The letter was waiting when she returned to her chambers.
Black wax. Dragon seal. No official signature. No messenger.
Lyra stared at it for a long moment, heart knocking once—twice—like it was trying to warn her.
She peeled it open anyway.
To Lyra Virellin, Leader of the Virellan Guard, Queen of the Forgotten and the Lightborn,
You came to my court with blades and shadows. Stay longer.
I want a conversation. No war. No masks. No blades.
Tomorrow. Midnight. The old tower at Drakmyr's edge.
Come alone... or don't come at all.
— K.D.
She read it again. And again.
Every line felt like a challenge disguised as a whisper.
No war. No masks. No blades.
As if Kael had peeled back her armor and dared her to strip him of his.
She should have burned the damn thing.
Instead, she folded it like it mattered.
She didn't tell her Guard. Not fully.
She called them to the Common Room; Lyra's tone was sharp and final. "Remember, we're staying. We're watching. No one touches Kael unless I say so."
Flick raised both brows. "And this surprise midnight stroll you've scheduled?"
"My business," Lyra snapped. "No one follows."
Savi only offered a look. The kind that's seen too much. "Some fires burn deep, Lyra."
She ignored that.
When midnight came, she chose the black velvet.
It wasn't a gown so much as a warning. Long sheer sleeves. Bare shoulders. A slit high enough to see her leg and thighs, leaving just enough to the imagination. The chain at her throat was silver, thin, and easily mistaken for delicate—just like her.
She debated armor. She debated poison.
In the end, she chose none.
If Kael wanted no masks…
Then she'd bring a fiery storm instead.
The old tower was silent, lit only by moonlight and the flicker of sconces against aged stone. Its arches yawned open to the night air, and wind curled through them like breath over a blade.
Kael stood at the center.
And gods damn him—he looked dangerous, deliciously dangerous.
Black on black, trimmed in obsidian red. His mantle swept the ground like smoke. The firelight made his dark hair gleam bronze at the edges, and when he turned—
Lyra's pulse betrayed her.
of course the man would look like every temptation she never gave herself permission to want.
And worse?
His gaze devoured her.
Kael didn't speak at first. He just looked. Slow. From the fall of her hair to the slit in her gown to the shine at her collarbone. And when their eyes locked, he looked like he had been starved for years, and in front of him was a feast all for him and only for him.
"You came," he said finally, voice rough velvet.
"I did," Lyra said, keeping her chin high. "You still haven't told me why."
His answer was maddeningly calm. "Because I couldn't stop picturing you walking away from me."
Her throat dried as if she would die from dehydration if he didn't keep talking.
Kael stepped forward, the firelight catching on the silver fastenings of his coat. His voice dropped, deliberate. "And because I needed to see if you were the memory I've held onto… or the weapon fate's just handed me again."
She let her smile show. "And? What's your verdict?"
He walked up to her, only stopping a breath away. His eyes—stars on the edge of detonation—raked her with hunger so raw it almost made her step back.
Almost.
"I think," he said slowly, "you're going to ruin me."
Good, Lyra thought. I hope I do.
"And you?" Kael murmured. "What do you see when you look at me?"
She let her gaze sweep down.
His chest strained against his shirt that was just thin enough to see what was underneath. The silver clasps at his neck looked like they'd come undone if she breathed too hard. His scent was spice and heat and the kind of danger that made a girl forget her kingdom.
"I see a boy who became a king," she said. "And I see a king who still remembers the girl who saved him."
His hand brushed against hers—light,
He thought she'd flinch.
She didn't.
Kael's voice was barely audible. "And if I said I want to be the man who earns you?"
Lyra stepped in closer, chin tilted like a dare. "Then I'd say I don't need earning. I need someone who knows when to stop fighting me… and when not to."
He breathed her in.
And in that moment, Kael swore she was fire wrapped in velvet—soft in all the places that would break a man, sharp in all the ways that would keep him bleeding.
God, he wanted-needed her.
Not as a queen. Not as a memory.
But as his.
They stood at the edge of something vast and burning.
No weapons. No war. Just the ache of unspoken things between them.
Kael's thumb traced the line of Lyra's jaw, slow… deliberate. The kind of touch that wasn't a question.
Her breath hitched. Damn him.
"You're not done here," Kael murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, dangerous timbre that wrapped around her spine like a chain. "Meet me tomorrow. The war room. Bring your Guard."
Lyra arched a brow, masking the way her pulse spiked. "What time, Your Majesty?" she said, letting the last words drip with spite.
His smirk was wicked and slow. "Nine-thirty. Don't be late… Little Flame."
The nickname hit harder than it should have.
Little Flame—mocking… but not unkind. Dangerous… but not cruel.
It was a name only a dragon king would dare call her. And gods help her, she didn't hate it.
Before she could fire back, Kael leaned in—his lips brushing her temple, the faintest ghost of a kiss.
"Goodnight, Little Flame," he whispered, low and rough.
It wasn't a farewell. It was a promise.
Her mouth parted—a sharp retort ready—but before she could speak, Kael turned, his black mantle sweeping behind him as he walked toward the shadowed stairs.
He didn't look back.
Lyra stood frozen in the hush of the old tower, heart pacing a war drum against her ribs.
By the time she found her voice, he was already gone.