Page 40 of Wicked Depths

And there she is.

Waiting.

Perched on the edge of one of the large dining tables, her legs crossed, silver hair cascading over her shoulders, her sheer robe clinging to every curve, leaving little to the imagination.

Temptation incarnate.

She tilts her head, a smirk curling at the edges of her lips. "Avoiding me, Dragon Queen?"

I step forward, my presence swallowing hers, letting her feel the heat, the power thrumming beneath my skin.

"I have been handling more important matters than your games, siren."

She clicks her tongue, pushing off the table, the movement making the delicate fabric shift, exposing the soft swell of her breasts, the long lines of her legs.

My gaze flickers—too briefly.

She notices.

Her smirk deepens, wicked and knowing. "Strange. After last night, I’d have thought there’d be little room in that sharp mind of yours for anything but me."

I step closer, the space between us shrinking. "Do not mistake this for something it is not."

She leans in, lips ghosting my jaw, a taunting whisper. "And what exactly is it, Nyxara?"

I exhale sharply, forcing away the temptation she so carelessly dangles in front of me. My grip tightens around her wrist, unyielding. "It is war, Vaela. And you will fall in line, or you will be useless to me."

Her smirk doesn’t falter, but I feel the subtle shift in her breath, the way her body reacts to my command despite her endless need to test me.

"Now, come," I order, yanking her forward. "If you wish to stand at my side in this war, then you will learn the cost of it."

And with that, I pull her with me—into the heart of battle preparations.

Into the truth of what is coming.

Chapter

Eleven

VAELA

Ihave been many things in my life. A queen in my own right. A goddess to those foolish enough to worship me. A nightmare draped in moonlight and the whisper of the tide.

But never—never—have I been a mere observer.

And yet, as I stand here in the war chamber, watching Nyxara call forth her generals, I feel as though I have stepped into something ancient, something far older than myself.

The room is vast, its high ceilings lost to shadow, the carved onyx war table flickering under the dim blue-green flames of enchanted sconces. The land of Varelieth is etched into the table’s surface, each mountain, river, and valley meticulously rendered in silver and gold, a testament to the kingdom’s history.

But my attention is not on the table.

No, it is on the creatures that step out of the darkness.

At first, I mistake them for shadows—shifting, swirling things that move like liquid night. But then I feel them. See them.

The Sentinels.

They emerge from the edges of the room, tall, hooded figures, flickering between corporeal and ghostly mist, their violet eyesglowing beneath their hoods. Their armor—if it can even be called that—is woven from the fabric of shadow itself, shifting like living darkness, molded to their spectral forms. They do not make a sound, their movements fluid, unnatural, as if they do not belong to this world at all.

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