Page 9 of Scorched By Fate

Hammer struck metal. The sound echoed all around the forge, ringing in my ears. I forced rhythm into the chaos, controlling each movement. The forge’s heat clawed at my scales—hot even for a Drakarn—but I didn’t let myself pause. Each strike burned more energy into the tools taking shape beneath my claws.

Forceps. Scalpel. Something articulated, precise.

These weren’t weapons. But the urgency was the same.

Sweat gathered along the edges of my scales as the tools inched closer to completion. The alloy's glow dimmed under the shaping, its heat yielding to my control, but not without resistance. Each adjustment demanded focus, every shift a test of my patience. My claws twitched against the metal.

The ache of tension rippled through my chest again, sharp as the scent that had refused to leave my senses since she was there. It lingered in my head, maddening and intrusive. I clenched my jaw hard enough to make the barbell in my tongue press into the roof of my mouth.

My hammer didn’t slow. Letting it stop would mean letting those thoughts in.

Her voice had settled into the forge, too. Not its tone—no, that was already fading from memory. What clung to me was its edge. A command without invitation. A sharpness that didn’t back down, born of necessity, not arrogance.

I growled low, pressing the blade of my hammer against the edge of the forming scalpel to narrow its contour. Self-preservation urged me to scrub every trace of her from my mind. But self-preservation was never good at winning when instinct screamed its demands. Not with her scent still burning through the air.

This was ridiculous.

The forge cracked around me, molten currents bubbling beneath reinforced grates. Time blurred as I moved from one tool to the next. The hiss of metal bending was the only sound louder than my rhythm. The edges of tools sharpened, taking clearer shapes like whispers pulled into focus.

I thought of her hands as I crafted. Smaller than a Drakarn's; the adjustments for human size needed precision finer than I liked. It had been hard enough to balance efficiency with my usual sense of perfection. Now it was harder with her face flashing through my memory in brief, cutting fractures.

Focused. Strong.

Her face wasn’t supposed to linger. But it did.

Selene.

The tips of my claws scratched against cooled metal as I set the last tool down on my anvil. My breathing steadied slowly, and I stood there a moment longer than I needed to.

The ache took root again, curling beneath my ribs like it had always been there, and I fought the urge to smash the nearest unfinished blade to pieces just for the brief release it might bring.

It had been this way for weeks now. Ever since Rath’s situation had nearly killed him and his mate, I’d kept mydistance. Seeing how it had nearly drowned him—and brought chaos to all of Scalvaris besides—should’ve quenched any flame before it started.

But no matter how many walls I built in my mind, Selene's scent hit them like a battering ram.

I looked at the finished tools on the anvil. The glow of their tempered steel mirrored the heat crawling through my chest. This wasn’t about her.

This was about the work.

About the healers, and whatever sickness clawed them down like prey picked apart by stealthy predators.

I gathered the tools into a sturdy leather wrap, folding it with care. My movements were efficient, detached. Anything to keep my thoughts chained to the task, not toher. The ache still gnawed in my chest.

The path to the healing caverns was quiet. News of the sickness was spreading, and healthy Drakarn were keeping their distance. Only the occasional flicker of heat crystals lit my path, their light fractured and uneven. My grip tightened on the bundle of tools.

When I entered the cavern, the stench of sickness assaulted my senses, burning against the cool edge of healing salves and sterilized metal. The space buzzed with tension, low murmurs from humans and the occasional rasp of a dying breath filtering through the stillness.

Selene was at the center of it all, moving with quick precision. Her black hair was tied back, stray strands sticking to her damp skin as she worked. She was bent over a table, inspecting a makeshift chart pinned to the surface, her hand stilling against the edge of it as she processed something. Her expression was stone—you’d think she wasn’t panicking. But her hand tensed, small but unmistakable, and I saw the edge of fatigue carving its place into her jawline.

She needed to rest. I wanted to rush in and demand she return to her chambers, or, better yet, mine, and sleep until the darkness faded from under her eyes.

I had no right.

A Drakarn guard jostled past me, his tail narrowly avoiding my own. I didn’t move.

She hadn’t noticed me yet.

Part of me wanted to leave. To set the tools down and vanish before she turned, before her eyes met mine and triggered that ache that refused to burn out. But my feet ignored me, carrying me farther into the cavern until my shadow stretched across her table.

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