Page 126 of Claimed In Darkness

And I am done running.

Zephiran makes a move first.

I don’t even need to look at him to know.

The shift of air, the flex of muscle, the sharp snap of steel leaving its sheath—I feel it all.

Like he and I are wired into the same fucking storm.

He does not ask questions.

Does not hesitate.

His blade is in his hand before the first man even steps into the clearing.

And for a moment—just a single, fleeting breath—I almost want to stop him.

This is not a battle.

Not really.

This is a claim.

A message. A fucking collection.

They did not come here to kill us.

They came here to take me.

And I am not sure I want to stop them.

But Zephiran is different from me. He does not hesitate because he is still fighting for me.

He still believes there is something left to save.

That is his fucking mistake.

"Stay behind me," he orders, voice sharp, a growl of command, of instinct, of a man who does not realize he doesn’t own me.

The first soldier lunges.

Zephiran cuts him down.

The second barely lifts his sword before Zephiran is on him, the blade slicing clean through chainmail, through ribs, through the fragile fucking thing that keeps men standing.

A war begins.

And I watch.

Zephiran is fighting a battle I am not sure I want to win.

I should be at his side, blade in hand, spine flush against his back, moving as one the way we always have.

But I don’t.

I hesitate.

Not out of fear.

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