KAELEN STORMRIDER
The night wind howled outside the castle, lashing against the stone walls in an unrelenting fury that mirrored the storm within Kaelen's chest. The curse of Druumari gnawed at him from the inside out, an invisible weight that pressed down on his every step. His pulse quickened as he paced across his chamber, his boots thudding against the cold stone floor with each angry step.
The blood oath. The promise he had been forced to swear.
It was a damn trap—a prison of his own making, even if now the bracelets that had been containing how magic powers have been taken off by Seraphine herself the night before. There had to be a way out. There had to be. Kaelen couldn't allow himself to be tethered to this place any longer, bound by blood to a land that he hated, that he resented, that he could never fully understand.
But it was no use. The curse was a constant presence, always there, in the back of his mind, pressing against his thoughts. His every attempt to leave Druumari had been futile. His escape, once so certain, had become a cruel joke. No matter where he went, no matter how far he traveled within the kingdom's borders, there was always an invisible force pulling him back, dragging him deeper into its clutches.
Kaelen slammed his fist into the stone wall, frustration rippling through him like a violent tide. The sensation was strange, almost unnatural—the curse seemed to feed off his anger, strengthening with every passing moment, tightening its grip around his chest.
"Damn it!" he muttered through gritted teeth. He couldn't escape. He couldn't even leave the citadel without feeling the pull of the land, the weight of the oath hanging over him like a shadow. Druumari's magic was unlike anything he had ever encountered before—dark, ancient, and far more powerful than he had ever imagined.
The storm magic that had once been his greatest strength was useless here. The wind, the sea, the power he wielded—none of it could break him free from the curse. The land had claimed him, and no matter how hard he fought, no matter how fiercely he struggled, he couldn't break its hold.
Kaelen collapsed into the leather couch in the corner of the chamber, its cushions groaning beneath the weight of his tension. His skin was still slick from the pulse of Druumari's magic, his chest bare and rising hard with every breath. Only the low gleam of candlelight played over the sculpted lines of his torso, casting shadows across scars both old and recent. The ritual had ended, but the storm inside him raged on.
He scrubbed both hands through his hair, dragging his fingers roughly through the dark strands, as if he could claw the chaos out of his skull by force. But it wouldn't leave. It never left now—not since her.
His eyes flicked toward the floor.
He remembered the blood—his and hers—dark, soaked into the stone floor of her chamber like a brand, like a signature written in flesh. The oath. The moment he'd been caught, not with iron or spirit bindings, but with a whisper, a touch, and a goddamned look.
"Damn her," he muttered, voice low, raw, guttural.
His fists clenched on his knees. Not because of the oath. Not even because he had lost the battle for his freedom. But because she made it all feel like it had never been his to lose in the first place.
Seraphine.
Queen Seraphine.
Her name tasted like venom and heat on his tongue, like the kind of fire that burned slow and deep—searing everything it touched, leaving nothing untouched.
He hated her. He had to hate her. The way she looked at him—calculating, aloof, like he was just another piece on her board. A weapon. A threat. A reluctant ally.
But beneath all of that ice, there was something else. Something darker. Something that curled around his senses like smoke—elusive, taunting, thick with promise. Her gaze, indifferent as it seemed, had flared at the edge. Like she wanted to consume him. Like she wanted him to burn.
And gods help him, his body had answered. Every time she came close, every time her voice dipped, every time she looked at him like she knew—something in him responded. His blood ran hotter when she entered the room. His jaw clenched when she so much as breathed his name. And when she bent low, her mouth to his ear, her scent wrapping around him like a noose—
Kaelen swore again, louder this time, dragging a hand down his face.
He hated that he felt her still. In his pulse. In his thoughts. In the ache behind his ribs that had nothing to do with the curse and everything to do with her.
He was bound now. Not just by blood or spirit or spell.
But by her.
And worst of all, he'd known. Somewhere deep down, even before she'd pressed that dagger into his palm, even before her breath had brushed his skin, he'd known: there was no escaping Seraphine.
There never had been.
He leaned back against the seat. The fatigue set in like a weight across his shoulders—but it wasn't just exhaustion. It was surrender. Silent. Unwanted. Inevitable.
His eyes shut.
And still, her voice echoed in his skull.
I told you, you'd kneel at my feet.
And he had.
But not because she forced him to.
No—Kaelen realized, with slow, grim horror—
Because a part of him wanted to.
There had to be a way out, right? There had to be a loophole in this cursed oath, a crack in the magic that could set him free. He couldn't—wouldn't—accept that his fate was sealed, that he would be forced to fight for a kingdom he didn't care about, to protect a land that had never once shown him mercy.
Yet, in his heart, he knew that the more he fought, the more he resisted, the stronger the curse grew. The land fed on his anger, on his unwillingness to accept it. It was a cruel game, one that he was destined to lose.
He ran a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes as exhaustion crept over him. He was so damn tired. Tired of the constant struggle, tired of fighting a losing battle.
And yet, he couldn't stop himself from fighting. It was in his blood, in his very nature. He couldn't surrender to this fate, not without a fight.
The door to his chamber creaked open—slow, deliberate.
Kaelen didn't look up. He didn't have to. Her presence hit him like thunder before the lightning, stirring the air, shifting its weight. It was electric—an invisible storm that swept across the room the moment she stepped into it. Her energy coiled around his spine, made his fingers curl against the couch, made his breathing tighten.
"Seraphine," he muttered, her name like a curse and a confession in the same breath.
The silence that followed only deepened the tension. She didn't announce herself. She didn't need to. The very bones of the castle seemed to hold their breath when she entered. And tonight, she didn't wear armor. She wore silver silk—gods-damned silver silk—that clung to her like a second skin, delicate and unforgiving, catching the candlelight and draping over every inch of her in maddening contrast. The thin straps framed her bare shoulders, the fabric slipping just loosely enough at the chest to tease, to tempt, to torment.
He didn't want to look.
He looked anyway.
Her voice cut the silence like a blade. "Still brooding, I see."
He scoffed without turning toward her, his voice sharp and low. "What did you expect? Gratitude?"
She stepped further into the room, slow and precise. He could hear the soft shift of fabric with every motion. It wasn't loud—but it was intimate, maddeningly so. "No," she said. "But I did expect you to stop sulking like a child."
His eyes snapped to hers then, molten with anger and something far less noble. "You bound me with a curse," he growled. "Forgive me if I'm not eager to play the loyal dog at your heel."
Seraphine tilted her head, her expression unreadable, cool as winter frost—yet something in her eyes burned. "I offered you a choice, Kaelen. You made it."
"I made no choice," he snarled, standing suddenly. The motion was fast, heated. The muscles in his chest tensed beneath the golden light, still bare, still raw from the weight of the binding magic. "I was cornered. Threatened. And now I'm trapped in this cursed land, shackled by something I didn't ask for."
He took a step forward, then another. The distance between them shrank fast—too fast—and suddenly she was close enough that he could see the subtle rise and fall of her chest beneath that infernal silk, the steady beat of her pulse in her throat. Her scent was there, too—jasmine and nightfire, a blend that made his blood feel too hot.
"I want my freedom," he said, quieter now. Fierce. Gritted. "After the battles—after this ends—I want to leave. I don't care about my father, or the kingdom that cast me out. I want the sea, the wind, freedom. Not this—" he gestured around them "—not you, and not your damn crown."
But his voice faltered slightly at the end—because he could see it in her eyes. That calm, imperious mask she wore was slipping, just a little. Enough for him to glimpse the heat beneath it. Enough to make his fists clench at his sides again, not from anger this time—but from something worse. Need.
Seraphine didn't flinch. Her gaze remained locked on his, unreadable, cool. "You want freedom?" she asked. "Then earn it. Win the war. Break the curse. Survive. Maybe then, I'll release you. But until then, Kaelen Stormrider…" She stepped into him—closer than was proper, closer than was wise—and looked up at him with dangerous poise. "You belong to this land. You belong to me."
The words hit him like a blow to the chest. His breath caught. Every nerve in his body screamed.
He didn't back away.
"Let me go," he said again, low and raw, almost a plea, almost a threat. "Say the word. Release me."
Seraphine's lips quirked into something like a smile—but it wasn't kind. "No."
The word was soft. Final.
She turned then, just slightly, as if to leave—but lingered a heartbeat too long. Her hand brushed against his as she moved, featherlight. Not a touch, not really. But the nearness of it burned hotter than fire. And gods, she knew it. He saw it in the flick of her lashes. She knew.
"You knelt for me," she said, voice silken. "And you looked beautiful kneeling."
Kaelen's heart slammed against his ribs. He stepped into her space before he could stop himself. His jaw clenched. His breath hitched.
"I will never kneel at your feet again, Seraphine," he said, voice a low growl, thick with defiance—and something darker, something far more dangerous.
Her gaze flicked to his mouth.
Then to his throat.
Then back to his eyes.
"Pity," she murmured. "You wear surrender so well."
He didn't move.
She didn't either.
The air between them crackled, heavy and hot. There was no need to name what lived in that space now—it pulsed too clearly. Want. Fury. A hunger neither of them dared feed—but neither could walk away from.
She turned and walked out at last, slow and sure, the silver silk whispering around her hips like a threat.
Kaelen exhaled only once the door clicked shut behind her. His hands shook.
Gods help him.
She was going to ruin him.
And part of him wanted her to.