Chapter Six: The Bathhouse Scene

She was awakened by silence.

No knock. No summons. Just the quiet breath of the mountain curling through her chamber like smoke. When she opened her eyes, the lair was darker than before, lit only by the faint red glow of the crystal-veined windows. At the edge of the room, a dragonkin waited—tall, veiled, motionless.

“You will come,” the woman said. Not unkind. Not commanding. Just final.

Sera didn’t speak. She rose, wrapped herself in the heavy robe folded near the foot of the bed, and followed.

They walked through quiet halls that felt older than breath. No other servants passed. No guards stood watch. Only stone, steam, and silence. The path twisted down, toward the heart of the mountain.

When the doors to the bathhouse opened, heat spilled out like a sigh.

The room was enormous—vaulted ceilings, obsidian pillars, walls that shimmered with trapped light. The pool at its center glowed a deep red-orange, steam rising in slow tendrils that kissed her skin the moment she stepped inside.

The dragonkin left her at the threshold without a word.

She was alone.

The heat was intoxicating, laced with minerals and magic that made her skin prickle. She unfastened the robe slowly, breath catching, the fabric sliding from her shoulders with a whisper of silk. It pooled at her feet like a discarded crown. The air kissed her bare skin—humid, mineral-rich, full of magic. She hesitated only a second before stepping into the water. It was hotter than any bath she’d known—molten warmth that seemed to bleed into her bones.

She sank deeper until only her shoulders and head remained above the surface, eyes half-lidded as the steam curled around her like hands.

That was when she felt it.

Not sound. Not movement.

Presence.

She opened her eyes slowly—and found him watching her.

He stood at the far end of the chamber, mostly in shadow. He hadn’t announced himself. Hadn’t moved. And yet he was unmistakable.

The Warlord.

He said nothing.

The shadows licked the edges of his body, half-revealing the planes of muscle, the curve of his horns, the faint glow of his eyes. He was dressed only in the simplest of wraps, and even that looked like a formality.

She didn’t cover herself.

She thought about it—her arms twitched, her spine straightened—but she didn’t reach for modesty.

His gaze was not lecherous. It was reverent.

“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice low and hoarse.

“To see you,” he said simply. “Here. As you are.”

She didn’t know what answer she’d expected. Certainly not that.

“Is this meant to shame me?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “It is meant to prepare you.”

“For what?”

His eyes flicked to her chest, where the sigil lay hidden beneath the water.

“For everything that comes next.”

She wanted to challenge him. Wanted to rise from the water, bare and unshaken, and demand answers. But the heat dulled her limbs. The magic here was not just in the water—it was in the air, in the stone, in the way her heart slowed to match the rhythm of the deep pulses echoing from the bathhouse floor.

He did not move closer. He didn’t need to. His gaze touched more than skin—it reached beneath it, into the part of her that had begun to question what was truly hers anymore.

“You watch me like I’m a prize,” she said, lifting her chin.

“No,” he said. “A prize is something won. You are something claimed.”

She swallowed. “There’s a difference?”

“There is. One is taken in glory. The other is taken in hunger.”

Her mouth went dry. The air around them thickened. Steam blurred the edges of her vision, but his form never faded. He was carved into the moment, unmovable.

“Why let me be here like this?” she whispered.

His voice softened, deep and edged with reverence. “Because this is the last time you will be untouched.”

She sank lower in the water, as if it might protect her.

Still, he did not come closer. He watched.

And she could not look away.

She was a princess. A woman raised to rule. And not just by title—she had been groomed from birth to wield command. She’d given orders in court that had made seasoned generals bristle. She had sat beside her father at war councils and held her own in rooms full of men twice her age. Her spine had been forged in politics, her words sharpened to steel. There had never been a moment—not one—where she wasn’t measured, composed, in control.

Now she sat bare, submerged, watched.

Not like a woman. Like a bride. Like a possession.

The shame curled hot in her stomach, but it wasn’t for her nakedness.

It was for the way her body responded to his gaze. For the way the bath’s heat dulled the edge of her rage. For the way the pulse of the water echoed the one in her chest, dragging her toward stillness she hadn’t asked for.

She swallowed hard.

“You think you know what I am,” she said, voice taut. “But you’ve only seen me unarmed. Uncrowned.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression—not surprise, but respect. As if he’d been waiting for her to remember.

“I do not wish to break your crown,” he said. “Only to melt it—into something that fits your fire.”

She blinked, stunned by the answer. Not because it was gentle—because it was true.

She looked away first.

And that shamed her most of all.

Because some part of her—a small, treacherous part—wanted to be seen.

Not as a ruler. Not as a threat. But as herself.

He had seen it. All of it. And still, he had not turned away.

The silence between them stretched, but it did not crack. It pressed around her, thick as the steam. She drew in a shaky breath and glanced down at the surface of the water, watching the faint ripples where her body disturbed it.

The water seemed to mirror her heartbeat now—quickening with each thought of him, slowing when she tried to pull away. It was alive, in some strange, quiet way. Watching her. Holding her. The sigil beneath her breast throbbed once, warm and steady, like it too was aware of the gaze she bore.

“Is this what it means to be claimed?” she asked, barely louder than the mist around her.

“No,” he answered. “This is what it means to be chosen.”

His voice sent shivers through her—more from the certainty than the tone. There was no seduction in it. No manipulation. Just truth. Simple, devastating truth.

“Others have sat in that water,” she murmured, unsure why she needed to say it.

“Yes.”

“And you watched them?”

“No.”

That answer made her breath catch. She swallowed again, her throat tight.

He took a slow breath, then added, “But the water remembers. And it will carry only you, now.”

The magic stirred beneath her, a soft tremor against her thighs, a glow at the base of her spine. The pulse of the bond deepened.

“I was supposed to be queen,” she whispered.

“You still will be,” he said.

She looked up, startled.

“Not of Aeryth,” he added. “Of something greater. Of fire, blood, and breath. But only if you survive what’s coming.”

She wanted to scoff. To call him dramatic. But the sigil pulsed again.

“What’s coming?”

“My rut,” he said simply.

The words were brutal in their simplicity.

She tensed. “You said you wouldn’t touch me.”

“I will hold until I break,” he said. “And when I do, I will take. Not because you asked—but because you stopped trying to run.”

She jerked back slightly in the water, breath escaping in a shaky gasp.

The room darkened around the edges, the flames dipping low. Magic thickened. And yet, he didn’t move. He remained a shadow watching flame.

“You are free to leave this water, Sera,” he said. “But know that when you do, everything will change.”

He turned, walking slowly back into the steam-thickened dark, and left her alone with the water, the brand, and the terrifying echo of her own name still lingering in the air.

She didn’t rise.

Not yet.

The bathwater held her like a secret. Every breath she took steamed against her skin, and the sigil beneath her chest pulsed slower now, heavy and deliberate. She brought one hand to the surface, watching as the water slid off her fingers, glowing faintly where the heat kissed her skin.

She expected the water to cool when he left, but it didn’t.

It responded only to her now.

She sank deeper, chin brushing the surface, eyes closing. The magic in the chamber didn’t fade—it hummed low and soft, echoing the rhythm of her thoughts. Slow. Hot. Reluctant.

Her mind whispered rebellion, but her body floated in surrender.

And that terrified her most of all.