Lord of the realm

"Morgana," he murmured against her ear, his voice rough.

"Not here. Not like this."

She blinked, confusion flickering for an instant. "What—"

He rose, steadying her as she swayed. "If we are to sin, my lady, I want you sober enough to regret it properly."

The words came out half a jest, but the weight beneath them was true.

Her lips parted, then curved—barely—but the faintest ghost of a smile touched them. "You are impossible."

"Only inconveniently honorable," he replied with a wink.

"Honorable?" She almost laughed.

"You hide it well."

"Don't tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation."

She said nothing as he led her away from the heat and noise, through the perfumed dark of the garden, the air cooler now. The sounds of pleasure faded behind them, leaving only the quiet rustle of leaves.

Jaenor glanced back once at the courtyard glowing like some decadent vision of paradise. He thought of Roland's smirk, of Viviannah's hungry eyes, of the nobles writhing like creatures half-lost to pleasure and pretense.

A world of power reversed, yet still bound by the same thirst.

They think themselves gods, he thought wryly, but every one of them bleeds for want of something real.

Beside him, Morgana walked in silence, her composure returning with every breath. Her hand brushed his once, deliberate, lingering—a promise or a warning, he could not tell.

"And if I come to you," she said at last, her voice low, "sober and certain...?"

He turned to her, meeting her eyes. "Then, my lady, I will sin gladly."

Her gaze held his for a heartbeat longer, then she looked away. "Be ready, then."

He grinned. "I was born ready."

And though the night wind cooled his skin, Jaenor could still taste her, still feel her hips moving against him, and still hear the soft sound she had made when she broke beneath her own restraint.

He smiled faintly, half in pride, half in torment.

Ah, what a cute woman.

***

Far from the castle, in the verdant reaches,

The night had fallen thick and heavy over the small town, the kind of darkness that seemed to swallow sound and hope alike.

Rena pressed herself against the rough wooden wall of their prison, her heart hammering so hard she was certain the guards outside could hear it.

Beside her, Baren's breathing was controlled but tense, his eyes catching what little moonlight filtered through the single narrow window.

"The binding spell is weakest at night," Rena whispered, her fingers tracing patterns in the air as she'd been doing for hours, testing, probing, searching for any weakness in the Origin that held them.

"I can feel it. Like... like a rope that's starting to fray."

"How long?" Baren's voice was barely audible, his draconic heritage giving him exceptional hearing that let him track the guards' movements outside.

"Minutes. Maybe less."

She closed her eyes, reaching deep into herself, past the suffocating pressure of Hilda's spell, down to the core where her power resided.

There.

Just there.

A flicker of true strength, her origin energy—the raw, primal force.

It was dangerous, unpredictable, but it was hers.

"Two guards at the door," Baren reported. "Three more patrolling the perimeter. We'll have maybe thirty seconds before the alarm is raised."

"Then we'd better make them count."

Rena opened her eyes, and they glowed faintly with inner light.

She spoke no words—words were for shaped and controlled power. Origin energy responded to will alone. The binding spell around her core shattered like glass, and power flooded through her veins like liquid fire.

The door to their cell exploded outward.

Splinters of wood flew in all directions, and the two guards standing watch barely had time to turn before Rena was on them. She thrust her hands forward, and pure force—invisible, unstoppable—slammed into them. They flew backward, crashing into the building across the narrow street with sickening thuds.

Baren was already moving, his bonds falling away as his own power surged. He grabbed Rena's arm, pulling her forward. "Run!"

They sprinted down the darkened street, their feet pounding against packed stones.

Shouts erupted behind them as the alarm was raised.

Lights blazed to life in windows.

Doors burst open.

The forest lay ahead, a wall of darkness that promised concealment if they could just reach it. Rena's lungs burned, her legs pumping as hard as they could.

Behind them, the sounds of pursuit grew louder—boots on ground, weapons being drawn, orders being shouted.

They reached the treeline and plunged into the undergrowth. Branches whipped at their faces, and roots threatened to trip them, but they pushed forward, driven by desperation and the primal need to survive.

"There!" A voice shouted from behind them.

"They're heading into the deep forest!"

Rena risked a glance back and saw torches bobbing in the darkness, at least a dozen of them, spreading out to cut off their escape routes. The Blaedred sect soldiers were organized, efficient, and far too close.

A figure stepped from behind a massive oak directly in their path. Rena nearly collided with him before she recognized the crimson robes and the cold eyes.

A Blaedred witch, her hands already moving through complex gestures.

Baren didn't give her time to finish.

With a roar that was decidedly inhuman, he charged forward. His fist connected with the witch's jaw, and there was a crack of breaking bone. The witch crumpled, her spell dying half-formed.

"Keep moving!" Baren growled, his voice rougher now, deeper. His eyes blazed like molten gold, and steam rose from his skin.

They ran for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. The forest grew denser, the undergrowth thicker. Rena's dress—the same one she'd been wearing when captured—was torn in a dozen places, and blood from scratches ran down her arms.

Behind them, the pursuit never wavered.

"We can't outrun them," Rena gasped, her side cramping. "They know these woods."

"Then we fight," Baren said grimly.

They emerged into a small clearing, moonlight streaming down to illuminate the open space.

It was a tactical mistake—no cover, nowhere to hide—but Rena was too exhausted to care. She turned, placing her back to Baren's, and watched as their pursuers burst from the treeline.

Eight soldiers, all wearing the crimson and black of the Blaedred Skull Sect, formed a semicircle around them. They carried swords and spears, their faces grim and determined. Behind them came two more witches, their hands already glowing with prepared attacks.

"Surrender," one of the soldiers commanded. "The Lord wants you alive, but he didn't say you had to be unharmed."

"I've got a better idea," Rena said, and reached deep into her origin energy once more.

This time, she didn't hold back.

The power erupted from her like a detonation. Pure force radiated outward in a visible shockwave, distorting the air and bending light. The soldiers in front of her were lifted off their feet and hurled backward, their bodies ragdolling through the air. One hit a tree trunk with enough force to snap his spine. Another landed in a heap and didn't move. The remaining three scrambled to their feet, fear now evident in their eyes.

Baren moved with devastating force. He was faster than any human, stronger than any natural creature. His clawed hands—when had they become clawed—raked across a soldier's chest, tearing through leather armor like paper. Another soldier thrust a spear at him, and Baren caught the shaft, snapped it like kindling, and drove the broken end into the man's thigh.

The soldier screamed and went down.

One of the witches unleashed her power attack—a lance of crackling energy that streaked toward Rena. She threw up a shield of raw power, and the attack splashed against it like water against stone. She pushed back, and her counterattack caught the witch full in the chest.

She convulsed once and collapsed, smoke rising from her robes.

The second witch turned and fled.

The remaining soldiers, seeing their advantage evaporate, followed his example.

Within seconds, the clearing was empty save for the dead and dying.

Rena stood panting, her entire body shaking from the effort and the adrenaline. Using origin energy was exhilarating and terrifying—so much power, so little control. She could feel it wanting to continue, to destroy, to burn everything around her to ash.

"Rena." Baren's voice was strained.

"We need to move. Now. That will bring—"

The howl cut through the night like a blade through silk. It was followed by another, then another. Deep, resonant, filled with hunger and rage. They came from all directions, surrounding them.

"Oh no," Rena whispered.

The black wolves emerged from the forest like nightmares given flesh. They were massive—ten feet tall at the shoulder, with fur so dark it seemed to absorb light. Their eyes glowed red, and their teeth were like daggers. Saliva dripped from their jaws, hissing where it touched the ground. These weren't natural creatures. They stank of dark power, of perversion and corruption.

And there were six of them.

"Run," Baren said, his voice barely recognizable.

"Run now!"