(Kael Draven — POV)
The chamber still reeked of broken magic.
Kael stood where the guards refused to step, boots resting inches from the fractured runes. The stone was scorched black, split clean through—as if the circle itself had panicked.
Impossible.
He crouched, fingers brushing the cracks. The residue clung to his skin, cold and sharp.
Primordial.
His jaw tightened.
No one in this kingdom was supposed to wield power like that. Not anymore.
And yet—
Her face rose unbidden in his mind.
Calm. Pale. Unafraid.
Princess Aelira had stood at the center of the ruin like a queen surveying conquered ground. No panic. No shock. Just control.
Too much control.
Kael straightened and turned toward the corridor.
She was there.
Walking toward him with measured steps, spine straight, chin lifted. Not rushing. Not hesitating.
Like someone who knew exactly how dangerous the palace was—and chose to walk it anyway.
Their eyes met.
Something shifted in his chest.
Not desire.
Recognition.
This woman was not prey.
She was a blade still sheathed.
Kael had killed men for less power than what coiled quietly beneath her skin. Had executed traitors without blinking. Had obeyed the crown without question.
So why hadn't he raised his sword last night?
He didn't have an answer.
Only instinct.
And instinct told him this—
If the palace discovered what she truly was, she would not survive the week.
If he did nothing, she would be dead.
Aelira passed him, her sleeve brushing his armor.
She didn't look at him again.
That made his lips curve faintly.
Dangerous girl.
Later that night, Kael stood alone on the palace wall, gaze fixed on the darkened windows of her wing.
He should report her.
Should prepare contingencies.
Should plan how to kill her if necessary.
Instead, he memorized the pattern of guards outside her door.
Just in case.
"She's mine to watch," he murmured into the night.
And for the first time in years—
Kael Draven hoped the crown would give him a reason to disobey.