Chapter 6

Third-person POV

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For seven Zephyrian days, each one stretching nearly twice as long as an Earth day. Lirian and Vaelor avoided each other with the precision of opposing magnets.

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Vaelor had wasted no time after the grove. The next morning, he appeared in the lab corridor only long enough to issue a curt order to the wardens: “Prince Draven will assume oversight of the Terran researchers. I have matters requiring my full attention.” Then he was gone, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than the citadel’s crystal walls.

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Lirian told himself he was relieved. No more towering shadows in the doorway. No more stolen glances that left his pulse racing for no reason. He should have been grieving Lashawn properly, curled up with the ache of betrayal, letting time dull the edges. Instead, every night he woke up gasping from wet dreams that weren’t dreams at all. Phantom touches his skin. A thick, ridged tongue fills his mouth. Hands lifting him like he weighed nothing. And worse, his body kept betraying him in ways he couldn’t explain.

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His ass was self-lubricating.

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Not just a little slickness. Actual, insistent wetness that soaked through his underwear by mid-morning, leaving him shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He’d wake up drenched between his cheeks, thighs sticky, hole twitching like it remembered being stretched even though nothing had touched it. Was he sick? Some alien virus? An allergic reaction to the Aether? He kept waiting for fever, pain, anything rational. Nothing came except heat, need, and a hollow sadness that had nothing to do with Lashawn anymore.

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He couldn’t tell Mara or Elias. The memory of teasing Mara about gawking at the prince still burned, only to have locked mouths with that same prince the very next day. If they knew… God, they’d look at him like a perverted freak. So he suffered in silence, eyes flicking to the lab door every time it slid open, he’d hoped for a glimpse of midnight hair and obsidian horns.

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Nothing.

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On the seventh day, he cornered Elias during a quiet moment at the analysis console.

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“Hey,” Lirian said, keeping his voice low. “Quick question. Thalorians… can they, like… cast spells on people? Make them feel things?”

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Elias blinked, then laughed outright. “Spells? You’ve been reading too many fantasy sims, Voss. They’re biologically advanced, sure—telepathy, Aether manipulation, but they’re not witches.”

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Mara snorted from her station. “You’re being silly. Why? You think the prince hexed you because you stared too long?”

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Lirian forced a laugh that sounded brittle even to his own ears. “Yeah. Just joking.”

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He wasn’t joking. He was fucking serious.

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His gaze drifted to the door again, just as it opened.

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A Thalorian woman glided in, and the room seemed to pause.

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She was breathtaking. Tall even for her kind, nearly seven and a half feet, skin a luminous pearl-gray that shifted like moonlight on water. Long silver hair cascaded in loose waves, pinned with crystal shards that caught the lab lights. Her gown was translucent layers of violet and white, clinging to generous curves and leaving long, toned legs visible through strategic slits. Her eyes were pale lavender, sharp and assessing. She moved with the languid confidence of someone who had never once questioned her place in the universe.

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Lady Serina.

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Vaelor’s favorite concubine, though Lirian didn’t know that yet. To the humans, she was simply a high-ranking courtier sent to “ensure their comfort.” To the court, she was known for her beauty and her proximity to the heir. To a very few, she was something far more dangerous.

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She smiled warmly, perfectly, and inclined her head. “Dr. Voss. Dr. Kade. Dr. Thorne. I am Serina, liaison to the royal household. I’ve come to escort Dr. Voss to the training grounds during your midday respite. The Sovereign believes physical acclimation aids mental clarity in alien visitors.”

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Lirian nodded numbly. Anything to get out of this room and away from his own thoughts.

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The training grounds were a sprawling open-air arena carved into one of the citadel’s lower plateaus. Magic and technology collided here in ways that made Lirian’s head spin. Different clans trained in designated fields: Nocthrim shadow-stalkers vanished and reappeared in bursts of darkness, practicing silent kills; Vyrkath warriors dove into a gigantic, glowing pool that seemed bottomless, cutting through the water with unnatural speed, tails and gills manifesting mid-dive; Kragvorn titans scaled vertical obstacle walls, adhesive pads on their palms and feet letting them cling to sheer crystal like insects, leaping impossible distances between platforms.

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In the central ring, holographic beasts roared and lunged, simulated predators drawn from Zephyria’s wilder regions. Some trainees fought in pairs, weapons materializing from Aether fields: spears of light, blades that sang as they cut air.

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Lirian’s guide, Serina, led him to the far corner where a small crowd had gathered, murmuring excitedly.

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He saw why.

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Vaelor.

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The prince fought alone against a ten-foot simulation monster, a hulking, multi-limbed thing of jagged crystal and shadow, claws long as swords. It was terrifyingly real: every swipe left scorch marks on the ground, every roar vibrated through Lirian’s bones. The simulation delivered real force. The guide explained quietly that a solid hit would bruise, break bones, or even kill if you weren’t careful.

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Vaelor didn’t look careful.

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He moved like liquid violence. Nocthrim horns glowing faintly as he anticipated strikes before they landed. Vyrkath's scales hardened across his forearms as he blocked a claw swipe that would have gutted a lesser fighter. Kragvorn limbs extended, giving him reach to slam a fist into the creature’s side with enough force to crack its crystalline hide. He ducked, rolled, and sprang, delivering a spinning kick that shattered one of the monster’s arms into glittering shards.

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It was like watching a movie on Earth, only real. Only devastating.

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Lirian couldn’t look away.

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From a shadowed viewing balcony high above, Draven leaned against the railing, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

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He’d noticed.

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The way Vaelor’s gaze had flicked toward the lab wing twice already this session—unnecessary, distracted glances. The way his rhythm faltered for half a heartbeat when a slender figure in a white lab coat appeared at the arena’s edge. Even from this distance, Draven could see it: his brother, the unbreakable tribrid heir, losing focus over a fragile human.

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Opportunity.

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Draven’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile.

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Below, Vaelor drove his fist through the monster’s chest. The simulation shattered in a burst of light and sound, dissolving into harmless motes. The crowd cheered.

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Vaelor didn’t acknowledge them.

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His head turned slowly, inevitably toward the spot where Lirian stood frozen, staring back.

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Their eyes met across the crowded grounds.

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For one heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of contact.

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Then Vaelor turned away, shoulders rigid, and strode toward the shadowed exit without a word.

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Lirian exhaled shakily, unaware he’d been holding his breath.

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Beside him, Serina watched the exchange with cool, unreadable interest.

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“Fascinating,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Isn’t it?”

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Lirian didn’t answer.

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He couldn’t.

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