Page 15 of Claimed By Midnight

"Perhaps I would, if you hadn't dragged me here against my will." The words drip venom, but her hands remain steady as she examines the blade.

"You seem comfortable enough now."

"Understanding my cage doesn't mean I accept it." She grabs a piece of charcoal and starts sketching on a scrap of parchment. Her design... it's elegant. Simple. Infuriating.

I snatch the parchment away. "This would never hold during combat."

"Test it then." She crosses her arms, ringlets bouncing with the sharp movement. "Unless you're afraid to be proven wrong by a mere human?"

My wings snap open, casting her in shadow. "Watch yourself, little demon."

"Or what?" Those eyes flash molten gold in the afternoon light. "You'll lock me in my room again? Take away my dinner privileges?"

I grip the edge of the workbench, wood creaking under my fingers. No one speaks to me this way. No one dares. Yet here she stands, this fragile human with fire in her veins, challenging me in my own domain.

"Your technique," she continues, tapping the parchment, "wastes energy maintaining multiple anchor points. Mine uses a single focal point with branching channels."

The worst part is, I can see exactly how it would work.

I trace the binding runes into the metal, letting magic flow through my fingertips. The blade drinks it in, hungry for power.Dark energy coils beneath the surface like trapped smoke, waiting to be shaped. This enchantment requires precision - one wrong move and the whole thing could-

A small gasp draws my attention. Athena leans forward, those golden-green eyes tracking every movement of my hands. Her lips part slightly, ringlets falling forward as she studies the intricate pattern forming in the steel. The pure fascination on her face...

I fumble the next rune. Magic sputters and hisses against my palm.

"The energy's destabilizing," she murmurs, not even looking up. "You need to reinforce the southern point."

She's right again. Damn her.

I redirect the flow, but my focus keeps drifting to the way she unconsciously mirrors my movements, her delicate fingers sketching patterns in the air. There's an intensity to her concentration that transforms her entire being. Gone is the frightened captive - in her place stands a scholar, a healer who sees past the surface to the underlying structures of magic itself.

The blade pulses between us, drinking in power. Dark energy should repel her, send her stumbling back like most. Instead, she sways closer, drawn to the intricate dance of magic and metal. A strand of honey-gold hair falls across her face. My fingers itch to brush it away.

"There." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Do you see how the patterns align?"

I do. But I'm watching the way understanding lights her features from within, turning those eyes to liquid gold. The fierce intelligence burning behind them stirs something primal in my chest. Something possessive and hungry that has nothing to do with magic.

The enchantment flares, responding to my distraction. Dark energy crackles across the blade's surface. She should flinchaway - any sane person would. Instead, she reaches out, tracing the air above the writhing patterns.

"Beautiful," she breathes.

Yes. She is.

I crush that thought before it can take root. She's human. A temporary diversion. Nothing more.

But when she looks up at me with that blend of defiance and wonder, I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince.

So, I assign her to organizing my journals, telling myself it's better than having her locked in that room all day or facing her telling me off. The real reason gnaws at the back of my mind - I want to watch her work, to understand what makes her different from the other humans I've encountered.

She sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of leather-bound books. Those honey-blonde ringlets fall forward as she sorts them by date and subject. Her small hands handle each tome with reverence, pausing occasionally to study a diagram or trace a rune pattern.

I find myself walking past her workspace more often than necessary, pretending to search for tools or materials. Each time, she's discovered something new to question or critique. Her insights are irritatingly accurate.

"Your organizational system is chaos," she declares, sorting another stack. "How do you find anything?"

"I manage." I lean against the workbench, wings settling against my back. "Though apparently not to your standards."

She shoots me a look that could cut steel. "Standards require actual structure, not just throwing everything wherever it lands."

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