The torch sputtered once, twice, then died.
Darkness swallowed the cell whole.
Caelan hung from the chains, wrists raw, shoulders screaming. The only light now came from the thin crack beneath the door, a pale gray line that barely reached his boots. He could feel the blood drying on his side, sticky and cold. His head lolled forward, too heavy to hold up.
He didn't know how long he waited. Minutes. Hours. Long enough that his mind started wandering dangerous places: the way Thorne's hand had pressed against his wound, steady and warm, the way those blue eyes had searched his face like they were looking for something worth saving.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Heavy. Purposeful. One set.
The door opened.
Torchlight flooded back in, harsh and sudden.
Thorne stood framed in the doorway, armor still on, crimson cloak draped over one shoulder. He carried no sword this time. Just a small iron key and a folded strip of clean cloth.
He stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Caelan lifted his head slowly. "Back for round two?"
Thorne didn't answer. He crossed the room in three long strides, unlocked the manacles with a single twist of the key. Caelan's arms dropped like dead weight. He would have collapsed if Thorne hadn't caught him under the elbows, steadying him against the wall.
Caelan hissed as pain lanced through his side. "Easy. I'm not made of glass."
"You're made of trouble," Thorne muttered.
He guided Caelan down to the chair, movements careful, almost reluctant. Then he knelt, peeled back the soaked bandage without asking permission. The wound looked worse in the torchlight: angry red edges, fresh blood welling up with every breath.
Thorne swore under his breath, low and vicious.
Caelan watched him through half-lidded eyes. "Didn't peg you for the nursemaid type."
"Shut up."
Thorne tore the clean cloth into strips with his teeth, then pressed a wad of it against the wound. Caelan bit back a curse. Thorne's hands were large, scarred, surprisingly gentle. He worked in silence, binding the new dressing tight enough to staunch the bleeding but not so tight it would cut off circulation.
When he finished, he sat back on his heels, forearms resting on his knees, staring at the floor between them.
"Why?" Caelan finally asked.
Thorne's jaw worked. "Because I don't execute wounded prisoners in cold blood."
"That's not an answer."
Thorne lifted his gaze. Those blue eyes were stormy now, conflicted. "Because something about you doesn't fit. Thieves don't look at their captors like they're trying to solve a puzzle. And they don't bleed this prettily while doing it."
Caelan's laugh was weak, breathless. "Flattery. From the Ironclad captain. I'm honored."
Thorne's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Almost.
Then the world outside exploded.
A bone-deep roar shook the stones. Screams erupted from the courtyard above. Steel clashed. Something massive crashed against the outer wall.
Thorne was on his feet in an instant, hand reaching for a sword that wasn't there.
"Nightshades," he growled.
Caelan pushed himself upright, ignoring the fresh stab of pain. "Vaelthar's pets. They don't come this close unless he's losing control."
Thorne shot him a look. "You know too much."
"I know enough."
Another roar. Closer. The screams turned desperate.
Thorne cursed again, then grabbed Caelan's arm and hauled him toward the door. "You're coming with me."
"Not much choice."
They burst into the corridor. Chaos reigned. Soldiers ran past, weapons drawn. A Nightshade—tall, skeletal, eyes glowing sickly green—lurched around the corner, claws raking stone. Thorne shoved Caelan behind him without thinking, bare hands raised like he could stop it with will alone.
The creature lunged.
Caelan moved faster.
Shadow exploded from him in a dark wave. He darted past Thorne, daggers flashing. One blade sank into the Nightshade's shoulder joint. The other sliced across its throat. Black ichor sprayed. The thing shrieked, staggered, then crumpled.
Thorne stared at him, breathing hard.
Caelan wiped his blades on his cloak, then met Thorne's eyes. "You're welcome."
Thorne didn't answer. He just grabbed Caelan's wrist and pulled him toward the stairs. "Stay close."
They fought their way up.
Nightshades poured through breaches in the walls. Soldiers fell. Blood slicked the stone. Thorne fought like a storm: bare-handed at first, then snatching a fallen sword, every swing precise and brutal. Caelan moved at his side, shadow and steel, quick where Thorne was powerful.
They reached the courtyard.
A juvenile wyrmbeast—smaller than the one in the vault, but still deadly—had torn through the eastern gate. Its scales glistened wetly in the torchlight. Fire dripped from its jaws.
Thorne shoved Caelan toward a fallen beam for cover. "Stay down!"
Caelan ignored him.
He sprinted forward instead, shadow trailing behind him like a cloak. The wyrmbeast turned its massive head, amber eyes locking on him.
Caelan didn't slow.
He leaped.
Landed on the creature's extended foreleg, scrambled up its shoulder using spines like handholds. The beast roared, wings flaring.
Thorne bellowed something that sounded like a curse and his name.
Caelan reached the base of the neck, found the soft spot where scales thinned. He drove both daggers in deep.
The wyrmbeast bucked, screamed, then collapsed in a thunder of scales and stone.
Caelan rolled free, landing hard on his wounded side. Pain flared white-hot. He gasped, vision swimming.
Then strong arms were around him, hauling him up.
Thorne's face hovered above him, streaked with soot and blood that wasn't his own. His eyes were wide, wild, something raw and unguarded flashing through them.
"You idiot," Thorne breathed. "You could have died."
Caelan managed a bloody grin. "Thought about it. Decided against."
Thorne's grip tightened. Not painful. Protective.
Around them, the remaining Nightshades were falling back, retreating into the dark. The soldiers cheered, ragged and exhausted.
Thorne didn't let go.
He carried Caelan toward the keep, through the smoke and the blood and the stunned stares of his own men.
Eros appeared in Caelan's peripheral vision, hovering upside-down, wings fluttering with pure delight.
"Oh my," the spirit whispered. "We have liftoff."
Caelan closed his eyes against the pain, against the warmth of Thorne's chest against his cheek, against the terrifying truth blooming inside him.
He was no longer just a thief in chains.
He was something far more dangerous.
He was wanted.
Protected.
Seen.
And the man carrying him like he was something precious had just saved his life without knowing why.
The night air tasted like smoke and possibility.
And somewhere in the space between two heartbeats, the first real warmth began to spread. Slow. Inevitable. Terrifyingly beautiful.