Page 4 of Scorched By Fate

I turned, setting my path deliberately away from the market’s packed heart. “Be smarter than him, you idiot,” I muttered to the emptiness ahead. I repeated it like a mantra, the words as bitter as sand trapped under my tongue.

Be smarter than Rath. Be smarter.

But even as I turned my back on her, I swore I could still taste the way her scent lingered on the grit-flavored air.

And the burn wouldn’t subside.

THREE

SELENE

The forge was a beast.

Heat slammed into me the second I stepped inside, thick and heavy enough to drown in. It burrowed under my skin, snagged in my lungs, a dare to even try and breathe. The noise was a physical assault—hammer on metal, the shriek of steam.

Mercy for sensitive ears or headaches? Forget about it.

Definitely not my happy place.

Sweat already slicked the back of my neck as I crossed the threshold. Mysha’s list was crumpled tight in my hand, a knot of worry cinching tight in my chest. The elder healer’s fainting spell from earlier wouldn’t leave me alone, even if she’d snapped at me and waved me off like it was normal. I wasn’t buying it. Not after that glimpse of her hands—bruises under the scales, faint and mottled.

Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just her temper.

The noise clanged louder, deeper, as I moved farther into the cavern. Tables overflowed with tools, metal scraps, and surprisingly delicate sketches of blades pinned to the rough rock walls. Chaos, but organized chaos. Everything had its place, even if it looked like a disaster to anyone else. I got the symmetry of it,even as I edged around things that looked sharp enough to slice me open by accident.

Then I saw him.

Dead center in the forge’s heart. Heat and firelight framed him like he’d clawed his way out of the flames themselves. Broad shoulders, green scales catching shadows of black, wings folded back but still massive. He moved like he was born to this, hammer rising and falling on a glowing blade, muscles flexing under his scales with each strike. His focus was a laser, locked on the metal as if daring it to disobey.

I stopped at the edge of his space, shifting my weight. Underneath the worry for Mysha, I was suddenly too aware of being an outsider. Even more than usual. The forge washisterritory. I was just … human and wrapped up in human problems he probably couldn’t care less about.

I cleared my throat, voice quiet against the forge’s roar. “Vyne.”

He didn’t falter, hammer still in its rhythm, but his eyes flicked up. Sharp, slit pupils narrowed as they found me. His chest rose in a controlled breath, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before it smoothed out. Neutral. Not friendly, not warm. Just … less annoyed.

“You’re early,” he said, voice rough as rocks grinding together. The hammer came down one last time, then he plunged the blade into a shallow pool of liquid. Steam hissed up, like an angry spirit escaping.

I arched a brow, holding up Mysha’s wrinkled list. “I didn’t realize there was a schedule."

A ghost of a smirk touched the corner of his mouth. It didn’t quite make it all the way. He tossed the hammer onto the workbench, the clang echoing and making me wince.

“Let me see it.” Hand out, palm up, claws twitching. I hesitated for a beat. But he didn't owe me a kind tone. I stepped closer and held out the crumpled list.

His fingers brushed mine as he took it, and one word slammed into my brain before I could block it—warm. Too warm. Hot actually. Like fire licking skin, but without the burn, just that unsettling, sharp pleasure that faded too fast. Vyne’s touch was … something else.

Something dangerous.

I snatched my hand back, tucked it behind me like it had suddenly betrayed me. He didn’t seem to notice. Or care. His attention was glued to the list, eyes narrowed at the scribbled handwriting.

“Is Mysha trying to kill me with this?” he muttered after a second, tilting the paper like that would magically decode it.

I bit back a laugh. “I'm pretty sure her penmanship is worse than her bedside manner.” I was still struggling to learn to read the Drakarn language. My translator made speaking easy. Reading Mysha's handwriting was like trying to decipher hieroglyphics.

That got a low huff of amusement.

“Half of this is gibberish,” he grumbled, squinting harder at the messy script. “You sure she didn’t spatter ink on the paper and call it good?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out.” I folded my arms, shifted my weight. The forge was roasting, but the back-and-forth made it almost pleasant. “But she wouldn't ask for anything we didn't need.”

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