Page 12 of Eluvonia
His hand clamps over mine, startlingly firm despite the tremor in his body. His eyes meet mine, desperate and resolute. “Run,” he rasps, his voice rough but commanding. “You have to run, Aeris.”
I shake my head violently, tears streaming down my face. “No! I won’t leave you! We can still—”
“Aeris!” he barks, his voice sharp enough to cut through my panic. He pushes me back with a surge of strength that belies his injuries. “Go! Now!”
A rustle behind us draws my attention. My blood runs cold as the Dragon male rises, his bloodied hand gripping his sword. He grins, a twisted mockery of triumph. “You’re going to regret that,” he sneers, his eyes blazing with vengeance.
“Leynard!” I scream, but he’s already pushing himself upright, leaning heavily on his sword. He turns to face the threat, his body trembling but unyielding. “Go,” he says again, softer this time, his eyes fierce yet pleading. “Run.” A sob tears from my throat as I force myself to stand.
Every step away feels like a betrayal, but his shouted commands and the clash of steel behind me propel me forward.
The forest blurs around me, shadows and flames merging into a chaotic haze. Tears streak my face as I push through the brush, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I stumble to a stop, pressing a hand against the rough bark of a tree, the only thing keeping me upright.
Bent over, one hand braced on my knee, I gulp down air, willing my heart to slow.
Then—a branch snaps ahead.
My head jerks up, eyes scanning the trees, pulse hammering.
A male leans against a tree, watching me like he has all the time in the world. Relaxed. Unbothered. As if he isn’t standing in the middle of chaos.
His tousled dark hair and piercing blue eyes gleam with wicked amusement, pinning me in place. His sharp jawline and high cheekbones give him an almost otherworldly beauty—the kind that feels more like a threat than an invitation.
He is disgustingly gorgeous. For a Dragon.
I switch my stance, straightening, angling my dagger toward him, bracing myself. He doesn’t flinch. Just chuckles—a deep, knowing sound that slides down my spine like silk laced with thorns.
With effortless, lazy grace, he pushes off the tree, straightening to his full height.
The shadows at his feet stir, curling up his legs like living smoke. They slither over his fitted, functional dark pants, winding around pockets that likely conceal weapons—or something worse. The tendrils climb higher, wrappingaround his bare torso with an almost languid grace.
Of course, he’s not wearing a shirt. Because why would he bother with a shirt?
Moonlight spills over his chest, illuminating every carved ridge of muscle, sculpted and honed like something out of a fever dream—or a nightmare.
The shadows snake down his arms, trailing over the gray wraps that spiral from just below his elbows to his hands, leaving only the obsidian tips of his fingers exposed.
His black wings twitch behind him, the moonlight catching on their edges, giving them an eerie, ethereal glow. They move slowly, deliberately—like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Then the shadows tighten around him, coiling down his arms, pooling in his hands. With a flick of his wrist, they dissolve, vanishing as if they were never there. A simple display of power. A reminder of what he could do.
His fingers lengthen, the tips sharpening into wickedly curved black claws, polished and gleaming like onyx. He flexes them, testing their sharpness, the sound of claw against claw like a blade whispering free of its sheath. Then, with deliberate ease, he drags them across the tree beside him.
Deep, jagged grooves tear through the bark.
I swallow hard.
And he just keeps smiling.
“What’s the matter, Fae?” he drawls, his voice smooth as silk, rich with amusement. “Speechless already?”
The air around us thickens, heavy with his malevolent energy. Every muscle in my body tenses, my instincts screaming at me to run. But I don’t. My pride keeps me rooted to the spot, even as the darkness around him seems to swell andtwist, bending the moonlight into unnatural shapes
He takes a slow step toward me, his smirk deepening. “Well, at least this raid won’t be entirely dull.” he says, his voice laced with mockery.
The air between us crackles with tension as he advances, every step deliberate. My hand tightens around the hilt of my dagger, its small, worn blade a feeble defense against his towering presence and deadly claws.
