The vault chamber's rose-gold glow dimmed as they moved deeper, the murals fading behind them like half-remembered dreams. Caelan walked ahead now, shadows clinging to his heels like obedient hounds, while Thorne followed with the steady tread of a man who had faced worse than darkness. The air grew thicker, scented with sulfur and the faint metallic bite of old scales. Somewhere ahead, a low rumble rolled through the stone—deep, living, impatient.
Eros zipped between them, wings a frantic blur. "Wyrmbeast territory," he sang, voice bright with malicious glee. "Juvenile, territorial, and very cranky about uninvited guests. Your Love Points are at seventy-one, by the way. That little almost-kiss back there? Twelve points straight to the bank. Keep breathing on each other like that and we'll hit a hundred before the beast eats you."
Caelan muttered a curse under his breath. "Helpful as always." He drew both daggers, the blades catching the dying light in wicked gleams. Thorne unsheathed his broadsword with a whisper of steel, the sound unnaturally loud in the narrow passage. Their eyes met for a heartbeat—silent agreement, silent promise—then they stepped into the nesting hollow.
The chamber opened like a wound in the earth. A shallow pool of steaming water reflected the faint glow of fungi clinging to the ceiling. At the center, coiled atop a pile of shattered stone and ancient bones, lay the wyrmbeast. Smaller than the one that had breached the outpost, but no less deadly—scales black as oil, wings half-furled, amber eyes slitted and watchful. Smoke curled from its nostrils in lazy spirals. It lifted its head as they entered, tongue flicking out to taste the air.
Thorne raised his sword. "Stay behind me."
Caelan laughed, soft and reckless. "Not a chance." He darted left, shadows rippling around him like water. The wyrmbeast's head snapped toward the movement, jaws parting in a hiss that shook dust from the ceiling.
Eros swooped low, voice delighted. "Eighty-two points! Nothing says romance like coordinated murder. Go team!"
Thorne lunged right, drawing the beast's attention. The broadsword came down in a brutal arc, striking scales with a clang that rang like a bell. Sparks flew. The wyrmbeast roared, tail lashing. Thorne rolled aside, barely avoiding the sweep that cracked stone where he'd stood. Caelan used the distraction—slipping behind the creature, daggers flashing. He aimed for the soft spot beneath the wing joint, where scale met flesh.
The beast bucked, wing slamming down. Caelan leaped, twisting mid-air, but the edge caught his shoulder. Pain exploded white-hot. He hit the ground hard, rolling, daggers skittering across stone. Blood welled, warm and sticky, soaking his sleeve.
Thorne bellowed his name—raw, furious, terrified. He charged, sword driving into the wyrmbeast's flank. The creature shrieked, thrashing. Thorne held on, muscles straining beneath armor, blade sinking deeper.
Caelan pushed to his feet, vision swimming. "Hey!" he shouted. "Over here, ugly!" He snatched a fallen dagger and hurled it. The blade sank into the beast's eye with a wet thunk. The wyrmbeast reared, roaring, flames licking from its jaws.
Eros spun above them, ecstatic. "Ninety-four! Ninety-four points! That was a team-up for the ages! You're practically married now!"
Thorne yanked his sword free as the beast staggered. Caelan limped forward, shadows swirling around his bleeding arm like dark bandages. Together they struck—one from the front, one from the side—sword and dagger finding the soft places where scale failed. The wyrmbeast collapsed with a final shudder, steam rising from its body like a dying sigh.
Silence fell, broken only by their ragged breathing.
Thorne dropped to one knee beside Caelan, hands gentle despite the blood on them. "You're hurt again."
Caelan managed a bloody grin. "Occupational hazard."
Thorne's fingers brushed the torn sleeve, then slid up to cup Caelan's face. His thumb wiped a streak of blood from Caelan's cheek with surprising tenderness. "Stop trying to die for me."
Caelan leaned into the touch, eyes half-lidded. "Stop trying to stop me."
Eros landed on Thorne's shoulder—still invisible to him—voice soft with wonder. "One hundred and eight. You've crossed the threshold, darling. He's yours. And you're his. Whether you admit it or not."
Thorne's forehead rested against Caelan's, breaths mingling in the steaming dark. "We need to move," he murmured. "The vault's close. And I'm not leaving you here."
Caelan's hand found Thorne's wrist, fingers curling around it. "Then don't."
They rose together—bloodied, bruised, bound by something stronger than steel. The wyrmbeast's corpse steamed behind them, forgotten. Ahead, the true Heartstone waited, pulsing like a second heart.
Eros floated above, wings slowing to a contented flutter. "One hundred and twelve," he whispered. "And climbing. Welcome to the dangerous part, boys. The part where you can't go back."
They stepped forward into the light, side by side, hearts racing in perfect, terrifying time. The dungeon watched. The world waited.
And love—raw, reckless, real—burned brighter than any stone.