Flame Keep – Midnight
Steel tore through her shoulder.
Something was wrong. The air shifted. Fabric whispered against stone. Her eyes snapped open and she caught movement by the window.
Shadow.
The blade was already coming down.
She rolled sideways but the strike meant for her heart caught muscle instead. Pain hit a second later, white-hot and stupid, rushing down her arm before her brain caught up. Blood bloomed immediately, soaking through silk. Too much. Too fast.
Her hands erupted with golden fire shot through with silver threads before she could think. Not regular flames but soulfire reacting on pure instinct to mortal danger.
The assassin screamed as golden-silver fire consumed flesh and bone. The window shattered outward. A body crashed through glass and dropped three stories into the courtyard below.
The smell hit her... burning meat and charred skin mingling with night air. She wanted to throw up but there was no time.
Seraphina pressed her hand to her shoulder. Blood poured between her fingers, slick and hot against her palm.
Shit. I'm bleeding out.
At least I can heal myself. The wound won't get infected if I can just focus through the pain. D'Lorien bloodline healing. I can seal it enough to keep moving. Just need time to work the magic properly.
Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Caelan hit her door first. The lock exploded inward under compressed wind magic. He crossed the room in three strides, hands crackling with defensive power.
"Seraphina." His voice came out rough. The bond flared between them... fear, anger, something deeper. "Are you hurt?"
"My shoulder. The blade caught me." She kept pressure on the wound even as her hand shook. "I'm fine."
"You're terrible at staying uninjured," he said, voice sharp from fear. Then softer. "I should've been here."
"You couldn't have known." She gestured toward the shattered glass with her uninjured arm. "I threw them through the window. They're in the courtyard."
Dorian burst through the broken door with his sword drawn. Liora appeared right behind him with daggers in hand. Jorin followed with a loaded crossbow, all three moving like they'd done this before. Fast, almost rehearsed.
"There was an assassin," Caelan said, voice flat with barely controlled rage. "Seraphina burned them. Went through the window."
Dorian moved to the window and looked down. His face went carefully blank. "Very burned. Dark leathers. Good steel. Clean edge. Professional."
"The burns are golden fire," he added. "Soulfire signature."
Yona arrived with Lyria, Amara, and Siran behind her, all armed. No panic, only focus.
"How many?" Siran asked.
"One that we know of," Caelan said. "Search the grounds. Make sure there aren't others."
Siran and Jorin disappeared immediately. Amara checked the corridor while Lyria examined the window frame, running her fingers along the wood and glass.
Blood kept seeping between Seraphina's fingers despite the glow beneath her palm. Cold air hit the wound through the broken window, making it sting worse.
"Sit down so I can see it," Dorian said. His voice was steady, practiced. He crossed to her with the efficient calm of someone who'd treated battlefield wounds too many times to count.
Caelan guided Seraphina to the bed. His hands were shaking slightly. Fury sat under every breath he took.
Dorian examined the injury quickly. "The blade missed the artery. You got lucky, my lady."
Yona appeared with bandages and water. She cleaned the blood with careful precision while Dorian worked. Tight bandages. Firm pressure. His hands were sure. The white fabric stained red but held.
"Done," Dorian said. "Keep pressure on it and start your healing once we know the grounds are clear."
When the others left to secure the compound, the room finally went quiet. The shattered window let in cool night air. Caelan stayed beside her.
He was still standing too close, still trembling. She caught his hand as he adjusted the bandage. "You're shaking, not me."
He didn't answer. His jaw flexed, eyes storm-dark. Then he said, barely above a whisper, "You scared me."
For a long moment, he didn't move. His thumb brushed a smear of blood from her cheek before he seemed to realize what he was doing. The contact made her pulse stutter. The air between them felt charged. Heavy.
Then Dorian's voice echoed from the hall, calling Caelan's name, and the moment snapped. He stepped back, clearing his throat.
"We need to move," he said.
Siran and Jorin returned minutes later. "Grounds are clear. One hostile. Dead. Burned beyond recognition."
Caelan's tone hardened. "Someone sent a killer into Flame Keep. Her room. Her headquarters."
The implication hung between them all.
Seraphina flexed her shoulder under the bandage. The wound throbbed. Healing light pulsed faintly beneath the fabric, steady but costly. She could feel how much energy it took to knit the muscle. Soulfire demanded balance, and she'd spent too much of it saving her own life.
"We need to move up our timeline," Caelan said. "Seraphina can't stay here."
"The D'Lorien estate," Yona said. "Ancestral protections. Blood-locked wards. Only she can open them."
Seraphina nodded. "I was planning to relocate there for the sanctuary trials. This just moves the schedule."
"Then we start now," she continued, voice firm. "Yona, Liora, pack essentials. Dorian, Siran, lead the advance security sweep. Amara, Lyria, handle staff and logistics. Jorin, find out who sent that assassin."
Caelan didn't argue. His eyes stayed on her shoulder, then met hers again. "You're pushing yourself too soon."
"And you're terrible at staying calm," she shot back. The edge in her tone softened. "We both do what we have to."
By dawn the keep was ready. Carriages waited in the courtyard. Seraphina moved carefully, arm braced but healing.
Caelan rode with her in the lead carriage... no argument this time. The others followed behind in separate wagons.
For a while they said nothing. The road stretched long between Flame Keep and D'Lorien lands. Her shoulder had stopped bleeding hours ago, but every bump sent a dull echo through her arm.
Caelan finally broke the silence. "You should be resting."
"If I rest, I think," she said. "If I think, I remember almost dying."
His gaze stayed fixed on her, unreadable. "That's not something I want you remembering."
She gave a small, dry laugh. "Kind of hard to forget."
His hand twitched on the seat between them, as if he wanted to reach for her but stopped himself. She turned her head toward the window, jaw tight.
The words came low. "You keep saying you can protect me, Caelan. But you can't be everywhere. You can't stop everything."
He exhaled sharply. "Don't start that now."
"You don't get to tell me when to start. I was the one bleeding on the bed."
That broke something in him. He reached across the space between them, cupped her face before he could think better of it.
"Don't ever say that again," he said, voice rough. "Don't you ever make it sound like I could lose you."
She should have pulled away. Instead her hand caught his wrist. Her pulse kicked hard in her throat. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. Her breath hitched.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was the same wild current that had bound them since the bond first burned open between them, raw, familiar, desperate. He kissed her like he'd almost lost her, and she answered like she refused to be lost at all.
Her lips parted from his just enough to breathe. "After the trials," she whispered.
He didn't argue. He only pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, breath unsteady.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
D'Lorien Estate – Evening
They'd only left days ago after the demon campaign, but returning now felt different. This time she wasn't here to fight.
She was here to claim her birthright.
The carriages rolled to a stop in the circular drive. Mirelle approached with practiced efficiency as footmen began unloading supplies.
"My lady. The main wing is prepared. Shall I have the staff begin preparations for the sanctuary journey?"
"Not yet. First we... "
Hoofbeats thundered up the drive.
The sound cut through everything. Too many horses. Moving in formation.
Seraphina's hand went instinctively to her shoulder. The wound flared in warning even through the healing. Caelan was already out of the carriage, wind magic building at his palms before she could react.
A column of riders bore Vessant banners... twenty men, armed and moving with military precision.
At their head, mounted on a black warhorse, sat Alaric.