Page 11 of Claimed By Midnight

"I won't be your slave." Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. "I'm not some pet you can collar and command."

I turn slowly, letting my wings spread to their full span. I've had plenty of xaphan soldiers defer to me when I do this. She lifts her chin instead.

"You're whatever I say you are." My words drip with centuries of superiority. "You belong to me now."

"I belong to myself." She steps closer, golden-green eyes blazing. "You can't just take someone and think that gives you the right to own me."

"Rights?" I bark out a laugh. "You're human. You have no rights here."

"And you're a bully hiding behind magic and muscle." Her words strike with surprising precision. "Strip away your wings and power, what's left? Just another tyrant desperate to feel strong."

My hand shoots out, catching her throat. But she doesn't flinch, doesn't struggle. Those eyes bore into mine, challenging, fierce.

"I could break you." My fingers tighten slightly. "Shatter that spirit into pieces so small you'd never find them all." My wings tuck in. "Take away my wings and magic and I am still a lethal warrior you don't want to face."

"You could try." Her pulse races under my palm, but her voice stays steady. "But you won't break me, Uriel. I've survived worse than you."

Something in her tone makes me pause. There's old pain there, hidden beneath the defiance. Scars that run deeper than skin. I wonder what that could be coming from such a cushy lifestyle.

I release her throat. "You have fire, little demon." I trace a finger along her jaw. "But fire can be controlled, contained, made to serve a greater purpose."

"Or it can burn everything to ash." She catches my wrist, her touch sending unexpected heat through my skin. "Remember that before you push me too far."

7

ATHENA

The smile curling across Uriel's perfect features makes my blood boil. His golden eyes sparkle with amusement, like I'm some kind of entertaining pet that just performed a trick. The argument's heat still lingers in my chest, my hands clenched at my sides.

"You're quite spirited for a human." He stretches his massive wings, the light gray feathers catching the workshop's lamplight. "Though I guess I should come to expect that by now."

The way he studies me – like I'm a puzzle he can't quite solve – sets my skin tingling. There's no trace of the condescension I usually see from xaphan. Instead, his gaze holds something darker, more intense.

A rough laugh escapes him. "Such fire in those eyes." He reaches out, and I feel the magic bonds loosen. "You think you'll find your own way back, don't you?"

The question isn't really a question at all. Before I can respond, his wings fold close to his body and he turns on his heel, leaving me alone in his workshop with nothing but the echo of his laughter and the lingering warmth where his magic just was filling the room.

My fists unclench slowly, joints aching from how tight I'd been holding them. That arrogant, insufferable... He's the first person to ever see me as capable of being a threat, and he uses it to mock me.

The anger still simmers under my skin as I turn to examine the workshop more closely now that he isn't here watching me. Scattered across the massive oak workbench, blades catch the lamplight – some plain steel, others gleaming with an otherworldly sheen. My fingers hover over a dagger with runes etched into its surface, the metal almost humming with energy.

"Don't touch me," the blade seems to whisper in a way that's foreign to me.

I snatch my hand back, heart pounding. A demanding weapon. Of course he'd make something like that.

The walls are lined with shelves of components – bottles of liquid starlight, feathers that spark with electricity, crystals that pulse like heartbeats. In the corner, a forge burns without fuel, flames dancing in impossible colors.

My instincts draw me to a sword with a crimson sheen. The edge looks sharp enough to split a hair, but it's the magic woven through it that catches my attention. The blade doesn't just cut – it cauterizes, prevents infection, speeds healing. It's beautiful and terrifying at once.

I've always been drawn to healing. Where my sister has always been more suspicious of others, I've been empathetic. For years, I begged my father to learn to let me heal, and while I have done some work in it, it was minimal.

Maybe that's where this newfound rage and bitterness is coming from. Either way, standing here, staring at the work that Uriel does is pulling out old desires from me, ones that I learned to bury to be the perfect daughter. Some good that did me.

I go back to studying the blade. "Fascinating." The word slips out before I can stop it. I lean closer to examine the intricatepatterns etched into the metal, careful not to touch. Each line flows into the next like a dance, forming symbols I recognize from my own healing studies.

A rack of spears stands against the far wall, their tips glowing with contained lightning. Beside them, a war hammer whose head seems to be made of compressed darkness. The air around it feels heavy, wrong.

Each weapon is a masterpiece of magic and metal, deadly art given form. Part of me wants to hate how impressive it all is, but I can't deny the skill it must take to create these. It must be what brought him across continents. I'm sure there are many customers after his creations.

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