POV: Raevan
The banquet is smaller tonight, but somehow louder. Fewer nobles, more wine. A treaty delegation from the eastern dunes has just left; the elders insisted on “one last night of ease” before returning to schedules, drills, and the slow grind of politics. I indulge them just enough to keep the peace.
I should be with Kaide in the war room. Instead, I’m at the high table with a goblet in my hand and a headache behind my eyes. Laughter spikes and fades. Music coils through the hall, light and sharp as desert wind. My gaze keeps drifting to the far archway where Soraya stood earlier, listening, half-hidden.
She left when she realized I’d noticed.
Of course she did.
A servant refills my goblet. The liquid glows a deep amber, catching the lanternlight. I take a small sip, more to be polite than anything. It’s sweeter than usual, spiced with something floral.
“You look tired,” Azhara murmurs.
She sits beside me, every line of her perfect. Hair braided, jewels catching light, smile like a practiced blade. The bond between us hums faintly—new, unwanted, forged by duty and pressure instead of choice.
“I am tired,” I say flatly.
She leans closer, perfume wrapping around me. “You can’t keep this pace, Raevan. Council. Patrols. Soraya. It’s too much.”
I tense at the sound of Soraya’s name. “Leave her out of this.”
“She’s in everything,” Azhara replies softly. “Every discussion. Every rumor. Every restless thought in your head.”
I take another sip of wine to avoid answering. The sweetness lingers longer this time, cloying. The edge of my vision blurs faintly. I blink.
Strange.
“Relax,” Azhara says. “For one night, let yourself forget the girl and the bounty and the war you’re inventing for yourself.”
“I’m not—”
The room tilts slightly.
I frown, setting the goblet down. “What did you…?”
Azhara’s expression smooths into innocence. “Too much on an empty stomach, perhaps.”
My heart thuds oddly. The torches streak. The hall feels wrong around the edges, like a tapestry pulled loose. I stand, chair scraping.
Kaide glances up from below, frowning. I raise a hand to signal I’m fine. He doesn’t look convinced.
I leave the high table, needing air. Needing distance. My steps carry me down the side corridor toward the quieter guest wing, away from the music. The stone feels soft under my boots, as if the fortress itself is breathing.
“Raevan,” a voice calls.
Soraya. I turn.
She stands at the far end of the corridor, partly in shadow, hair loose over her shoulders. The sight of her hits me like a blow. Every nerve fires. Every instinct surges.
“Why are you…?” I begin.
The words tangle. My tongue feels thick. Her outline glows faintly, haloed, unreal. My chest tightens—not with fear, but with a desperate, hungry ache I’ve been shoving down for weeks.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I murmur.
“Where else would I be?” she answers.
Her voice is soft, familiar. She steps closer. The world narrows around her. The air between us shimmers. My breath stutters.
The potion—because it must be a potion—gnaws through my senses, confusing everything. My mind knows something is wrong. My body does not care.
“You hate me,” I say roughly. “You told me not to choose you halfway.”
She shakes her head. “I never hated you.”
Her hand lifts, fingertips skimming my jaw. Heat shoots through me. My wolf surges, recognizing, claiming, desperate.
“You’re not real,” I whisper. “You’re in my head. You’re angry. You walk away.”
“I’m here,” she murmurs. “Aren’t I?”
Her eyes shine like they do before she cries. Only tonight there are no tears, just a terrible, fragile softness. I reach for her without thinking, fingers digging into her waist, pulling her closer.
“This is wrong,” I grind out.
“Then stop,” she says.
I can’t.
I press her back against the wall, mouth crashing into hers. The taste of her is everything I remember and everything I never let myself imagine. She responds, fingers clutching at my shoulders. The world dissolves—banquets, politics, bonds, Azhara, all of it burning away under the intensity of this one point of contact.
The potion drags me under. Heat. Breath. Desperation. Her.
It’s all fragments, blurred and bright. Hands, gasps, bodies pressed close. Somewhere, a sliver of awareness screams that this isn’t real, that I’m not thinking, that I’m drowning in something not entirely my own.
I ignore it.
Because in this warped, twisted, poisoned moment—
Soraya is choosing me. And I am too weak to let go. The rest is a smear of sensation and darkness.
Memory breaks. There is no clean end, just a plunge into black.
***
Far down the corridor, unseen, another figure stands in the shadows—Soraya, very real, very still, eyes wide with horror.
She watches me with Azhara. Azhara, whose perfume clings to me. Azhara, whose face I do not see. Because all I see is her.
Soraya’s hand flies to her mouth. The hurt carved into her features is sharper than any knife. She turns away.
And I never see her go.