The road to Solrath Keep twisted like a serpent beneath the dusk.
Mountains loomed in the distance—jagged teeth gnawing at the bleeding sky—but Elara's thoughts weren't on the road. Not on Tarin, who rode behind them on Raphael's horse, fast asleep. Not on the map folded in her satchel.
Only on him.
Raphael rode ahead, silent as ever, his dark cloak rippling with every gust of wind. He hadn't spoken much since they left the ruins of the inn. Not since her fire had flared wild again. Not since she'd nearly burned them both.
And yet… he hadn't flinched.
He never did.
Elara spurred her horse forward until she rode beside him. The woods narrowed around them, the trees whispering secrets she couldn't quite hear.
"You've been quiet," she said, not looking at him.
"So have you," he replied, eyes forward. "Are you afraid?"
She turned to him sharply. "Of what?"
Raphael didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked at her then—truly looked—and she hated how her breath caught.
"Of yourself," he said simply.
Elara's jaw clenched. "I'm afraid of what I'll become if I don't fight back."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. Admiration? Pity? Desire? She couldn't tell. She didn't want to know. Not when her own heart was this loud.
The path narrowed again until the trees swallowed the moonlight. Raphael dismounted.
"Camp," he said shortly. "We stay hidden until sunrise."
Elara followed, helping Tarin down, settling him beside the fire Raphael built—no magic, just flint and steel. Safe. Mortal. Forgettable.
But nothing else about tonight would be.
Later, long after Tarin had fallen asleep wrapped in her cloak, Elara sat on the edge of a boulder, staring at the stars. Raphael approached, his footfalls silent. He didn't speak—just sat beside her.
"Did you mean it?" she asked softly. "What you said before... about me becoming a weapon of ruin?"
"I meant every word."
"And would you stop me, if I did?" she asked.
He turned his head. "Would you want me to?"
The question coiled through her like smoke. "I don't know."
A long silence passed between them.
"Raphael," she said, her voice lower now. "Who were you, before the Order? Before me?"
He didn't answer right away. When he did, it wasn't with words.
He leaned closer, breath brushing her cheek like a promise. "Someone who believed he could stay cold forever."
"And now?"
He reached up and touched her chin, just barely, just enough to make her look at him. His eyes were shadows and storms—and a softness buried deep beneath.
"Now I burn," he whispered.
Elara's heart thundered. Her breath stilled. And when his lips brushed hers, it was not soft or searching. It was a question wrapped in hunger.
A kiss like an oath.
But she pulled away first. Not out of fear. Out of fury.
"You shouldn't," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because if you do… and if you ever leave—I'll burn the whole damn world down."
Raphael smiled, slow and sharp. "Then let it burn."
She stood abruptly, her pulse roaring in her ears, her body trembling with more than just heat.
He caught her wrist—not to stop her. To feel her.
"You don't need control, Elara," he said. "You need to stop apologizing for the fire."
"I'm not," she said. "I'm just deciding who to aim it at."
They stared at each other in silence, and the distance between them wasn't space. It was flame and fate and danger.
Then the ground beneath them trembled.
Tarin jolted awake with a scream. "They found us!"
Elara's heart snapped into focus. Raphael was already drawing his blade.
From the trees emerged a shape.
Tall. Hooded. Wearing a mask—silver, reflecting the firelight.
And in its hand, it held a blackstone pendant.
The figure stepped into the clearing, silent as shadow. The fire crackled. Tarin whimpered behind them.
Elara stood between the boy and the masked stranger, her hands already glowing with the telltale shimmer of restrained magic. Raphael moved to her side in a heartbeat, his blade humming with an ancient runic light.
The silver mask tilted slightly, as if studying them.
"I see the tales were true," the figure said—its voice distorted, layered, neither male nor female. "The cursed flame. And the Knight who bleeds for her."
"Who sent you?" Raphael growled, taking a step forward.
The masked figure chuckled. "You're still asking questions when you should be praying."
Then it launched.
Faster than any human. Its blade clashed with Raphael's, sending sparks into the air. Elara barely had time to raise her arm as a second dagger, thrown from somewhere unseen, sliced past her cheek.
Blood trickled. She didn't flinch.
Her fury ignited.
"Get Tarin to safety!" she shouted.
But Raphael didn't move. He didn't run.
Instead, he met her gaze—then stepped in front of her, blade swinging in precise, brutal arcs. The masked figure struck again, and again, but Raphael matched it beat for beat, like a dance choreographed in blood.
"Elara," he said through clenched teeth, "I don't run from things that want to kill you."
She didn't know whether to curse him or kiss him again.
Then she saw it—etched into the attacker's blade: a mark. A serpentine eye.
"Eltherian Order," she hissed.
The masked enemy laughed. "Ah, so the girl knows. How quaint."
Elara raised her hands, heat pulsing from her fingertips. Fire coiled in the air, snaking toward the attacker—until the figure flung a vial at her feet.
It exploded in smoke.
Elara coughed, vision blurring. When it cleared, the masked figure was gone.
Silence rang louder than battle.
Tarin trembled where he crouched, whispering her name. Raphael sheathed his blade, his chest heaving.
She turned to him. "Why didn't you take Tarin and run?"
"Because if they took you," he said, stepping close—so close she could see the soot on his jaw, "I wouldn't just burn the world. I'd walk through hell to find you."
Her breath caught.
She hated how much she wanted that. How much it made her feel alive.
"Don't say things like that," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I might believe you."
He reached out, brushing a smear of blood from her cheek. "You should."
The air between them was still charged, not just from battle, but from something older. Deeper. Darker.
Elara stepped back. "We need to leave. Now."
"Agreed."
But even as they rode off into the night, shadows trailing their heels, Elara knew something had changed. Not just in the air. In them.
She didn't trust easily. But she trusted his sword.
She didn't love easily. But gods help her—she might be falling into something far more dangerous.
Something like him.