*************
"One night. That's all I ask."
"You always ask for just one more."
"Because you always leave."
She had nearly stayed that time.
Nearly let the darkness win, if it meant being with him.
But dawn came.
And with it — duty, fear… and the sound of her own retreating steps.
He never chased her.
And that's what hurt the most.
****************
The sun never truly rose in Duskarra.
Instead, it bled—through torn clouds, through the choking mist, through the broken stained glass of the abandoned chapel Lysara Vale now stood in. The shattered saints above her seemed to watch as she wiped fresh blood from her blade.
She hadn't meant to kill the priest.
But he'd screamed Dren's name with such twisted adoration—his body contorting under some curse or spell—that she had no choice. His last breath had turned to soot in the air.
Lysara sheathed her sword with a curse and turned toward the altar. The entire sanctuary had been desecrated. Blood symbols covered the marble. Ravens perched on the pews, watching her in unnerving silence.
"He always did like drama," she muttered, stepping over the priest's twitching fingers.
Her footsteps echoed like whispers through the chapel.
Then came a voice behind her.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to follow the scent."
She froze.
She knew that voice.
Deep. Velvet-rich. Laced with cruel amusement.
Slowly, she turned. And there he was, leaning against a broken pillar as if he had all the time in the world.
Dren Talovar.
Older. Taller. Pale as marble. The long black coat moved like smoke around him, and his silver eyes gleamed with unspoken threats. He looked like a lord from a portrait someone had slashed open in fury.
"Dren," she said, her voice hoarse with disbelief.
"You said my name," he whispered, as if tasting it.
"I should kill you."
"You should," he agreed. "But you won't."
He moved closer, each step deliberate. He no longer looked like a frightened boy on a battlefield. This Dren radiated power. Darkness clung to him like perfume. And Lysara hated that her pulse quickened.
"You left me alive once," he said. "You thought mercy was strength. Or maybe... you liked the way I begged?"
She didn't respond. Her fingers twitched near her blade.
"You know what I remember about that night?" he asked, stepping closer.
She stood her ground.
"I remember your hands trembling." He paused, eyes sweeping down her body like a caress. "But not from fear."
"You're sick."
"Am I?" he murmured. "Or are we both just… broken in the same direction?"
Her breath caught.
"Why did you come back?" she demanded.
He smiled, slow and maddening.
"Because you haunt me," he said. "Because I wanted you to see what I became. And because…"
He leaned close — closer than a man should.
"I wonder what you'd look like… on your knees."
The sentence hit her like a slap.
And worse — she didn't move.
His presence was suffocating. Magnetic. Her sword arm ached to act. Her heart ached more.
She hated this. Hated him. Hated that part of her wanted to stay.
"I should drag you to the gallows," she said through clenched teeth.
"You should kiss me instead."
He was toying with her — he always had. Even as a boy, he'd worn his pain like armor and seduction like a weapon. But this was different. This Dren was dangerous in ways words couldn't hold.
He took one step closer.
"Touch me, and I'll gut you," she whispered.
"Promise?"
And that was when she slapped him.
The sound cracked through the cathedral like thunder.
Dren blinked.
Then laughed—soft, rich, utterly unbothered.
"There's the girl I remember," he said, rubbing his jaw.
"I'm not that girl anymore."
"No," he said. "You're much, much worse."
For a moment, they stood there—two blades sheathed in skin, two storms waiting to collide.
"The next time we meet," she said, backing away, "I'll finish what I should have started."
"You'll try," he said, smiling. "But you'll fail. Because I know something now…"
He stepped into the shadows and vanished—like mist, like a curse.
"…You want me to win."
"Are you afraid of me?"
"No."
"Then kiss me."
It had been that simple.
No blood. No vows. Just the thunder of her heartbeat and the shadow of his mouth.
But she had lied.
She was afraid — of what he made her feel, of what she couldn't stop.
Of what it would mean if she kissed him back.
She didn't kiss him.
But she wanted to.
She still did.