The scream ripped through the forest like a blade through silk. Sylvera jolted upright, heart hammering. For a moment, she told herself it was a dream.
Then came another sound.
Wet. Tearing. The kind of sound flesh makes when it's being ripped apart.
Her pulse hammered like a drum.
'Is it one of the guards? Or… Lorain?'
She shoved the thought aside as soon as it formed. He was the strongest man she knew. Nothing could touch him. And yet—he wasn't in the tent.
Panic stirred hot and sick in her chest. Before reason could catch her, she grabbed her cloak and slipped into the night. The cold struck her like a slap, the firelight dying behind her in a weak, desperate flicker.
'Please let him be safe. Please let this be nothing…. please…'
Each step sank into damp earth. Bare feet, silent but swift. The deeper she went, the louder it grew: Strange sounds. Low. Animal. Almost a growl. And beneath it, a whimper, thin and breaking like brittle glass.
'That's not a wolf. That's… gods, that's a child.'
Sylvera almost shuddered. Blue sparks shimmered along her fingers, magic bleeding into the air from sheer terror. She pressed forward, weaving between trunks black as iron, breath snagging on the copper tang that began to lace the wind.
Blood.
The smell struck her like a blow, sharp and wrong, burning her throat.
She pushed through the thorns anyway, her mind clawing for sense, for reason. 'Maybe it's an animal. A hunt gone wrong. Maybe Lorian—'
And then the trees opened.
And Sylvera saw.
Lorian stood in the clearing, bathed in moonlight like something sculpted from shadow and gold. His golden armor was gone, replaced by a dark tunic clinging to his frame, soaked at the collar with something thick and black-red. His mouth, his hands—slick with crimson.
'No… no, no, no. Not him.'
Beneath him lay a child. Small. Torn open like a butchered lamb.
The air ripped from her lungs in a violent rush. A sound clawed at her throat, but nothing left her lips.
'Please, tell me this isn't real. Tell me this isn't him.'
Around him, his guards crouched low, their movements jerky, ravenous. Men she had seen laugh by the fire, men who once bowed and called her Lady. Now their faces were painted in blood, their mouths working greedily. They didn't use blades. They didn't speak.
They fed.
The snap of bone cracked through the silence. Flesh tore wetly between teeth. Sylvera's vision swam. Her knees nearly buckled. Every instinct screamed: Run.
But her feet—traitorous, heavy—rooted to the earth.
This wasn't war.
This wasn't vengeance.
This was hunger.
And at its centre was the man she loved.
Not a man.
"A monster…." Sylvera whispered, her voice shaking as she staggered back.
Lorian looked up slowly, as though he had known she was there all along. The moon washed silver across his face, lighting the blood smeared down his jaw.
Their eyes locked. And the fragile thread binding them snapped like glass.
"Ah, my love." His voice was velvet, warm—wrong. As if they stood beside a hearth instead of a corpse. "I hoped you'd sleep through this. But this one…" he glanced at the dead body. "Was too loud."
Her head shook before she realized it. Once. Twice. Her lips parted, a broken breath escaping.
'Say something. Gods, say something.'
"What…" Her voice rasped, shattering in the cold. "What have you done?"
He rose, slow and unhurried, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Crimson streaked across his skin like war paint.
"I wanted to spare you," he said softly, almost mournfully. His steps pressed into the earth like a verdict. "Truly, I did. But some truths… demand to be seen."
Sylvera stumbled back, hands curling as raw magic flared to life at her fingertips. Blue fire sparked, hissing like caged serpents.
'Run. Burn him. Do something.'
But her body shook with the weight of betrayal, with the terror of what she saw.
Lorian tilted his head—just as he had when he traced laughter from her lips by firelight. But now his eyes held nothing tender. Only hunger.
"You put a spell on me," he murmured, his mouth curving in a slow, merciless smile. "But what you don't know, Sylvera…"
His voice dropped to a whisper that crawled over her skin.
"…is that I put one on you first."
And in that breath, her world splintered.
Sylvera's lungs burned as she tore through the Blackthorn Woods, each breath cutting her throat raw. Branches clawed at her face, tangling in her hair, shredding the hem of her cloak. Roots rose like serpents, snaring her feet.
Run. Just run.
She stumbled, caught herself, and ran harder. The trees blurred—black streaks against a silver sky—but his voice still found her.
Low at first. Then rising, curling through the dark like smoke.
"Running only makes the game sweeter, little witch!"
Her pulse slammed like war drums. Gods, he sounded amused. Thrilled. As if this was sport.
This is the man who kissed my hands. Who called me his storm. Who—
She bit the thought in half and pushed harder. Magic flared in her palms, hot and frantic, sparks leaping like fireflies—but every spell she reached for unraveled, slipping through her mind like water through broken glass.
Behind her, laughter peeled through the night—not warm, not human, but sharp as a blade dragged over bone.
"You can't hide from me, Sylvera." His voice throbbed closer, a hunter's hymn. "Not after everything you promised."
Her heart jackknifed. Promises. Gods, the word tasted like ash now.
The forest that once whispered safety now twisted against her—branches snagging, moonlight choking. Even the night seemed to recoil, ashamed to witness what hunted her.
A root hooked her ankle. She hit the ground hard, pain detonating through her body. Dirt filled her mouth, her breath ragged, scraping.
Get up. Move.
She shoved to her knees—too slow.
A hand—iron-hard, cold—fisted in her hair and yanked her upright.
Sylvera screamed. Raw, guttural, every nerve straining against his grip.
"Now, now." His voice slid against her ear, a poisonous purr. "Is this how you repay my love? With rudeness?"
She twisted, teeth bared, terror a hot blade in her chest—but fury burned hotter. She spat at him, blood and mud slick on her lips.
He didn't flinch. He smiled. Slowly.
"That fire," he murmured, wiping his cheek with languid grace. "It's why I chose you."
He snapped his fingers.
The shadows moved. Guards emerged—faces streaked with blood, jaws slick with gore—closing in like wolves scenting fear.
"No—" Her voice cracked before rough leather jammed between her teeth, cutting the cry to silence. She thrashed, wild, as the gag bit deep and her magic fizzled into nothing.
"Better." Lorian's breath brushed her cheek as he smoothed tangled hair from her face, gentler than a lover, crueler than a blade. "Can't have you burning down my forest with that pretty magic."