Shadows of the Bloodlines

The horses moved fast through the dead woods.

Alya clung to the reins, her cloak whipping behind her like wings of smoke. Lucien rode ahead, silent, his eyes scanning the fog for shapes that didn’t belong. No birds. No wind. Just frost-kissed branches and the faint hum of her ring beneath her glove.

They hadn’t spoken much since they left Ebon Hollow.

Not about the Ardent Order.

Not about the heat that had passed between them.

Not about how close they’d come.

But the silence wasn’t empty.

It was charged.

It settled in the space between them like a breath before a scream.

“Where are we going?” Alya finally asked, her voice low against the wind.

Lucien didn’t look back. “To the one who saw the King before he became the curse. The one who tried to end him.”

Alya’s brows knit. “Who?”

He slowed his horse slightly, eyes narrowing as the treeline thinned. “Her name is Verelith.”

“That sounds friendly.”

“It isn’t.”

---

They reached the edge of an abandoned cathedral by nightfall—its towers cracked, its stained-glass windows shattered. The moment they passed the outer ring of broken iron gates, Alya’s ring began to pulse. Hard. Rapid.

“She’s here,” Lucien murmured. “She’s been waiting.”

Alya’s fingers twitched toward her blade. “You trust her?”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I don’t. But she hates the King more than anyone alive.”

They stepped inside.

Dust. Cold. And a throne of bones beneath what had once been an altar. And there, seated like a queen born of ruin, was Verelith.

She was stunning. Ancient. Feral.

Eyes like molten opal. Skin like moonlight on marble. Her voice slithered into the room before her body moved.

“Well well… Roth blood, in the flesh.”

Lucien stepped protectively in front of Alya, but Verelith only smiled wider.

“And you brought him, too. The golden knight with the broken leash.”

Lucien bristled. “Verelith—”

“I know why you’ve come,” she purred, rising from the throne. “But don’t mistake me for your savior.”

Alya straightened. “We don’t need saving.”

“Oh, child,” Verelith whispered, circling Alya slowly, eyes gleaming with something far too knowing. “You think this is your power? You think the ring chose you?”

Alya held her ground. “I’m not afraid of the truth.”

“Then you’ll enjoy this.” Verelith stopped inches away. “The King… was never meant to be the heir.”

A beat of silence.

Lucien went still.

“What?” Alya whispered.

Verelith laughed—like ice cracking in spring. “He stole it. From someone else. From the one whose blood runs in your veins now. You were born not to carry the curse… but to end the blood feud that created it.”

“Which means?” Lucien asked, low and sharp.

Verelith turned, her voice growing darker. “It means the other bloodlines—those who were meant to rule—will come for her. Not because she’s cursed.”

She looked at Alya again.

“But because she’s rightful.”

~~~

Later that night, as they made camp near the ruin, Alya sat near the fire. Lucien leaned against a tree, arms crossed, shadows dancing across his face.

“I don’t get it,” she said softly. “Why would he steal the power? Why would he curse me instead of… killing me?”

Lucien didn’t look at her. “Because he loved you.”

The words fell heavy between them.

Alya met his eyes. “And what about you?”

Lucien’s gaze burned into hers. “What about me?”

“Why are you still here?”

A long pause.

Then: “Because I’m not stupid enough to walk away from the only person who terrifies me and makes me want to live.”

Her breath hitched.

And for the second time in two nights, the space between them crackled. Firelight flickering between them. Unspoken promises curling in the dark.

But neither moved.

No kiss. No touch.

Just two hearts beating far too loud in the silence.

~~~~

The house they found wasn’t much—cracked stone, warped wood, and a chimney that groaned when the wind hit just right. But it stood. Secluded beyond the ghostline, half-swallowed by ash trees and tangled ivy, the place offered something they hadn’t had since this war began.

Time.

And proximity.

The first morning, Alya found Lucien already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, cloak hung haphazardly over the back of a chair. He didn’t look up when she entered, but his voice reached her anyway.

“There’s tea. It’s terrible.”

She arched a brow, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “That’s one hell of a welcome.”

His lips twitched—just barely. “Don’t get used to it.”

She didn’t. Not to the tea.

But waking up to the low sound of him pacing through the halls, the faint scent of steel and rain on his clothes—those things began to root themselves quietly in her day.

Nights were stranger. Not because of what they did, but because of what they didn’t. Alya had expected awkwardness, maybe even cold distance. What she got was something worse.

Almost.

Almost-touch when their hands brushed at the stair rail.

Almost-words in the quiet between his sighs and her dreams.

Almost-kisses that hovered on the edge of breath and broke apart before they bloomed.

He lingered by doorframes. She lingered in his silence.

Neither dared name the fire between them, but it warmed every corner of the house.

It was on the fourth evening, stormclouds roiling violet over the horizon, that she stepped into the study and found Lucien standing near the window, shirt half-unbuttoned, sweat clinging to his back. The blades on the table were cleaned, precise. His hands, not so much.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, frowning at the red that had soaked through a strip of cloth around his palm.

“It’s nothing,” he replied without turning. “Just training.”

“Training against what? The furniture?”

He glanced at her then—tired, a little amused. “It had attitude.”

She walked over, motioning for his hand. “Sit.”

Lucien hesitated, jaw tight, but obeyed. He said nothing as she unwrapped the cloth and cleaned the wound, but she felt the way he tensed beneath her touch. Felt it in the way he studied her face more intently than the blood pooling at his wrist.

“You don’t have to patch me up,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said, voice quiet. “But I want to.”

The air shifted.

Lucien’s gaze dropped to her hands—small, stained, but steady—and then lifted to her mouth. Her breath caught. Her fingers froze mid-wrap.

This close, he was all heat and sharpness and restraint. The kind of man who could split kingdoms open, but wouldn't let himself reach for the one thing that might ruin him.

Alya’s voice was barely a whisper. “Why do you always pull away?”

“Because I don’t trust myself when I’m near you,” he said simply. No defense. Just raw truth.

Her throat tightened. “Maybe I don’t want you to trust yourself.”

“Alya…”

“Lucien,” she said back, firmer. “I’m not glass. I won’t break.”

He looked at her then—truly looked—and something cracked behind his eyes. A wall, a fear, a memory she couldn’t name. His hand lifted, slow, calloused fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“If I start,” he whispered, “I won’t stop.”

And gods help her, that sounded more like a promise than a threat.

But then he stood. Pulled away. Walked out, leaving only the sound of her breath and the war building in her chest.

Later, lying in her room with rain tapping at the glass, Alya stared up at the ceiling and wondered if this—their shared silence, their trembling restraint—was more dangerous than any monster they’d faced so far.

Because Lucien wasn’t just the man she fought beside.

He was the storm that waited just behind her ribs, begging to be unleashed.

And one day soon…

She might just let him.