Lyra didn't hesitate.
The echo of Kael's footsteps—accompanied by the hooded woman's—beat through the corridor like a war drum marking the pace of her fury.
She still wore the white robe from the ritual, soaked and clinging to her skin, but she made no move to cover herself.
Magic still pulsed through her veins—hot, dangerous… perfect for a hunt.
She shed the glamour that hid her pointed ears and let her Elven instincts take over.
She could taste the faint trace of salt in the stranger's perfume… and the unmistakable scent of Kael: leather, steel, and storm.
⸻
She turned into a narrow passage—and saw them.
Kael walked beside the hooded woman. They didn't touch, but they were far too close.
Lyra recognized the tension in his posture—the taut stillness that came before a fight… or something worse.
The woman leaned in, whispering something, and Kael tilted his head just enough to hear.
It wasn't submission.
It was attention.
And to Lyra, that was unforgivable.
"Enjoying yourself, Kael?" Her voice cut the silence like a blade.
They both stopped.
The hooded woman turned toward her, slow and deliberate, letting the torchlight catch the edge of her face.
She was young.
Pale skin, eyes like forged steel… and a smile entirely devoid of fear.
"The jealous elf," she murmured, almost fondly. "How predictable."
Lyra didn't give her another word.
A whip of golden energy lashed from her hands, aiming to rip back the hood and slam her against the wall.
Kael stepped in front of it.
His sword was in hand in an instant, deflecting the spell with a clash of steel that made her jaw tighten.
"She's not your enemy, Lyra," he growled.
"And who decides that? You?" Magic flared around her like a burning halo.
"Yes," Kael said—and then he charged.
⸻
The collision was brutal.
Her magic slammed into his raw strength, driving them both against the stone wall.
Lyra felt the weight of him, the heat of his breath, the razor edge of his fury… and beneath it, the same hunger she'd tasted during the ritual.
She didn't retreat.
Her nails tore into the fabric of his shirt, ripping it open, as she drove her knee upward to pin him in place.
He reacted in kind—catching her wrists, spinning her hard, pinning her back to the cold rock.
A gasp broke from her lips—half pain, half pleasure.
The hooded woman watched in silence, unsettlingly calm, as if she knew this fight wouldn't end in victory for either of them… but in their shared surrender.
⸻
Kael pressed his forehead to hers, breathing deep.
"You can't keep doing this…" he murmured. But his tone wasn't scolding.
It was hunger.
She kissed him like she meant to devour him, and he answered with a savage push that tore her from the wall, forcing her backward into a side chamber—until her hips hit the edge of a stone table.
Lyra's magic flared with every touch—bursts of gold, waves of heat, tremors that shook the walls.
Kael lifted her effortlessly, setting her on the cold surface, and she locked her legs around his waist.
The sting of impact, the chill of stone, the searing heat of his touch… it all swirled into a single intoxicating spiral.
It wasn't gentle.
It was a battle.
Every kiss, every bite, every thrust was a way to claim the other.
⸻
When the rest of the world finally ceased to exist and only they remained—breathless, skin marked, hearts racing—Lyra felt something shift.
A pulse, like the heartbeat of a hidden artifact, thrummed beneath her skin.
Kael felt it too, his eyes darkening.
The fight wasn't over.
It had simply changed shape.