Liora didn't say goodbye.
She left Brisa and Sera beneath the red-washed sky of dawn, standing on the edge of a fractured ridge where the wind howled and the ash blew like a living thing. She didn't trust herself to speak. If she said goodbye, she might turn back. And she couldn't afford to.
Not when the Queen's Flame Hounds were already cresting the hill in silent formation, moving like fire given armor. At their center rode Riven, straight-backed and still, a force of will more than a man.
Liora walked forward alone.
Every step felt heavier than the last. With each pace, she severed ties. Safety. Freedom. The warmth of Brisa's snide loyalty, Sera's quiet protectiveness. She traded them all for danger incarnate.
The Flame Hounds surrounded her. She held her chin high.
When Riven stepped forward, he didn't speak. He didn't have to. He simply took her wrists in his calloused hands and secured flame-resistant cuffs with a click.
His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, just slightly.
It was barely a touch.
It felt like lightning.
Travel with Riven was a strange kind of prison. Not harsh, not gentle. It was a study in contradictions.
She was chained, but not gagged. Watched, but not threatened. The Flame Hounds gave her space like she was a volatile weapon—which, to be fair, she was.
But it was Riven she kept her eyes on. Always Riven.
The man was an enigma wrapped in fire-forged steel. Silent when he didn't need to speak. Sharp when he did. He moved like he was carved from purpose and wore silence like a second skin.
And gods help her, she couldn't stop watching him.
She watched how he cleaned his blade without flourish. How he scanned the horizon with eyes like molten obsidian. How he avoided her gaze until, occasionally, he didn't. And those moments were worse. Because when he looked at her, it wasn't just watching—it was like he was reading.
She hated it.
And yet she found herself checking their shadows to see if his lined up beside hers.
On the second night, they camped near a lava fissure that hissed with low, glowing heat. Tents were pitched in a wide circle. Liora's shackles had been lengthened with chain, enough to let her sit by the fire.
Riven sat across from her, silently sharpening a dagger. The fire cast wild shadows on his face, making him look almost too sculpted, too precise.
She cracked first.
"So, do you train to be this grim or does it come naturally?"
He didn't look up. "It's a refined skill. You should try it."
"Refinement doesn't suit me."
"Clearly."
She leaned forward, flame flickering at her fingertips just to irritate him. "Scared I might singe your perfect boots, soldier?"
"Scared you'll run out of witty retorts and start weeping."
She grinned. "Weeping from laughter, maybe. Gods, do you ever smile?"
His eyes met hers, level and unblinking. "Why? Would it break the spell you've clearly fallen under?"
The Flame Hound nearest them choked on his drink.
Liora blinked.
Riven stood, the faintest smirk curving his mouth.
And walked off.
She stared after him, heat blooming where it shouldn't. Damn him.
By the third night, the shackles were off. Not officially. Riven had unlocked them during their evening stop and never bothered to put them back.
"You're not going to run," he said simply.
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't arrogance, either.
It was fact.
She hated that he was right.
That night, they shared an inn room. One bed, two people, zero apologies.
He tossed her a pillow. "Floor or bed?"
"Which do you prefer?"
"Depends who I'm sharing with."
She raised an eyebrow. "Smooth. Do all prisoners get flirted with or am I special?"
He turned away to strip off his armor. "You're a unique brand of irritating. That counts."
They ended up on opposite sides of the bed, backs to each other, separated by at least a handsbreadth of neutral space and about six tons of unresolved tension.
Neither of them slept much.
The next morning, he was changing out bandages on a wound he'd sustained in the tavern collapse. She noticed the angle he struggled to reach.
"Give me that," she said, snatching the cloth.
"I don't need help."
"Great. I'm not helping. Just making sure your ugly mug doesn't get infected."
He stilled under her touch.
She dabbed at the wound. Slowly. Carefully.
His skin was warm. Tense.
Her breath slowed.
When she met his eyes, she didn't expect them to be so dark. So hungry.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're not looking away."
He didn't.
The moment stretched.
And then he said, low and quiet, "Kael's alive."
She froze.
He continued, "Broken ribs. Nasty shoulder injury. But he's alive. Being held."
Relief slammed into her like a wave.
"Why tell me now?"
He shrugged. "Because it's the first time you've looked like yourself since I met you."
She was still reeling when he moved.
One second, she was kneeling over him.
The next, she was beneath him.
His mouth crashed into hers with a ferocity that scorched the edges of restraint. She didn't fight it. She should have. But her hands gripped his shirt, her legs tangled with his, and everything in her screamed yes even as her mind screamed stop.
He kissed like a soldier with no time left. Like a man who knew he shouldn't, but didn't care.
She kissed him back like a girl tired of denying fire.
When they finally pulled apart, breaths ragged and foreheads touching, she whispered, "That didn't mean anything."
His voice was rough. "Then why do you look terrified?"
She shoved him off, heart hammering. "Because you're not supposed to feel this with your captor."
He rolled to his side, breathing hard. "And I'm not supposed to want the girl I was sent to kill."
Silence.
Then, after a long pause:
"We're really bad at this, aren't we?" she muttered.
He laughed once. "Horrible."
Neither of them said anything else.
But they didn't move away either.
And the space between them felt like the edge of something dangerous.