***********
Are you afraid of me?"
"No."
"Then kiss me."
It had been that simple.
No blood. No vows. Just the thunder of her heartbeat and the shadow of his mouth.
But she had lied.
She was afraid — of what he made her feel, of what she couldn't stop.
Of what it would mean if she kissed him back.
She didn't kiss him.
But she wanted to.
She still did.
**************
Lysara sat on the edge of a rotting fountain as dusk spilled its last light over the ruins of Blackvale. The wind carried ash and roses—an unsettling scent she'd come to associate with Dren Talovar.
"You're following me," she said without looking.
From the darkness behind her, Dren stepped into view. No cloak. No shadows. Just the same unnerving calm.
"I prefer the term watching over you."
She stood.
"If you think this ends with us making some kind of truce—"
"It doesn't," he interrupted. "It begins with it."
He held out a scroll. Black wax seal. Her family crest. Her blood ran cold.
"Where did you get this?"
"It came to me... courtesy of the High Inquisitor." He paused, letting the words settle. "Your people have declared you rogue."
She snatched the scroll, broke the seal, and scanned the elegant script. Her jaw tightened.
"They think I've defected."
"You did save my life."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Too late."
Dren stepped closer. His eyes glowed faintly under the moonlight.
"They'll hunt you. The Order. The Wolves of Veyra. Even the Crown's shadow blades."
She said nothing, staring at the scroll like it was a knife.
"You have two options, Lysara," he said softly. "Run and die. Or stand beside me."
"You want me to join you?" she scoffed. "You're a war criminal."
"And you're already branded as one."
"You murdered cities."
"You spared one," he shot back. "Mine."
That silenced her.
He took another step. Now only inches away.
"You can hate me," he said, voice low, "but you can't undo what we are."
"We are nothing."
"We are unfinished."
She stared at him. At the soft shadows of regret buried in those cruel eyes. At the corner of his mouth where something vulnerable tried to live.
"Say what you came to say," she said.
"There's a rebellion forming in Duskarra's heart. Old blood. Forgotten names. They want the throne—and they want you as their blade."
"And you?"
"I want the truth."
"About?"
"Why you still dream about me."
He was close enough now that she could feel his breath.
"I don't dream," she lied.
"You used to," he whispered, eyes flicking to her lips. "You told me once... when you were seventeen... that you dreamed of dying in someone's arms. Did that dream change?"
Her hand curled into a fist.
"Yes," she said.
"To what?"
"To killing the next man who asks."
The words should have sent him retreating.
Instead, he smiled.
"Then you'll need to stay close. I ask questions often."
Later that night, as she watched the flame of her campfire flicker in the wind, she caught her reflection in a pool of still water.
And saw his face behind her.
"Dren," she said softly. "What did they do to you?"
But the reflection didn't answer.
Only smiled.