The glow of the hearth danced along the velvet walls of the private chamber. Soft furs lined the stone floor, casting away the cold edge of the fortress. Yet, the air between Velas and Elira was far from warm.
She sat across from him, cross-legged, her arms folded tightly across her chest, dressed in a scarlet robe that clung to her curves like a lover's touch. Her lips were pursed, her eyes sharp—too sharp.
"You used me," she said flatly. "To draw out the Count."
Velas leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his knee. He didn't deny it.
"I needed leverage," he replied. "And you played your role perfectly."
Her eyes flared. "I'm not a role. I'm a person."
"I know," he said, voice quieter now. "That's why I'm still talking to you—and not ordering your execution like a true Incubus King might."
She blinked.
"I don't need pawns, Elira. I need queens." His tone softened further, but the undercurrent of command remained. "I pushed you because I wanted to see what you'd do. You didn't fold. You didn't run. You fought back. That matters to me."
Elira looked down at her hands. "You speak like a tyrant who dreams of being a romantic."
"I am both," he said, stepping closer. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"
She gave a small, bitter laugh. "Unfortunately."
They stood in silence for a moment. Outside the chamber, soldiers trained in the moonlight. Inside, the fire crackled like a living thing—dancing to their silence.
Then Elira looked up, voice shaking slightly. "Do you even know what you're building here, Velas? Or are you just seducing your way through the wreckage of your own trauma?"
His smile faded. "You want honesty?"
"I demand it."
Velas exhaled and sat beside her. "I've seen men who had everything lose it all because they lacked the will to act. And I've seen slaves become kings when they learned to wield pain as a blade."
He turned his eyes to her. Crimson and gold, glowing faintly.
"I don't seduce because I'm an Incubus," he whispered. "I seduce because it's the only language this world listens to—pleasure, pain, power. People fall not because they want to—but because no one's offered them anything stronger."
He leaned closer, their breath mingling. "I want to offer them something stronger."
Her hand brushed against his chest—hesitant. "And me?"
"You," he said, gently taking her hand, "I want at my side—not beneath it."
Her defenses faltered. In the flickering light, he didn't see the sorceress or the spy—he saw the woman who had risked her life for him, who'd thrown herself between him and a blade not because she had to—but because she believed, just a little, that he was worth it.
She leaned into him, and he pulled her close.
For a moment, no words were needed.
But outside the door, footsteps echoed. Fast, urgent.
A knock.
"Enter," Velas said, his tone shifting instantly from lover to commander.
A young scout pushed in, breathless. "My lord. The envoy from Blackspire has arrived—early."
Velas stood. Elira rose beside him, all warmth vanished. The mask slid back into place.
"Did they bring the girl?" he asked.
The scout nodded. "And chains."
Velas's jaw tightened. "Good. Let's welcome them properly."
---
Later, in the Great Hall
Torches lit the grand chamber. The banners of House Drayven—newly forged and freshly stitched—hung from the black-stone pillars. The scent of smoke, sweat, and rosewood permeated the air.
At the far end, flanked by two armored succubi, stood Velas—robed in black and crimson, his crownless head raised high. Elira stood slightly behind him, now dressed in her combat leathers, cold and unreadable.
The envoy from Blackspire entered—five men cloaked in silver, one wagon pulled by bone-white horses, and at its center, a girl in chains.
Velas studied her as they dragged her forward. Pale, hair like moonlight, eyes sharp despite the bruises on her cheeks. A collar of enchanted iron clung to her throat.
The lead envoy bowed. "As promised, the witch of the Northern Cradle. A gift of goodwill, from Blackspire to the future king."
Velas stepped forward. The girl's eyes snapped to his—and did not flinch.
Bold, he noted.
"Unbind her," he said.
The envoy blinked. "My lord?"
"She's my guest now. Not your cargo."
Reluctantly, they obeyed. The chains fell with a heavy clink. The girl rubbed her wrists but said nothing.
Velas approached her slowly. "You're the one who burned the Emperor's library."
She tilted her head. "And you're the one who charms kings into kneeling."
He smiled. "I like you already."
"And I hate collars," she spat.
"Then you'll like me even more," he replied, holding out a hand.
She stared at it. "What do you want from me?"
"A partnership. Knowledge. Power. And maybe…" he glanced back at Elira, "…a little chaos."
Her lips twitched. "You had me at chaos."
She took his hand.
---
That Night
Velas sat alone in his chamber, the map of the eastern kingdoms spread before him. Names crossed out. Lines drawn in blood-red ink.
A knock came.
It was Elira again, silent as a shadow.
"You keep collecting dangerous women," she said, arms crossed.
He chuckled. "You're one to talk."
She walked forward, pressing her hand against the map.
"You're serious about all this?"
He looked up at her. "Deadly."
She nodded, and then did something unexpected—she leaned in and kissed him. Not
with lust, but with conviction. With faith.
When they pulled apart, she whispered, "Then don't fail us."
Velas smiled.
"I won't."