The Blade and the Betrayal
The mountains greeted her with silence.
Not the silence of peace, but the taut stillness of breath held just before a scream. The air carried the sharp tang of ozone, the ghost of a storm that had passed only hours before. Snow clung to the roots of the old pines, crusted and cracking beneath Liora's boots as she moved. The cloak around her shoulders billowed, catching the cold wind's aftershock. Each gust whispered like a warning, brushing ice-dusted branches, shifting the hush into something almost sentient.
She could feel it watching her.
Not a creature, no wolf, no owl, no predator. The mountain itself. Or perhaps the gods that haunted these crags, ancient and indifferent, who had long since turned their gaze from mortals. And yet tonight, Liora felt exposed beneath that silver eye in the sky, the moon a sentinel she could neither avoid nor appease.
Behind her, tucked beyond ridgelines and frost-rimmed gullies, the Bloodfang camp lay dormant. Fires burned low, their light weak and flickering. Wolves curled close for warmth, dreaming in snarled silence. Some would dream of blood. Others of what once was.
And somewhere within, Gonzalo Kenyon slept.
She imagined it too easily, his massive frame curled among furs, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint furrow between his brows. She remembered how she used to run her thumb over that line to smooth it, how he'd grumble and pull her closer, even in sleep. That memory was a blade with two edges. She hadn't touched him like that in years, and yet the muscle memory remained.
That, more than the cold, made her hands tremble.
By dusk, the trail brought her to the cave.
It looked unremarkable from the outside, a gash in the mountain's side, half-covered in lichen and jagged ice. The entrance wept slow drips from icicles that glinted red in the dying light. But her chest tightened as she approached. She remembered the last time she'd stood here.
The firelight dancing off stone walls.
The hiss of steel being born in magic.
The song of the dagger as Malek placed it into her hand.
It had sung for her. It had chosen her.
He was waiting inside.
Malek sat cross-legged, as if he hadn't moved since her last visit. The fire beside him was dwindling, its coals exhaling smoke that stung her eyes and smelled faintly of bloodroot and bone ash. The shadows moved strangely around him, the cave too narrow to explain how they danced in constant motion, clawing at the uneven rock.
The scar that marred half his face caught the firelight, puckered and pale. It twisted his features into something mythic, part man, part curse. But the eye, the good one, watched her with unsettling clarity.
"You return," he said quietly. "That means you're close."
Liora hesitated before stepping fully into the light. Her boots crunched on gravel and ancient bones. The cold in her bones was not from the wind. The dagger at her belt pulsed, warm and eager, as if it remembered this place. As if it hungered.
"I need more than the dagger now," she said. "I need certainty."
Malek's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. A reaction, perhaps, to her desperation.
He gestured to the fire with one clawed hand. "Sit."
She obeyed, perching just outside the fire's reach. The warmth barely touched her, but she didn't move closer. Her hands found her knees, knuckles white with tension. The dagger shifted in its sheath again, eager, alive.
"He's stronger than I thought," she confessed, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "He's not the man I remember. He's... more."
Malek nodded, slow and unsurprised. "Of course he is. Power feeds itself. And Gonzalo has been feasting for years."
Liora's jaw tightened. "I tried once. I got close."
"And you failed."
She flinched. The word was a slap, sharp and clean.
"Yes," she said.
There was no venom in his voice when he answered, but there was no softness either. "Then try again. But listen."
His tone shifted, every syllable now deliberate, weighty with ritual. Malek's voice became the echo of something older than himself. It struck like prophecy.
"When you strike next," he said, "he must be asleep."
Liora's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because if he opens his eyes..." Malek leaned forward, smoke wreathing his ruined face, "...he wins. Always."
Liora's breath caught.
"You think I'm weak."
"No," Malek said. "I think he's stronger. In strength. In speed. In instinct. That man was born to survive. Every second he's awake is another second you lose."
Liora stared into the fire. Flames licked the shadows. She remembered Gonzalo's laugh in the dark, the wolfish gleam in his eyes before battle, the heat of his hands after. The way he'd kissed her with blood still drying on his skin. How alive he had made her feel, until he'd made her feel nothing at all.
"I loved him once," she said.
Malek said nothing. But the fire crackled, and in that sound was understanding.
"I hate that part of me," she added softly. "The part that remembers. The part that still aches."
"Then kill it," Malek said simply. "Or it will kill you."
Silence stretched between them, old and unyielding.
Then Liora stood.
"I won't fail again," she said. "Not this time."
As she turned to go, Malek's voice followed her, low and final. "He was born to survive, Liora. But you were born to end him."
When she returned to camp, the moon had risen like a blade in the sky, sharp and cold and watching.
The trees seemed to lean toward her as she passed. The wolves she encountered nodded with tired, hollow expressions. They had come to accept her presence, even if they didn't yet revere it. Not openly. But they sensed something shifting. The scent of change was in the air, just beneath the pine, beneath the woodsmoke and frost.
She moved like a shadow through the camp.
Not to her tent. To his.
The flap was already open, lantern-light spilling out like liquid gold. Gonzalo stood in the entrance, arms crossed over his bare chest, golden eyes catching the moonlight.
"I heard you leave," he said. "And I waited."
Liora froze.
She hadn't planned for this.
"You could have followed," she said carefully.
"I didn't need to." He stepped aside. "I knew you'd come back. To me."
The words were soft. Not a demand. A truth. One she hated how easily she accepted.
She stepped inside.
His tent smelled like leather, pine oil, and something distinctly him, spice and storm and skin. She'd once buried her face in his neck and claimed she'd never forget that scent. She hadn't.
He moved closer, slow and deliberate, and she didn't stop him.
His hand found her waist. Not possessive, curious. Tender.
"I missed this," he murmured.
"I didn't," she lied.
He smiled faintly. "Liar."
And then his mouth was on hers.
There was no hunger in it. No domination. Just memory. Fire beneath ash. A thousand moments stitched together in one breathless kiss. She kissed him back like the past hadn't shattered them. Like the child she should have had hadn't died in her dreams.
When he pulled away, his breath trembled against her cheek.
"What are you hiding from me?" he whispered.
Liora leaned close, lips brushing his jaw. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered."
"I think I already know," he said. "And I'm still here."
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Later, when he slept, chest bare, arm draped over her hips, she stared at the ceiling.
The dagger was within reach.
Her fingers hovered above it.
She could end it now. One cut. One breathless cry swallowed by the night.
But her hand didn't move.
Not yet.
Dawn came quietly, spilling pale gold over snow and stone.
Liora stepped into the chill morning air, the weight of the unshed kill pressing down on her like armor. She hadn't slept. Her body ached with restraint.
Near the healer's tent, Nyssa waited.
Her arms were crossed, her cloak drawn tight. Her face was taut with worry and too many unsaid things.
"You were with him."
Liora didn't flinch. "Yes."
"You're losing yourself to this."
"No." Her voice was firm. "I'm just remembering who I was before."
Nyssa's jaw clenched. She stepped closer, her voice quieter now, but sharper. "You don't have to do this. I know what he did. I know what he took. But revenge... it's a cold crown."
Liora met her gaze without blinking. "I've worn worse."
"Don't become what he made you. Please."
Liora placed a hand gently on her friend's arm. "I'm not killing you for saying that. Take it as a sign of growth."
Nyssa didn't laugh. Her voice cracked. "Just promise me you'll think, truly think, before you strike."
Liora's silence was not quite a lie. She nodded once.
Then she walked away, her cloak dragging behind her like the shadow of a wolf.
Tonight, the moon would rise. And soon, so would the blade.