- Rhysand Varynthal, Dravareth:
The room was soaked in shadow.
Moonlight filtered in through the towering windows, slanting across polished stone and velvet drapes. Gold embroidery shimmered faintly in the dark, catching the glow from the hearth behind me. The fire crackled low, restless, but the room felt still—like it was waiting to breathe.
Lucan stood at the edge of that silence, his silhouette framed by the open balcony doors. The wind tugged at the long black folds of his robe, kissed his bare collarbone, and whispered through the gold clasps at his shoulders.
One hand gripped a goblet of wine—red, like blood, like war—though I could see from the tension in his knuckles that he wasn't drinking it.
He hadn't moved in a long time.
I let the door close behind me with a soft click and crossed the chamber. This was our war room, our sanctuary. The table behind me was heavy oak and obsidian, carved with the burning lines of the six kingdoms. We'd shaped that map with blood. We'd broken borders and rebuilt our empire.
Lucan had bled for every inch of it.
I came up behind him, quietly. He didn't flinch—he never flinched with me—but I saw his shoulders shift when I was near. He was cold.
Not from the night air.
From something else.
I touched his waist, warm beneath the silk. He didn't look at me. Just whispered, "I feel cold."
Not temperature. Not weather.
Something other.
My brows furrowed. "Cold?" I asked softly, voice low against his ear.
Lucan didn't answer right away. He raised his hand, slow, and pointed. On the map behind us, I saw where his finger rested—far from Dravareth. Far from the mountains. Far from fire.
Elaria.
The quiet kingdom. The untouched one.
His voice was hollow when he finally spoke. "Something's calling, or someone."
"Who?" I asked.
"I don't know."
I slipped the goblet from his hand and set it down beside us. Then I wrapped my arms around his waist and leaned into him, our bodies flush, his back pressed to my chest. He exhaled, long and low, like he'd been holding that breath for hours.
His voice dropped to almost nothing. "It's like being watched by something I can't see."
Goosebumps ran along his skin. Mine too.
"I hear it, but there's no sound. I feel it, but there's no hand. It doesn't speak… but it's calling."
We stood in silence, wrapped in each other. My forehead rested against the back of his neck. My hand slid down his stomach, grounding him.
"You're not afraid," I murmured.
"No."
"Then what are you?"
He turned in my arms, his eyes catching the moonlight—dark, sharp, burning with something he didn't have words for.
"Hungry," he said. "Curious. Drawn."
We stared at each other.
Something out there had pulled at him. And through him, to me.
"Then we follow it," I said.
Lucan didn't blink. "Even if it's madness?"
I smiled. "Especially if it's madness."
He leaned forward, and I met him there. A kiss—not out of desire, but something deeper. Ancient. A vow.
And when we broke apart, when our foreheads touched and his hand slid into mine, he whispered:
"Let's see who dares to call us."