Kael Varyn staggered through Eryndor's drenched forest, the Crown of Eryndor's weight pulling at his satchel, its whispers a seductive hum in his mind. Rain lashed his face mingling with blood from his arm, but his thoughts fixated on Sylvara. Her touch lingered like a brand, her green eyes haunting him as she moved ahead, her dark robe clinging to her form. Lightning flashed illuminating her scarred cheek and a surge of desire warred with his pain. Lyra's safety drove him, yet Sylvara's presence ignited a fire he couldn't quench.
"Keep up," she called, voice sharp but laced with a warmth that made his pulse race. She ducked into a cave mouth overgrown with vines, her staff's glow casting shadows on her curves. Kael followed, Joren trailing his wounded shoulder trembling.
Inside the cave opened into a chamber of cracked pillars runes faintly glowing. Kael collapsed against a wall wincing as he peeled back his sleeve. Sylvara knelt beside him, her proximity a torment. "Hold still," she murmured, her fingers brushing his skin with a tenderness that sent shivers through him. The vial's sting faded under her touch, and their eyes met—hers searching, his burning with unspoken need.
"Who are you?" he rasped, catching her wrist,
their faces inches apart. Her breath hitched and for a moment the world narrowed to her lips, full and inviting. "Why help us?" His voice dropped, raw with longing.
Her lips curved, a mix of defiance and desire. "I hate Torren more than I distrust thieves. And you… you stir something I can't ignore." Her hand slid to his chest feeling his racing heart and she leaned closer, their breaths mingling. The air crackled—magic, passion, danger. He cupped her face, fingers tracing her scar and their lips nearly met before Joren's voice shattered the moment.
"What's that?" Joren asked, peering at Kael's wrist where the rune pulsed.
Kael yanked his sleeve down glaring, but his body still hummed from Sylvara's nearness. She pulled back, her eyes dark with regret and rose. "Voices. Outside," she said, staff flaring. Torren's guards crashed in—five men in black armor, swords drawn. Their leader grinned. "Hand over the crown, thief."
Kael lunged, daggers flashing, magic surging. Lightning arced striking the leader's sword, but his gaze flicked to Sylvara, her chains binding a guard. Their eyes locked mid-battle, a silent promise fueling his strength. He slashed a guard's thigh, ducking a swing then threw a dagger to pin another's shoulder—protecting her. She staggered as a sword grazed her side and he roared, magic blasting the attacker. Their hands brushed as he pulled her behind a pillar, her warmth against him igniting a fierce protectiveness.
The leader rallied charging. Kael parried their blades locking, but Sylvara's chains tightened, giving him an opening. He slashed the man's throat collapsing beside her, panting. Her hand found his, squeezing, her breath uneven. "Reckless," she whispered, but her eyes held a spark that made his heart pound.
Joren stabbed a guard, blood spraying, then froze. "We're dead," he muttered.
"Run," Sylvara ordered, casting a shield. Kael dragged her up, their bodies pressed close, her scent—ozone and something floral—overwhelming. They bolted the ruin collapsing behind them. The rune burned, the crown's whispers growing, but it was her touch that consumed him.
In the forest, they paused, rain soaking them. Sylvara's wound bled and Kael tore his cloak bandaging her with shaking hands. "I won't lose you," he said, voice thick. She cupped his face pulling him into a fierce, desperate kiss—rain, blood and magic blending. It ended too soon, her forehead against his. "The crown's trouble," she breathed. "But you're worth it."
A shadow moved—the guardian, eyes blue. "Return it, or Eryndor falls," it rasped, vanishing. Kael's heart raced, torn between Lyra, the crown, and this woman who'd claimed him. Joren's greed flickered as he eyed the satchel, but Kael's focus was Sylvara—her love a storm he'd face any danger to keep.