfection, had been seasoned with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, their aroma filling the air and coaxing our appetites further.

  Beside the stew, thick slices of crusty bread rested on a small wooden board. Alexander had baked them in a stone oven he ingeniously crafted the night before. Their golden crust crackled faintly as he sliced them, and the smell of warm, fresh bread was enough to make anyone’s mouth water. Beside the bread, wedges of hard, tangy cheese awaited, its sharp flavor promising to cut beautifully through the richness of the meal.

  Rhys hovered near the fire, eyes gleaming as she watched a pile of golden potatoes roasting in the embers. Each one was coated in herb-infused salt and crowned with a generous dollop of spiced butter that melted into golden pools. Meanwhile, Corran had been tasked with crafting a fresh salad, tossing crisp forest greens with tangy berries, crushed nuts, and a drizzle of sweet honey-cider dressing. The dish was as vibrant in color as it was inviting in aroma.

  Pints of Amberdew Ale stood ready, their amber hue glinting in the firelight. The refreshing brew, infused with a delicate hint of local blossoms, was the perfect accompaniment to such a feast. And, as always, Alexander hadn’t overlooked dessert.

  The sweet finale was a platter of Moonlit Berry Tartlets, their hand-formed pastry shells brimming with a medley of juicy wild berries. Each tartlet was crowned with a luscious dollop of cream, lightly sweetened with forest honey. Their presentation alone was a marvel, the glistening berries catching the firelight like jewels.

  I would never admit it to Alexander, the feast he’d prepared was extraordinary, a banquet fit for kings—and weary adventurers alike.

  Though the venom that coursed through our lives loomed like an ever-present shadow, tonight was a fleeting reprieve—a rare moment of laughter and shared humanity. Around the flickering firelight, the dire weight of our situation seemed to dissolve, replaced by the warmth of camaraderie.

  Alexander, the consummate storyteller, commanded the group’s attention with tales so absurdly exaggerated that even he struggled to keep a straight face. His wild gestures and dramatic flourishes sent waves of laughter rippling through the camp, punctuated by playful jeers and skeptical groans.

  Lyra, ever the practical one, initially tried to steer the conversation toward the day’s journey and the challenges that lay ahead. But the mood was infectious, and soon even she abandoned caution, her eyes alight with mirth as she joined in the playful banter. Her voice carried a melodic teasing as she picked apart Alexander’s more outrageous claims, her eyes sparkling like stars in the night.

  Emre, usually so serious and reserved, surprised everyone by leaning into the jovial mood. Though her quips were dry and understated, they landed with precision, drawing hearty laughs from the group. The rare softness in her demeanor hinted at the elf behind the stoic mask, a side of her that only emerged in moments like these.

  Rhys, with her boundless energy and childlike grin, was the heart of the night’s festivities. Her quick wit and contagious laughter kept the fire’s warmth alive long after the embers should have cooled. She challenged Alexander’s wild stories with equally improbable tales of her own, gesturing animatedly as she drew everyone deeper into the shared mirth.

  For a few stolen hours, the fire was more than just warmth—it was a sanctuary. The dangers of the venom, the weight of our mission, and the uncertainty of tomorrow were forgotten. In their place, there was only laughter, the gentle hum of voices, and the fragile but beautiful connection of companions who, against all odds, had found solace in one another.

  As I picked at my meal, savoring the richness of the stew’s tender meat and herb-soaked vegetables, I couldn’t help but watch Lyra. She attacked her food with an enthusiasm that was as charming as it was unrestrained. Tearing apart a slice of crusty bread, she dipped it generously into the stew, letting the flavorful broth soak in before taking a bite.

  Her gaze caught mine, and her lips curved into a teasing smile as she leaned in closer, her voice a sultry murmur meant just for me. “Now you know what you look like when you set your eyes upon my neck.”

  A smirk tugged at my lips as I leaned slightly toward her, matching her playful tone. “My dear, while Alexander’s meal is indeed delicious”—I paused for dramatic effect—“and I will deny it if you ever tell him I said so, it pales in comparison to the taste of you.”

  Lyra’s cheeks flushed slightly, her eyes gleaming with mischief and delight. The firelight danced between us, but it was her laughter, soft and lilting, that truly warmed me. For a moment, the bustling camp around us faded, leaving only the magnetic pull of her gaze and the unspoken promise in her smile.

  Before I could continue teasing Lyra, a strange sensation washed over me—an unwelcome, insistent presence. At first, it was a faint whisper, threading its way into my mind. Then it grew louder, more demanding. I tried to focus on my meal, keeping my expression neutral to avoid drawing attention.

  “Come to me…” the voice murmured, low and alluring. “I can feel your curiosity… your desire.”

  I glanced around the fire. The others were still laughing, engrossed in their conversation, oblivious to the intrusion.

  “I am your salvation, your freedom,” the voice hissed, sharper now, more impatient. “Do not hesitate, Kieran. Every second you waste, the answers you seek slip further away.”

  A chill ran through me as the realization struck: the book. The dark tome I had taken into my possession was no longer content to sit idly by. Its once-subtle whispers had transformed into a commanding summons, each word burrowing into my thoughts with an urgency that was impossible to ignore.

  The comforting warmth of the fire and the company of my companions suddenly felt distant, like a fading dream. The others remained unaware, their laughter rising over the crackling flames as I hurriedly finished the last of my stew. Excusing myself with a mumbled explanation, I slipped away from the circle, the pull of the book like a physical weight dragging me toward my tent.

  Inside, the air seemed heavier, charged with an ominous energy. The voice was no longer a whisper but a relentless beckoning, clawing at my resolve. The tome waited, its dark cover gleaming faintly in the dim light, daring me to open it. I knew, deep down, that whatever lay within those pages would demand a price. But the book's call was too strong to resist any longer. It wasn’t just calling me—it was commanding me.

  I reached down slowly, my fingers trembling as they hovered over the ancient tome and the key resting beside it. Moving with deliberate care, I picked them up, feeling the icy chill of the key bite into my skin like a winter frost.

  The key was a masterful work of art. Its centerpiece, a large circular gemstone of glowing emerald, green, pulsed with a restless, living energy. The swirling light within the gem seemed almost angry, as though a trapped force sought release. Surrounding the gemstone were ornate golden patterns—tendrils that clawed outward in jagged, menacing curves, their design both elegant and foreboding.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The stem of the key was rigid and textured with horizontal grooves, its grip unyielding yet oddly perfect in my hand. It tapered downward into a set of intricate teeth, each carved into unique, labyrinthine shapes. The craftsmanship was exquisite, yet unsettling, as if the key were made to open something not meant for mortal hands. Before me, the lock it was meant for sat in silence, waiting to surrender its secrets only to the daring—or the foolish.

  I settled down carefully on the cool, hard ground of my tent, cradling the book in my lap. Its cover sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. The charred surface seemed alive, marred with twisted designs that drew the eye despite their grotesque nature. At the center of it all was a skull, its hollow sockets burning with amber light that stared back at me as if aware of my presence.

  The air grew heavier as I studied it, the knot in my stomach tightening with each passing moment. Everything about the book screamed danger—its grim artistry, its palpable aura of malice—yet I couldn’t look away. An inexplicable force wrapped around me, a whispering pull that coaxed me forward, urging me to turn the key and unveil whatever mysteries lay trapped within. Against every ounce of better judgment, I felt myself being drawn closer to the edge of the unknown.

  The book seemed almost alive, a malevolent presence bound in its charred cover, as though it had been waiting patiently—hungrily—for someone like me. Its whispers grew clearer as I held it, no longer merely coaxing but insistent, promising that I was the one destined to wield its secrets.

  With a deep, hesitant breath, I fitted the cold, golden key into the blackened lock that sealed the tome shut. The lock snapped open with an audible crack, and the chains encircling the book unraveled like serpents, falling to the ground with a resonant clatter. The tome trembled in my hands, vibrating with raw, ancient power. The molten amber eyes on its cover flared to life, their gaze burning through me, daring me to continue.

  My hand shook as I steadied myself and turned the first page. At that moment, the book surged with a dark vitality, its pages almost pulling themselves open as if impatient to share their long-held secrets. The whispers that had lured me this far transformed, growing into a chorus of ominous voices that filled the air around me, echoing in my skull.

  As the pages unfolded, the whispers became harrowing screams, reverberating with a terrible intensity. Sinister glyphs rose from the pages, shimmering like ghostly apparitions. They twisted in the air, reshaping themselves into words that burned an ominous red. These glowing symbols seared into my mind, each one carrying a weight of forbidden knowledge too immense to fully grasp.

  The tome seemed relentless, its secrets spilling out in an unstoppable torrent, flooding my consciousness with dark truths and incomprehensible power. My curiosity, once so eager, shrank back in fear, recoiling at the sheer magnitude of what I had unleashed. The air grew heavy, suffused with a suffocating dread, and I could feel the boundaries of reality straining under the weight of the sinister force I had awoken. Yet, despite the terror surging within me, the book’s call refused to release its grip. Its secrets weren’t merely being revealed—they were invading, and there was no turning back.

  Clutching the book tightly, I struggled to maintain control as it thrashed in my hands, eager to unleash its full might. Without warning, the fabric of my tent seemed to dissolve into nothingness, leaving me suspended in an abyssal void. Darkness enveloped me from all sides, a stark, consuming blackness. From this void, bright lights began to emerge, swirling and coalescing at my feet, creating a vortex of spectral energy.

  Amidst these swirling lights, a figure slowly materialized. It shifted and formed with eerie deliberation, its shape becoming more defined by the second. The presence of this emerging entity filled the space with a palpable sense of dread, heralding an encounter with something ancient and overwhelmingly powerful.

  As the last of the spirits joined in finishing the form an imposing lich stood before me, the embodiment of terror and malevolence. His gaunt, skeletal figure was draped in a ghoulish suit of armor that seemed to blend the arcane with the macabre. Crafted from the darkest obsidian and etched with ancient runes of power, each piece of the armor seems to pulse with a sinister life of its own. His breastplate is adorned with motifs of writhing souls, their expressions locked in eternal agony, symbolizing the liches dominion over death.

  His helm, a grotesque masterpiece, was fashioned to resemble a human skull, with horns twisted like the branches of dead trees arching backwards. Glowing faintly within the eye sockets are two deep, crimson gems that cast an unsettling light, illuminating his path with the glow of infernal fires. The helm’s mouthpiece is forged into a perpetual sneer, a silent mockery of the living.

  His gauntlets are clawed, resembling the bony fingers of death itself, perfectly designed for channeling necrotic energies that can wither the heartiest of warriors with a mere touch. Encircling his waist, a belt made of intertwined bones and rotting sinew from his vanquished enemies holds an array of vials containing cursed potions and elixirs. His cloak, once a royal mantle, now a tattered banner of despair, trails behind him, seemingly absorbing the scant light around it. He moves with an unnatural grace, as if alive, whispering across the stone floor with the sounds of the damned. Underneath his feet, the ground is perpetually frosted, a chilling aura emanating from his very presence, leaving a trail of hoarfrost in his wake.

  The lich fixed its gaze on me, clutching a staff crafted from the spine of a dragon, its top crowned with a skull, eye sockets ablaze with eerie blue flames. With a slow, deliberate movement, it raised an arm, extending a skeletal finger in my direction.

  “Who dares to wake Xykrath, master of undeath, sovereign of shadows and despair from my slumber?” he hissed, the voice echoing in a chilling rasp that filled the atmosphere. The sound seemed to emanate from the very air around us, as Xykraths jaw remained eerily still, the words slithering into the space between us like a cold draft whispering through the darkness.

  "Ah... Hello," was all I could muster, the sudden shock momentarily erasing any sense of my own identity. Xykrath unleashed a deafening shriek, his displeasure evident. “Kieran, my name is Kieran,” I managed to say as clarity slowly returned to me.

  “Kieran…” Xykrath repeated with a venomous hiss. “You dare attempt to usurp my forbidden knowledge, to pilfer from the eater of death!” he wailed furiously.

  “Well...not steal, per se,” I mumbled, the book's summons still echoing in my mind. “The book called to me,” I explained, cautiously observing the lich before me. Xykrath seemed to consider my words, his gaze piercing, his red eyes boring into the depths of my soul.

  “FOOL! Only those deemed worthy may freely partake of my knowledge. The book may beckon you, but it is a treacherous and cruel deceiver, luring the unworthy into my grasp to be consumed,” Xykrath declared, his voice saturated with scorn.

  Sensing Xykrath had little patience for fools, I steadied myself and declared confidently, “You are mistaken. I am worthy, and you will reveal the knowledge hidden within.” At this, Xykrath's laughter erupted, a sound far more terrifying than his spectral appearance. The eerie laughter seemed to reverberate around us, chilling to the core, particularly because his mouth did not move.

  "Cocky, insignificant half blood," Xykrath hissed, his disdain palpable. "We shall see how worthy you truly are." With a deliberate stride, he closed the distance between us and placed his icy, skeletal hand on my forehead. Instantly, a searing pain shot through me, so intense that my mouth flew open and a scream—foreign and terrifying—burst forth. I gritted my teeth, summoning every ounce of mental fortitude to resist his assault on my mind.

  As Xykrath intensified his invasion, probing deeper into my consciousness, I pushed back with all my mental strength. Our minds clashed, a tumultuous battlefield of wills. With a furious effort, I managed to stave off his deepest probes, forcing him to retreat. Xykrath released his grip and stepped back, his scream of rage echoing in the darkness.

  "Your mind is sharper and your will stronger half blood," Xykrath spat contemptuously, his voice dripping with scorn. " "To bind my precious book to you, you must prove your knowledge," Xykrath declared, his voice booming with authority. "Answer my question wisely, Kieran. Make no mistake—if you fail, I will consume your soul." His words resonated with a powerful threat.

  Unfazed by his intimidation, I retorted with equal force, "This book will be mine." My words hung defiantly in the air. Xykrath's response was a cold, mocking laugh, the temperature around us dropping with each echo of his derision, a stark reminder of his disdain for my confidence.

  “In a realm where paths diverge in shadows and light, one question governs your plight,” Xykrath intoned, his voice reverberating with a ghastly chill that seemed to seep into my very bones. As he rose higher into the air, the temperature plummeted, frost condensing on the surfaces around us. His eyes blazed with an unnatural, frosty blue, twin orbs of searing cold that cut through the dim light like shards of frozen fire.

  Cracks spread like spiderwebs across his skeletal face, glowing faintly as ice crystallized within them, the jagged lines burning raw, elemental power. His presence radiated a glacial intensity, the air around him thick with a biting cold that made my breath fog and my skin prickle.

  “If given one, it opens doors to lands of bounty or barren shores,” he continued, his words heavy with the weight of inevitability. The frost spreading across his form seemed to pulse with each syllable, an echo of the silent power he described. “Held within your hand, it weighs naught but holds the sway of fates untold. Decide wisely, Kieran,” he hissed, his voice sharp and cruel, as if every word carried the sting of a winter storm.

  The frost on his face glimmered with a sinister light as he leaned forward, his skeletal form raging with an aura of danger and command. “For what you determine could multiply or nullify what lies ahead. What is it that I speak of,” his voice dropped to a razor-thin whisper, “that wields such silent power, offering many or none at your singular hour?”

  The words hung in the air, their weight matched only by the chilling force radiating from Xykrath, as if the question itself had frozen time, leaving me standing on the precipice of my fate.

  Shit. I hate riddles. The moment the words reached me, a wave of cold dread surged through my chest, twisting my stomach into a knot. Frustration followed close behind, clawing at my mind and shaking my confidence. Riddles always brought out the worst in me—panic and self-reproach bubbling to the surface as if I’d already failed.

  I forced myself to focus, replaying the riddle in my head, breaking it down piece by piece. Held in your hand yet weighing nothing. The phrase repeated like an echo, forcing my thoughts toward something intangible, something that existed only in concept. Not a physical thing, but a force or an idea. My breathing slowed as I latched onto that clue.

  Paths diverging in shadows and light. That line screamed of decisions—of opposing outcomes, of actions leading to either triumph or disaster. The stakes felt impossibly high, and my thoughts grew sharper as I mulled it over.

  Then, holds sway of fates untold. That phrase dug deeper, prodding at my memory and my pain. Whatever the answer was, it had to be something with immense power, something capable of shaping destinies. And yet, it was weightless, invisible. I whispered the words under my breath, letting them linger as I struggled to tie the threads together.

  “It only takes one…” I murmured, my mind clicking through possibilities. One action. One moment. One… decision.

  Xykrath’s impatience crackled in the air like a storm about to break. His cold, calculating stare bore into me, slicing through my composure as if peeling away my defenses. He leaned forward slightly, his voice a low hiss laced with cruel anticipation. “Tick, tock, half-blood. Your time is running out,” he sneered, the faint curl of a smile betraying his excitement for my failure.

  I felt the weight of his words, heavy with mockery, pressing down on me. But then—like a sudden spark igniting a dark room—his taunt struck a chord deep within me. My thoughts snapped into sharp focus, the pieces of the puzzle locking into place with startling clarity.

  “Time is running out.” That phrase echoed in my mind, stirring something bitter and sharp in the recesses of my memory. This wasn’t just a challenge—it was a cruel echo of the power Killian had wielded against me. He had stripped me of my ability to decide, robbed me of the freedom to determine my own path, and twisted it into his tool, his weapon. The realization came like a dagger to the heart, sharp and unrelenting.

  My eyes widened, the truth hitting me cold and fierce, cutting through the frustration like a blade. This wasn’t just an answer—it was the answer. A truth etched into the fabric of my pain, a power that Killian had stolen from me but that I swore to reclaim.

  “Choice,” I said, my voice steady and unyielding as I met Xykrath’s gaze. “It’s the power to decide, to change direction. It weighs nothing, yet it can shift the course of fate. And your little game? It’s built on taking that power away. Choice was your leverage, your way of turning my life into your game. But it’s mine now.”

  For a fleeting moment, Xykrath’s expression faltered, the shadow of doubt creeping across his face. The predator who had savored his prey’s struggle now stared at a defiance he hadn’t anticipated. The game was his, but the victory—that was mine.

  As my words hung in the air, Xykrath let out a piercing howl shattering the tension. His fury was a storm of rage and frustration, but I stood firm. This was my victory, and I wouldn’t let it slip away.

  "Clever half-blood," Xykrath screeched, his voice a venomous mix of contempt and reluctant acceptance. "Very well, the book is now bound to you—tethered until death."

  Before I could savor my victory, his skeletal hand shot out, seizing my throat in an iron grip. The air rushed from my lungs as he effortlessly hoisted me off the ground, my feet dangling helplessly beneath me. His hollow eyes burned with malice as they met mine, and his decayed visage twisted into a ghastly grin.

  With his free hand, Xykrath raised his staff high, its jagged tip pulsing with a sickly, greenish light. The shadows around him deepened, and his voice boomed like a thunderclap through the oppressive darkness. "Mortuis Loqui!" he roared, the words vibrating with unnatural power.

  Pain erupted in my throat, a searing, unbearable fire that felt as though it was branding me from the inside. I clawed at his skeletal hand, but his grip was unyielding. Xykrath’s laughter—low, cruel, and echoing—filled the void around us, reverberating through my skull.

  As his spell reached its crescendo, his form began to unravel. The spirits that made up his ghastly body shrieked and writhed, tearing themselves free and spiraling into the air like a storm of tortured souls. His grip on my throat loosened, and I collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

  The shadows churned and danced as the disembodied spirits swirled around me, their once-agonized cries twisting into a hauntingly coherent chant: "Master… Master…" The voices echoed from every direction, binding me to their proclamation. The darkness seemed alive, wrapping itself around me as the last remnants of Xykrath’s form dissolved into the ground, leaving only the cold, oppressive silence—and the undeniable weight of the spell he had cast.

  The surrounding darkness began to recede, and the tent, previously swallowed by the void, slowly came back into view. The book on my lap stirred to life; glyphs and words danced across the pages, rearranging themselves from indecipherable symbols into coherent sentences. My eyes darted across the page, eagerly absorbing the secrets now revealed. Xykrath had granted me a profound ability—commune with the dead. This tome was a direct conduit to the guarded knowledge of the departed, a reservoir of arcane wisdom that could prove immensely useful.

  The book snapped shut with a resounding finality, dragging me back into the present like surfacing from the depths of a blackened sea. The air felt thick, my senses heightened, every nerve alight with a hunger that defied explanation. It wasn’t just for knowledge—it was primal, ravenous, and unrelenting. My gaze, sharp and uncontrolled, landed on Lyra standing in the tent’s entrance, her eyes locked on me. Concern etched deep lines into her expression, but as her eyes met mine, that concern quickly shifted, darkened, transformed into something I had never seen from her before: fear.

  The hunger gnawed at me, an ancient and relentless beast clawing its way to the surface. My eyes betrayed me, drifting to the elegant curve of her neck, the delicate pulse visible beneath her skin. My mind raced, thoughts veering into forbidden territory, a starvation clawing at me that I hadn’t felt in centuries.

  Lyra’s breath hitched, and instinctively, she stepped back, the smallest of movements, but it struck me like a blow. Her guarded stance and wide, wary eyes were a sharp reminder of what I was, of what I could become if I didn’t fight it.

  “Control yourself!” I internally snarled, clawing desperately for composure. The monstrous urges raged within, but I forced myself to take a deep breath, then another. Slowly, I exhaled, the beast within reluctantly retreating to the edges of my consciousness. I fixed my lips into a careful smile, one I hoped was reassuring, though I could still feel the primal hunger thrumming just beneath the surface.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” I said softly, infusing my voice with a gentleness that masked the chaos inside me. “I must have lost myself for a moment there.”

  Lyra didn’t reply immediately. Her arms remained stiff at her sides, her eyes scanning me with wary precision, as though gauging the danger I posed. Finally, her voice, trembling slightly, cut through the heavy silence. “I think I should leave you to your book,” she said, the edges of her words sharp with lingering apprehension.

  A pang of guilt lanced through me. I had frightened her—Lyra—the one person who always saw beyond the darkness in me. I couldn’t let it end there. I stowed the book hastily in my pack, sealing away the necrotic energy still thrumming faintly from its cover, and approached her with measured caution. My movements were slow, deliberate, an effort to steady the fragile air between us.

  Gently, I took her hand in mine, the contact grounding me further. “Truly, darling, I was merely lost for the smallest of moments,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “The book is imbued with dark, necrotic magic, and it drew me into a place I would much rather avoid.” I hesitated, choosing my next words carefully. I allowed a small smile to curve my lips, a spark of mischief breaking through the shadows. “But, fortunately for me, a bright… temptress… pulled me from its very grip.”

  Lyra blinked at me, her lips parting as though she meant to retort, but then her expression softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite herself. “Temptress,” she repeated, rolling her eyes.

  Her posture relaxed, though her gaze remained cautious, lingering on me as though assessing whether the danger had truly passed. “I was coming to see if you wanted to feed,” she said after a moment, her voice still tinged with unease. “But… I’m not sure it’s such a good idea tonight.”

  Her words hit deeper than they should have, her wariness cutting through the layers of my charm. I forced myself to hold her gaze, to let her see the steadiness I was fighting to reclaim. “Only if you feel safe, darling,” I said softly, the hunger finally receding into a dull ache. “I would never take from you if you weren’t sure.”

  Her smile grew a little, though her eyes remained watchful. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, but her voice carried a trace of warmth.

  For the first time since I’d closed that cursed book, I felt a glimmer of hope—fragile, but there.

  I carefully considered my options, the weight of my decisions pressing heavily on my mind. My bond with Lyra was strong, but it hung in a precarious balance. If I persuaded her to let me indulge and something went wrong, it could shatter the fragile trust we had built. The thought sent a cold knot of dread twisting in my stomach. Already depleted from the book's effects, my strength wavered; even my hunger seemed less urgent compared to the risk of losing her trust.

  How could I navigate this without causing irreparable harm?

  Driven by desperation, I softened my demeanor, letting a faint vulnerability show as I spoke.

  “Darling,” I began, my voice tinged with a mix of mischief and uncertainty, “you’re right, of course. You are… quite delectable.” I allowed a wry smile to touch my lips but quickly let it fade. “This cursed book has drained me completely. My strength is gone, and my stomach… well, it hasn’t stopped growling since.” I hesitated, carefully studying her expression, searching for any sign of unease.

  Lyra met my gaze with quiet intensity, her features steady, though a glimmer of hesitation flickered in her eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she softened.

  “But” she interjected with a small, knowing smile, “you’re not strong enough to hunt, are you? And we have the gremlin camp tomorrow.”

  “Yes, that too,” I chuckled weakly, grateful for the reprieve in her tone.

  Her smile lingered only a moment before fading. She took a deep breath, her playful demeanor giving way to something deeper—something vulnerable. “Kieran,” she began, her voice gentle but strained, “I need you… to be strong tomorrow.”

  “I will be,” I promised, but she raised her hand to silence me before I could continue.

  “Please, let me finish,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I’m willing to let you… take what you need. I’ve made peace with that. But I’ve never seen you like that before, and it frightened me.”

  The weight of her words settled heavily in my chest.

  “Lyra…” I started again, my voice breaking, but she shook her head, pressing forward.

  “No, listen,” she insisted, her expression tightening with an internal battle. “Here I am, letting a Dhamphyr feed on me… and I’m enjoying it, if I’m being honest. A Dhamphyr. Feeding. On. Me.” She punctuated each word with a small, bitter laugh, shaking her head at her own conflicted feelings.

  Her self-critical tone cut through me. Panic surged as I wondered if my actions had already poisoned the trust she’d given me. I stayed silent, afraid that speaking might make things worse.

  She took another shaky breath, her voice softening as she looked directly into my eyes. “You’ve had so many chances to harm me, to take from me without asking. You could have left me for dead when we first met in the nest. You saved me when my magic backfired against the incubus. You stayed by my side in the spider cave when it would have been safer to leave. And at the river…” Her voice faltered, her emotions raw. “You had not one, but two chances to drain me dry, and you didn’t.”

  I held my breath, every instinct and manipulative bone in my body was screaming at me to reassure her, to beg for her forgiveness, but I knew she wasn’t finished.

  “And despite everything,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with a mix of vulnerability and certainty, “I trust you, Kieran. I don’t know why, and I’m terrified that I might be wrong. But I do.”

  Her words pierced me deeper than any blade ever could, leaving me raw and exposed. How could I ever live up to such faith? Internally, I swallowed hard, burying the storm of emotions clawing at the edges of my composure. The unease rising in my chest was unwelcome, a weakness I could not afford to show. I forced it back down, shoving it into the cold void where such feelings belonged—far from the surface, far from her reach.

  My gaze softened deliberately as I regarded Lyra, crafting an expression that blended weariness and need. I knew the delicate balance I had to strike, vulnerability enough to draw her in, but not so much as to lose control. Trust was a currency I couldn’t spend recklessly, but neither could I afford to leave it untouched.

  "Lyra," I murmured, letting my voice carry just enough weight to sound sincere, "I won’t deny the truth. I am drained—completely hollow." I paused, watching her carefully, letting a flicker of uncertainty flash in my eyes before I masked it with a faint, calculated smile. "But perhaps… we can help each other."

  This moment was fragile, a dangerous but precious opportunity to deepen the bond between us. If I make a mistake, it could all unravel. With deliberate care, I knelt before her, every motion slow and measured, ensuring she felt no threat.

  I reached for her hand, cradling it gently in mine as though it were something infinitely delicate. Bringing her fingers to my lips, I pressed the softest of kisses along the tips, down to the back of her hand, and then to her wrist. Each kiss was a silent promise: I would not harm her, even if my hunger screamed otherwise.

  Turning her hand over, I revealed the tender skin of her inner wrist, where her pulse beat steadily beneath the surface. I kissed her palm, my lips lingering just long enough to convey reverence before hovering above her wrist. I held perfectly still, a predator tempered by restraint, aware of the immense risk I was taking. One wrong move, one shadow of doubt from her, and the fragile thread of trust could snap.

  Lyra seemed to understand the weight of this moment. Slowly, hesitantly, her other hand rose, her fingers brushing lightly through my hair. The touch sent a shiver through me, but I remained poised, waiting. When I felt her tension melt away, her body softening under my hold, I dared to look up.

  Our eyes met—her swirling silver and green orbs filled with both vulnerability and trust. In that gaze, I saw the enormity of what she was giving me. She offered me a small nod, and I gently sank my teeth into her wrist, the sweet essence of her blood filling my mouth. I savored the moment, the taste of her mingling with the electric connection building between us. Each careful nip and gentle pull was deliberate, a dance of restraint and reverence. Lyra’s fingers continued their soft motions through my hair, her touch light but unguarded. She was lost in the sensation, and for a brief, stolen moment, I allowed myself to cherish the intimacy.

  I released her wrist with tender care, brushing my lips over her skin one last time in a kiss as soft as a whisper. Rising to my feet, I watched her expression shift—curiosity flickering alongside a faint confusion as she searched my face for clues to my thoughts.

  Gently, I reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering briefly against her skin before cupping her cheek. Her eyes, those swirling pools of silver and green, met mine, and I let my voice drop into a warm, honeyed tone.

  “Just enough, my darling girl,” I murmured, my lips curving into a teasing grin, “to make me strong enough to hunt… and to leave you wanting.”

  The playful glimmer in her eyes matched mine as she bit her lower lip, her cheeks faintly flushed. “Good night, Kieran,” she replied with a sly grin, turning to leave.

  But I wasn’t finished.

  I caught her wrist and gently pulled her back toward me, my movements deliberate but unthreatening. Her eyes widened slightly as they met mine, the soft glow of the night adding a shimmer to her gaze. “When moonlight dances on these eyelids tonight,” I paused leaning in and letting my lips hover near her ear, my breath brushing against her skin as I whispered, “may my name echo softly in your ear.”

  I felt her sharp inhale, the faintest shiver in her frame betraying her reaction. A satisfied grin touched my lips as I released her, stepping back with an exaggerated gentleness that almost dared her to linger.

  “Sweet dreams,” I called after her as she sauntered away, her steps light but purposeful. She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze lingering on me for just a moment longer before she slipped into her tent.

  For a fleeting instant, I allowed myself to feel victorious, acknowledging the delicate balance I’d struck in mending the trust that had been at risk. But as the flap of her tent fell shut, sealing her away from me, the facade cracked. My grin faded, replaced by a sharp irritation that gnawed at the edges of my composure.

  With a low sigh, I turned and stalked into the forest. My hunger still clawed at me, and now, instead of the effortless satisfaction I craved, I was left to scrounge for a meal among the shadows. The thrill of the game was dulled by the frustration of necessity, and I couldn’t help but curse the inconvenience under my breath as I disappeared into the trees.

  I moved through the forest with a storm brewing inside me, bewildered and furious at my own actions. My target, an unsuspecting boar snuffling for its evening meal, seemed oblivious to the predator watching it from the shadows. It should have been Lyra in my grasp, her lifeblood satisfying every craving, her trust a tool bent to my will. She would have offered herself willingly, her body and spirit yielding to my allure until I was utterly satiated. Instead, I had chosen restraint—chosen to build trust, as if her favor mattered more than my hunger.

  Why?

  The question clawed at me, a relentless echo in the depths of my mind. Was I beginning to care for her? I dismissed the thought with harsh finality. No, Lyra was a pawn, a strategic piece on the board, nothing more. She was valuable for her abilities, for her exquisite blood, and for her place in my schemes. That was all.

  And yet, as much as I tried to shove her from my thoughts, the memory of our moment in the tent lingered. Her scent, that intoxicating blend of wild orchids and rare blossoms, curled through my senses like a spell woven just for me. It was unlike anything else—a whisper of something untamed and utterly captivating.

  Then there was the taste of her blood. A symphony of flavors danced on my tongue each time—ambrosial peach, lush passionfruit, a sharp note of spicy clove, and the honeyed warmth of the wild. It was unforgettable, unmatched. Even now, the memory of it tightened around my thoughts like a vice, dragging me back to her.

  I shook my head violently, forcing myself to focus. This was madness. She was not a siren to ensnare me; she was a means to an end. My weakness would not undo me. Not again.

  The present snapped back into focus as I stalked through the forest, anger and disgust boiling within me. My meal tonight would be nothing but the foul, metallic sludge of boar’s blood. The thought alone made my stomach churn. The first taste hit me like a slap, bitter and rank, its flavor an unbearable mixture of forest rot, mold, and acrid decay. It clung to my tongue, a wretched reminder of my failure to satisfy my true cravings.

  The memory of worse meals surged forth unbidden, dragging me back to the dark days under Killian’s control. I could still see the rats he had offered me, their bloated bodies slick with filth. The blood they yielded was thick, slimy, and tainted with an indescribable stench—a noxious mix of decay and sulfur that burned my nostrils and made my eyes water.

  But refusal was never an option. I had learned that quickly enough. Whatever horrors Killian offered, I had swallowed with grim resolve. To deny him would invite something far worse than the vile sustenance he called mercy.

  The memory twisted in my gut as I forced down another mouthful of boar’s blood, my rage burning hotter with every second. This was a humiliation—a reminder of how far I had fallen. I deserved better than this rancid forest, this wretched excuse for a meal.

  And yet, as I wiped the bitter liquid from my lips, the memory of Lyra’s scent and the taste of her blood flickered in my mind again, unrestrained and impossible to shake. It was a weakness, a risk, a distraction I couldn’t afford—and one I couldn’t seem to escape.

  Present Day…

  My gaze fell on the tankard of Widow’s Ale sitting abandoned on the table, a grim reminder of last night’s so-called “festivities.” Even Killian’s abominable concoctions had not prepared me for such a monstrosity. The memory of Lyra introducing this wretched brew was seared into my mind, equal parts hilarious and appalling.

  She had approached with that mischievous sparkle in her eyes, cradling the tankard as though it were a treasure. “This,” she had declared with dramatic flair, “will change your life.”

  Skepticism had tightened my features—Lyra had a knack for hiding her pranks as good-natured fun. Still, I had taken the bait. With a resigned sigh, I lifted the tankard and took a sip.

  The taste hit my tongue like the aftermath of a sewer explosion, rancid and overwhelming. It burned its way down my throat like liquid fire and settled in my stomach with the weight of a lead anchor. Remarkably, for a liquid, it managed to feel like a physical assault.

  Lyra erupted into laughter so violent that she doubled over, clutching her stomach. I half-expected her to fall off the stool, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to compose herself.

  “It’s not that bad!” she gasped between bouts of laughter.

  “Darling,” I said, fixing her with a mock glare, “you said it would change my life, not end it.”

  Still catching her breath, Lyra was interrupted by a barmaid who approached with a bottle of Emberkiss Reserve and a gleaming wine glass.

  “I guessed,” Lyra said with a knowing smile and a shrug.

  I raised an eyebrow at Lyra, who gave an exaggeratedly innocent look. “Well,” I said, pouring myself a glass, “if you think bringing my favorite wine will make me forgive you for that liquid felony…” I paused, taking a sip. “You’re absolutely right, darling.” I winked, and Lyra dissolved into laughter once again.

  The memory brought a flicker of warmth, a welcome distraction from the darker thoughts that lingered in the corners of my mind. But it was short-lived. It also reminded me of the man I had been—not long ago, but far enough to feel like a stranger.

  Under Xykrath’s influence, I had been cruel, manipulative, and hollow. That night in the tent, I had frightened Lyra deliberately, using seduction as nothing more than a tool to bend her to my will. She had been a means to an end, a pawn to be used and discarded once Killian was dead and the venom dealt with.

  I curled my hand into a fist, the urge to strike myself flashing briefly. I deserved far worse.

  My gaze drifted to the plate of food I had asked the barkeep to prepare for Lyra. The simple gesture felt alien compared to the person I had been back then. It reminded me of the morning after my rage-fueled boar hunt, when we had stumbled into that absurd encounter in the cave beneath the temple.

  The trio of ogres there had been a sight to behold. The leader spoke with the eloquence of a bard, crafting poetry with his words, while his two bumbling companions could barely string a coherent sentence together. Their contrasting natures had been as ridiculous as their insatiable appetites.

  That moment of absurdity had stuck with me, much like the bitter aftertaste of Widow’s Ale now lingering on the air. Yet even in the humor, the weight of what I had become—and the faint hope of what I might still become—remained.