The morning air carried the scent of pine and cold stone as Elena followed Soren across the courtyard. He walked slightly ahead of her—not enough to leave her behind, but enough to make it clear who set the pace. His cloak moved like a shadow tethered to him, dark and fluid.
Every few steps, he glanced back.
Not to check if she kept up.
To see how she moved. What she noticed. Whether she feared or adapted.
He was studying her again.
Of course he was.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"To see what you now live within," Soren said. "A citadel means little without understanding its spine."
Its spine.
He spoke about architecture the way some people spoke about living things—aware of bones, blood, purpose.
They passed under a tall archway into a long stone corridor open to the sky on one side. Sunlight fell through the arches in evenly spaced bands, illuminating the training grounds below. Hundreds of soldiers moved in synchronized rows—striking, blocking, pivoting with the same disciplined brutality Soren had shown in the forest.
Elena slowed, stunned.
"This is…"She couldn't choose between beautiful and terrifying.It was both.
Soren folded his arms. "This is Varyn's Guard."
"They all answer to you?"
A faint raise of his brow. "Of course."
Of course. As if the idea of not commanding an army were absurd.
He watched her watching them. His gaze sharpened by a fraction. "Does this intimidate you?"
"No," Elena said before thinking. "It impresses me."
His eyes narrowed—interest, approval, something darker.
He turned again, making her hurry to keep up.
They entered a quieter courtyard lined with pillars carved in symbols she couldn't recognize. Servants carrying baskets froze when they saw Soren, bowed so low she worried for their spines, and fled the moment he dismissed them with a subtle nod.
Elena frowned. "Everyone seems… afraid of you."
He didn't slow. "Respect is often mistaken for fear."
"Is it?"
Soren stopped beneath a pillar. He didn't look at her as he spoke.
"Fear is earned quickly. Respect takes longer."A pause."I have earned both."
Elena's pulse stumbled. He hadn't said it to intimidate her.Just to state a fact.
They passed through tall iron doors into the Inner Hall. Torches lined the walls. Stone reliefs depicting ancient battles stretched across the ceiling. Elena's breath caught.
"It's old," she said softly.
"Older than most kingdoms," Soren replied.
"And these markings?"
He turned to study her fully. "You see details others miss."
"I'm observant," she said.
A soft, amused exhale—barely there, but real. "A habit that will serve you well here."
He resumed walking, slower this time, as if he expected her beside him rather than behind.
They reached a balcony overlooking the mountains. Wind swept through Elena's hair, carrying the bite of distant snowfields. The landscape stretched endlessly—deep forests, silver rivers, valleys carved like scars.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"It is home," Soren said. His voice softened—barely.
Silence settled for a moment.
Elena turned her head, studying him when she thought he wasn't paying attention—the defined line of his jaw, the dark sweep of hair touched by wind, the scar on his cheekbone that explained nothing and promised everything.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
His head tilted, amusement flickering in his eyes. "If you stare at me like that, Elena, I will assume you have questions."
Heat crept up her neck. "I wasn't—"
"Lying," he murmured, "doesn't suit you."
Her breath hitched—not at the words, but at the way he said her name. Slow. Precise. As if marking it.
She turned away, gripping the railing. "I just want answers."
"And you will have them."He stepped beside her—close enough that the warmth of him curled into her space.
Close enough that she caught his scent on the wind.
Pine. Steel. Clean heat. Unmistakably him.
Her body reacted before she could stop it—a fast, disloyal thrum low in her chest.
Absolutely not. She was not doing this.
"But answers," Soren continued, as though unaware of her internal combustion, "require the right questions."
She forced her voice steady. "Why me? Why was I brought here?"
Soren didn't look at her. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon.
"The forest gave you to me," he said. "This citadel, this land… they answer to old forces. Older than any ruling house. Older than the kingdoms that pretend to command them."
There was a tension in his tone now—a boundary she could feel but not name.
"Forces that do not make mistakes."
"But I don't belong here," Elena whispered.
A faint muscle in his jaw tightened. "Perhaps not."
A beat.
"But you are here."
She swallowed. "What does that mean for me?"
This time, he exhaled—a rare sound, quiet and reluctant.
"There are tales," he said, voice lower. "Stories from before the rifts fractured the world. Stories of those who appear where they should not… drawn by forces no one claims to understand."
He paused.
"But tales are not truth," he said, tone returning to steel. "And I do not rely on myths."
"Soren—"
He cut her off with a slight turn of his head. Not harsh. Just final.
"I have no answers for you," he said. "Not yet."
Not yet.Not never.
He wasn't telling her everything. He wasn't even telling her half.
But the way he looked at her—eyes dark, unwavering—made one thing certain:
Whatever he knew, he wasn't ready to give it voice.
"The tour is not finished," he said, stepping back.
He turned and walked ahead, cloak shifting behind him.
Elena inhaled sharply, grounding herself. His scent lingered in the air, warm and infuriatingly pleasant.
She followed—
because she needed knowledge,because she needed a plan,because Soren was far more dangerous than any world she had left behind.
And because, apparently, her survival instincts had decided to imprint on the most complicated man in the citadel.