The twin moons had barely dipped below the horizon when Caelan slipped out of the infirmary tent, moving like smoke between the rows of sleeping soldiers. The camp still smelled of charred wood and spilled ichor, the wyrmbeast's corpse a dark lump in the courtyard that no one had yet dared to butcher. His side throbbed with every step, but the pain was sharp enough to keep him focused, a wicked little reminder that he was still very much alive. He adjusted the borrowed cloak—stolen from a snoring guard—and pulled the hood low. The shadows loved him tonight. They clung to his shoulders like eager lovers, whispering secrets only he could hear.
Eros zipped ahead, wings a blur of gold in the pre-dawn gloom. The spirit looked positively giddy, doing barrel rolls that left trails of glittering heart-shaped motes. "You're sneaking out of the man who literally carried you like a damsel. I'm living for this drama." Caelan shot him a glare that could have curdled milk. "One more word and I'm swatting you into next week." Eros gasped theatrically, clutching his tiny chest. "You wound me. And here I thought we were bonding."
The Ironclad gates were still mending, iron bands hastily hammered into splintered wood. Guards patrolled the breach, but their eyes were heavy with exhaustion. Caelan waited for the moment they turned to share a flask, then melted through the gap like water through fingers. The forest welcomed him back with open arms—pine needles crunching softly underfoot, the scent of damp earth and resin washing away the metallic stink of blood. He moved fast, heart kicking in a rhythm that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the memory of Thorne's hands on him.
The main dungeon entrance waited at the foot of the Iron Hills, a jagged maw carved into the rock face, framed by ancient archways overgrown with glowing vines. Runes pulsed along the lintel—blue and slow, like a sleeping heartbeat. Caelan paused at the threshold, fingers brushing the stone. The air inside was cool, damp, scented with moss and old secrets. He could almost hear the dungeon breathing. Eros landed on his shoulder, wings folding neatly. "You're really going back in there alone? After last night's little near-death tango?" Caelan's lips curved. "I have unfinished business."
He stepped inside. The darkness swallowed him whole, but the fungi along the walls flared brighter the deeper he went, as if the dungeon itself recognized him. Indigo light painted his skin in shifting patterns. His boots were silent on the worn stone. Every sense felt sharper— the faint drip of water somewhere far off, the distant rumble of stone settling, the whisper of shadow brushing his calves like silk. He felt powerful. Dangerous. And utterly terrified.
The corridor split ahead. Left led to the lower vaults, right to the wyrmbeast nesting grounds. Caelan chose left. The Heartstone fragments in his pouch hummed in harmony, a soft vibration against his hip that made his pulse quicken. He was halfway down the passage when the air shifted—became heavier, warmer, charged. Footsteps echoed behind him. Heavy. Deliberate. Armored.
Caelan froze. Then he smiled, slow and wicked, without turning around. "Took you long enough, Captain."
Thorne Ironfist stepped into the fungal glow. His armor was still blood-streaked, crimson cloak torn but proud. The broadsword rested across his back, hilt glinting. Those blue eyes found Caelan in an instant, sharp as winter steel, but there was something else in them now—something hungry, something uncertain. "You shouldn't be here," Thorne said. His voice was low, rough from shouting orders all night. "You're wounded. You're a prisoner."
Caelan turned slowly, letting the shadows peel away from him like a discarded cloak. "Am I?" He spread his hands, daggers nowhere in sight. "Because last I checked, you were the one who unchained me. Carried me. Patched me up. Very un-prisoner-like behavior."
Thorne took one step forward. Then another. The corridor suddenly felt much smaller. "You saved my men tonight." His gaze dropped to the bandage visible beneath Caelan's borrowed cloak. "You could have run. You didn't."
Caelan tilted his head, smirk deepening. "Maybe I'm just bad at running from trouble." He let his eyes travel over Thorne—slow, deliberate, shameless. The broad shoulders, the scarred hands, the way the torchlight caught in his auburn hair. "Or maybe I like trouble when it looks like you."
Thorne's breath hitched. Just once. But Caelan heard it. Felt it. The air between them crackled, thick with everything they weren't saying. Thorne's hand twitched toward his sword, then stopped. "You're playing a dangerous game, thief."
Caelan closed the last step between them, close enough to feel the heat rolling off the armor, to smell pine soap and iron and something warmer underneath. "Good," he whispered. "I've always preferred dangerous."
The dungeon watched them. The runes pulsed brighter. Somewhere deeper, a wyrmbeast stirred. And in the narrow space between two heartbeats, two paths finally converged—not with blades, not with chains, but with something far more lethal.
Desire.
Raw.
Uncertain.
And completely, gloriously inevitable.