The surface world hit Caelan like a slap of cold wind and starlight.
He emerged from the hidden fissure at the base of the Iron Hills just as the twin moons crested the horizon, one silver, one blood-red, painting the forest in shades of frost and violence. Trees towered overhead, ancient ironwoods with bark like blackened armor, leaves rustling in a breeze that carried the scent of pine, wet earth, and distant smoke. Somewhere far off, a wyrmbeast's roar rolled across the night—low, lonely, and hungry.
Caelan crouched at the edge of the treeline, breath fogging the air. The Ironclad Order's outpost squatted on a low rise ahead: thick stone walls reinforced with iron bands, watchtowers lit by braziers that spat orange sparks into the dark. Banners snapped in the wind, crimson and black, emblazoned with the clenched fist that gave the Order its name.
He adjusted the hood of his cloak, pulling the shadows around himself until they clung like a second skin. The magic came easily now, almost eagerly, as if Caelan's body had been waiting for him to remember how to use it. A whisper of shadow slid over his shoulders, dimming his outline, muffling his footsteps. He felt powerful. He felt terrified. Mostly he felt alive in a way Connor Throne never had.
Eros hovered just above his left shoulder, wings flickering like candle flames. "Look at you," the spirit cooed. "All sneaky and delicious. If I weren't on a professional assignment, I'd be taking notes."
Caelan shot him a glare that promised violence. "If you don't shut up, I'm going to swat you like a bug."
"Promises, promises." Eros grinned, then pointed one glowing finger toward the western wall. "There. Drainage grate. Old, rusted, barely guarded. Perfect for a handsome thief with questionable life choices."
Caelan moved.
He crossed the open ground in a low, silent sprint, heart thudding against ribs that weren't quite his own. The grate was exactly where Eros said it would be: half-buried in mud and moss, bars bent just enough for a man to squeeze through. He worked the lock with a pick made of moonlight and memory. Click. The grate lifted with a soft groan of metal.
Inside the outpost, the world shrank to corridors of cold stone and torchlight. Voices drifted from barracks—soldiers laughing, dice rolling, the clink of armor being polished. Caelan stuck to the shadows, slipping past patrols like smoke past a closed door.
He found the armory first. Not the main vault—that would be too obvious—but a side chamber where spare weapons and supplies waited in neat rows. He rifled through crates until his fingers brushed parchment: maps, orders, a wax-sealed missive bearing the Ironclad fist.
He cracked the seal with a thumbnail.
The words swam into focus under the faint glow of his dagger's edge.
"…the Heartstone must not fall into Vaelthar's hands. Secure the primary vault by week's end. Captain Ironfist will lead the expedition personally. Failure is not an option."
Caelan's stomach twisted. The Heartstone. The thing he'd stolen a fragment of last night. The thing the entire guild war hinged on. And now Thorne Ironfist himself was coming for the rest.
He folded the missive and tucked it into his belt. Time to leave.
He was halfway down the corridor when the world turned to steel and fury.
A door slammed open. Torchlight flooded the hall.
And there he was.
Thorne Ironfist filled the doorway like a storm given armor. Towering, broad-shouldered, every inch of him carved from battle and resolve. His plate mail gleamed dully, scarred from a hundred fights, crimson cloak sweeping behind him like spilled blood. Short auburn hair caught the firelight, framing a face that was all hard angles and quiet thunder. Blue eyes, sharp as winter ice, locked onto Caelan in an instant.
Time slowed.
Caelan felt the recognition hit like a physical blow. Those eyes had seen him before—in the dungeon, in the dark, when he'd slipped away with the fragment. And now they saw him again. Clearly. Completely.
Thorne's hand dropped to the hilt of the massive broadsword at his hip. The blade sang free with a whisper of steel on leather, the edge catching torchlight and throwing it back in wicked gleams.
"Thief," Thorne said. His voice was low, rough, the kind of sound that vibrated through stone. "You've got nerve coming here."
Caelan's mouth went dry. He should run. He should vanish into shadow and never look back.
Instead he smiled—slow, sharp, reckless.
"Captain," he drawled, letting Caelan's natural lilt curl around the word like smoke. "You're even prettier up close."
Thorne's eyes narrowed. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
And then he moved.
The broadsword came down in a brutal arc meant to split Caelan from crown to navel.
Caelan dove sideways, shadow exploding around him like ink in water. The blade struck stone with a deafening clang, sending sparks flying. He rolled, came up behind Thorne, daggers already in hand. He didn't strike to kill—only to warn. A quick slash across the crimson cloak, parting fabric but not flesh.
Thorne spun, impossibly fast for someone so large. Their blades met in a shower of sparks. Dagger against broadsword. Quicksilver against thunder.
They danced.
Caelan darted in and out, using speed and shadow to stay just beyond reach. Thorne was relentless, every swing carrying the weight of a falling tree. The corridor rang with metal and breath, the air thick with the smell of ozone and sweat.
Caelan ducked under a sweeping cut, came up inside Thorne's guard. Their faces were inches apart. He could see the flecks of gold in those furious blue eyes, the faint scar that cut through one eyebrow, the way Thorne's lips parted on a sharp inhale.
For one stupid, electric heartbeat, neither moved.
Then Thorne growled—low, primal—and shoved Caelan back with the flat of his blade.
Caelan hit the wall hard, air exploding from his lungs. He slid down, coughing, but already rolling away as the sword came down again, cracking the stone where his head had been.
He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.
Eros appeared in his peripheral vision, practically bouncing with glee. "Oh my gods, the tension! I'm swooning!"
Caelan wanted to scream at him.
Instead he threw one of his daggers.
Not at Thorne. At the torch bracket on the wall.
The blade struck true. The torch fell, guttering, plunging the corridor into sudden, choking darkness.
Caelan melted into shadow.
He heard Thorne curse—short, furious, beautiful—and then the thunder of boots as the captain charged after him.
Caelan ran.
Through corridors, past startled guards who never saw more than a flicker of black, out the drainage grate and into the night.
He didn't stop until he reached the treeline, chest heaving, legs shaking.
He leaned against an ironwood trunk, head tipped back, staring up at the twin moons.
Eros landed on his shoulder, wings fluttering. "Well?" the spirit asked, voice soft now. "How do we feel about that little encounter?"
Caelan closed his eyes.
He could still feel the heat of Thorne's body inches from his own. The way those blue eyes had burned. The raw, dangerous power that had almost—almost—felt like something else entirely.
"I think," Caelan said, voice rough, "we're in a lot of trouble."
Eros laughed, delighted and dangerous. "Darling, trouble is where the best love stories start."
Somewhere behind them, in the outpost, Thorne Ironfist stood in the shattered corridor, sword still in hand, staring at the place where the thief had vanished.
And for the first time in years, his heart beat like it remembered how to want something it couldn't have.