Raven's fingers tapped once against the armrest.
A quiet, lethal sound.
Permission.
The doors creaked open.
Before his eyes registered the figure stepping inside, he felt it—a sudden shift in the air, faint but unmistakable. His spine stiffened.
No.
That was impossible.
Vanella was meant to be in bed. Drugged with restorative herbs strong enough to drop a grown soldier. Guarded. Watched. Recovering.
Yet that presence—soft, strangely warm against the constant cold of the palace—was hers.
His jaw tightened.
If it truly was her, then she had made a very serious mistake.
Punishment would follow. One she would never forget. He did not care what reason she had, what excuse she brought. She could have sent a servant. She could have stayed where she belonged.
His restraint was already fraying. His savage state had not yet been sated, and the world still felt too intact.
Then she stepped fully into the light.
Vanella.
Swollen eyes rimmed red, hair loosely tied as if done with shaking hands. She walked toward the throne with a fury that did not belong on someone so small, her gaze sharp—throwing daggers straight at the king himself.
She took three steps.
That was all.
The space between them collapsed.
One moment Raven was on the throne.
The next, he was in front of her.
Vanella gasped, stumbling back a fraction, her breath catching violently in her throat.
He had moved without wind, without sound—too fast for the eye to follow.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
So it was true.
She had heard the whispers before. Stories told in low voices by servants who swore the Dragon Clan descendants were not merely rulers but forces of nature. Beings with abilities that defied reason.
But everywhere she had gone, everyone had said the same thing.
King Raven is powerless.
A lie.
A beautiful, terrifying lie.
His hand was already at her waist, fingers firm—possessive. Holding her upright as if she might collapse without him.
Raven looked down at her slowly, eyes dark and unreadable.
"It seems," he said calmly, dangerously, "that you are not in pain."
She blinked.
"What?"
"I have been holding your waist for a while now," he continued, his grip tightening just enough to test her. "And yet you have not reacted. No flinch. No tremor."
Her eyes widened.
Pain.
She searched herself instinctively, hands moving over her side, her ribs—nothing. Panic surged through her as she lifted the hem of her dress without thinking.
Smooth skin.
Unbroken.
No bandages. No wounds. No blood.
"How…?" Her voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.
She remembered pain.
White-hot agony. Burning, tearing, unbearable. She remembered waking with it clawing through her body, remembered choking breaths and the taste of iron in her mouth.
Her throat had been so parched, so raw, that she had decided to get water herself. She hadn't dared call anyone. She was only a servant. A slave, in truth.
She had forced herself out of bed, dizzy, weak, every step agony she now realized she could no longer feel.
And then—
Her breathing quickened.
She remembered the corridor. The voices.
A group of maids, huddled together, whispering with fear and excitement tangled together.
"…the entire clan—gone."
"…the king himself—"
"…all because of her."
Her vision blurred.
It was because of her.
An entire clan had been wiped out.
Men. Women. Children.
Vanella's chest constricted painfully, though still—still—there was no physical pain. Only something deeper, sharper.
Yes, she wanted revenge. Yes, the Tiger Clan had tried to kill her.
But innocent women? Children?
No.
Never that.
Her legs had given out then.
She realized only now that she must have been crying as she ran, barefoot and breathless, through the palace corridors. Running not away, but toward the only person who could explain—who could stop it, who could undo it.
Toward him.
Raven watched her carefully as realization crashed over her in waves.
Her eyes glazed. Her breathing broke. Silent tears spilled down her cheeks unchecked.
She had come undone in his arms without realizing it.
"She is not in pain," a distant part of his mind noted again.
That, too, was impossible.
His gaze darkened, flicking briefly to where her wounds should have been.
Interesting.
Dangerous.
Vanella finally looked up at him again, her voice shaking, raw with grief.
"This… this happened because of me," she whispered. "Didn't it?"
The throne room seemed to hold its breath.
Raven did not answer immediately.
His grip on her tightened—not to hurt, but to anchor.
Something in his chest twisted in a way he did not like.
The dragon stirred again, restless.
And for the first time since the court had ended, Raven realized something was very, very wrong.
Not with her.
But with him.