"Leo…"
Lyra whispered his name as though testing the sharp edge of a blade. The sound of it curled off her tongue, alien and dangerous, filling her with the foreboding certainty that she had stepped into a new nightmare. Her lips trembled as the name lingered in the air, each syllable heavy with the promise of ruin.
The man—no, the thing—loomed above her. Towering, immovable, as cold and merciless as a gathering storm on the horizon. His pale hair caught the faint flicker of dying firelight within the cave, and his eyes—those merciless, burning eyes—regarded her with a predator's patience. Bound and weary, Lyra's body ached from struggling against the iron restraints. She tried again to stand, the chains rattling against stone, but his shadow fell over her like a shroud.
"Struggling is futile," Leo said, his voice deep and unyielding, edged with a certainty that smothered hope. "I wouldn't bother trying."
His tone was not taunting—it was worse. It was factual. Cold, calculative, like an executioner noting the futility of prayer before the axe fell. His words only confirmed what Lyra dreaded: her previous attempt at breaking free yesterday had been little more than a mistake in his eyes, a miscalculation on his part. He had no intention of allowing her even that much leeway again.
Lyra huffed, a sound caught between anger and desperation. She had just clawed her way out of a godforsaken prison—she would not be caged again. Not by him. Not by anyone. She had dreamed of freedom, of starting fresh somewhere her past could not follow. Hell, at this point, she might even have followed through with her grandfather's wishes and accepted marriage to Oliver or anyone else, so long as it meant safety. But this man—this monster—stood in her way.
Her eyes narrowed. "So, what now?" she spat, forcing the words past her dry lips. "Are you going to drag me back to the fortress? Hand me over to be tormented again?"
No answer.
His silence was unbearable. His expression revealed nothing, though his hand curled around the chain binding her, testing its weight, tugging it as though reminding her of who controlled the leash. The sound of the links rattling filled the cave, louder than thunder to Lyra's ears. He gave a single pull, sharp and uncompromising, and she stumbled forward, nearly losing her footing.
"Answer me, damn it!" Lyra snapped, anger bubbling out in a reckless wave.
"No."
The word was delivered so flatly, so without context or care, that it left her more unsettled than a threat might have. No? No to what? No to torment? No to freedom? No to her life?
Her heart pounded as he pulled her toward the mouth of the cave.
"I refuse to take another step," she declared, planting her feet and yanking back against the chain. Her voice shook but she forced conviction into every syllable. "Not until you answer me."
Leo stilled. His shadow stretched across the stone as he turned, slowly, to face her. A dangerous quiet filled the air, broken only by the faint crackle of dying embers. His lips curved, not quite into a smile, but into something sharper.
"Fine," he drawled, his voice carrying both amusement and disdain.
Before she could process his agreement, he moved. His arm swept around her waist, and in one effortless motion, he hoisted her onto his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a sack of grain.
Lyra shrieked, the world spinning around her as she was upended and carried like a prize. Her fists pounded against his back, her legs kicked wildly, but his grip was iron.
"Let go of me! You demon!" she screamed, fury and fear mingling in her voice. "Bastard! I don't want to go back!"
Her words cracked, desperation breaking through. Images of Troy's leering smile flashed in her mind, of chains biting into her wrists, of pain and helplessness. She had nearly died there. She could not—would not—be dragged back.
"Please…" her voice faltered, breaking into a sob. "Please, don't send me back."
Leo's sigh rumbled against her, low and irritated, but not entirely cruel. "By the gods, does your tongue ever rest?"
"Not unless you free me," she shot back, her voice muffled against his back.
"Not going to happen," he scoffed, his tone final.
He bent, kicking dirt and soil over the embers until the fire hissed and vanished, plunging the cave into darkness. Without hesitation, he stepped into the light of day.
The air outside was crisp and fresh, the sun spilling through towering branches of the forest. Golden beams filtered through the canopy, dappling the mossy earth. Birds scattered at his approach, wings flashing. The scene was breathtaking—serene even—but for Lyra, it was a cruel reminder. Freedom was so close she could taste it, and yet here she was, slung helpless over the shoulder of the very man who denied it.
"This isn't the Ozend," she muttered, scanning the unfamiliar forest as they moved. Relief swelled faintly in her chest. She didn't recognize the terrain. If this wasn't the Ozend, maybe—just maybe—she had a chance.
"Where are we?"
Silence.
"Where are you taking me?"
More silence.
"I won't stop talking until you answer me," she declared, stubbornly lifting her head.
"Woman," Leo ground out, his jaw flexing. He pinched the bridge of his nose as though her very existence gave him a headache. "You are trying my patience."
Lyra smirked despite herself. "Good. Then maybe you'll talk."
For a moment, she swore he might throw her onto the ground and leave her there. But instead, after a heavy exhale, he spoke.
"I'm taking you to Eden."
The name struck her like a bolt. Her eyes widened. Eden—the radiant city of angels, the place her grandfather spoke of in awe, a beacon of divine justice and light. Why would this man, whose eyes burned like a demon's, take her there?
"Eden?" she breathed. "The… the city of angels?"
He did not clarify. He didn't need to.
Questions tore through her mind faster than she could voice them. Who was he, really? What business could he possibly have in Eden? Why take her there of all places? He looked every bit the villain her grandfather had warned her about, yet his words pointed toward something more complicated.
Her struggles eased, if only slightly. At least he wasn't returning her to the fortress. That realization felt like a tiny miracle, though dread quickly followed. What awaited her in Eden could be just as dangerous.
Her voice softened, tentative. "Then… let me go back to my village. To Sparrow Peak."
Leo's stride faltered almost imperceptibly, but Lyra noticed. Her heart leapt.
"I want to see if my grandfather survived," she continued, desperation seeping into her words. "Or… if not, I want to bury him properly." Her throat tightened. "Please. Just let me do that."
"You don't get to make demands," Leo said coldly.
But Lyra pressed on. "I promise I won't fight you. I won't make a fuss. Just let me return there. Just once."
Her plea hung in the air, raw and fragile. For a long while, Leo said nothing, and she wondered if he even heard her. But she felt it—the faint pause in his steps, the way his grip shifted slightly. His silence was not ignorance; it was deliberation.
Finally, with a long, resigned sigh, he spoke. "Fine. But—"
Lyra's heart soared at the first word, only to freeze when he continued.
"You will follow me. You will obey every word I give without question."
His tone was like the slamming of a door. Final, unyielding.
Her throat tightened. Obedience. Submission. Everything in her screamed against it. But what choice did she have? Her grandfather's face flickered in her mind, stern and warm all at once, urging her to be brave.
Reluctantly, she nodded.
She had struck a bargain with the devil.
Leo approached a tall oak where his horse waited, tied securely. The animal snorted, pawing at the ground, its dark coat gleaming in the light. The stallion tossed its head as if recognizing the storm that clung to its master.
Leo shifted Lyra into the saddle with little care for her protests, seating her upright. His eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, sharp as daggers. The silent warning was clear: move, and suffer the consequences.
He turned back toward the cave, retrieving the cloak and supplies he had stowed there. His movements were efficient, practiced, like a man who had lived a hundred battles and expected a hundred more. The chain that had bound her still dangled from his hand. With a faint snap of his fingers, it shimmered, then vanished into nothing.
Lyra's breath caught. Magic. Real magic.
She looked down at her wrists, still red from the binds, and then back at him, both awed and horrified.
What kind of man was this?
And more terrifying still—what kind of fate awaited her now?