Author’s Note:
Heads-up — later in this chapter there’s a spicier NSFW scene. That means sexual themes and mature content. If that’s not your thing, feel free to skip ahead when you reach the warning markers.

Chapter 2

Merci screamed at Lucas, seething. “That motherfucker! If it weren’t for this bastard silver, I’d rip him apart—limb from smug limb. I’d drain his lard-ass dry, but with the way he eats and waddles around, I’d probably end up with bloodrot or sugar-sick. He smells like wine, fat, and spoiled meat—no exercise, all indulgence. His blood’s probably so thick with grease it would clog my fangs.”

Lucas tiptoed around the clearly fuming vampire, wary in the way one might be with a blade still humming from battle. He cocked one brow, deliberately calm in the face of her fury. “Clog your fangs?” he asked, his tone dripping with mock curiosity.

Merci snapped her crimson eyes toward him, glare sharp enough to shear steel. “You know what I mean!”

Lucas let the silence stretch until it became dangerous, then cleared his throat, steering them toward safer ground. “Speaking of you feeding… when was the last time?”

Her first instinct was to bristle. “That’s none—” She cut herself off, jaw tightening. This wasn’t just anyone prying. This was Lucas.

“You saw the last time,” she muttered, softer now, her anger still simmering beneath the surface. “It’s been a while. And… to tell the truth, I am feeling a bit peckish.”

They stepped into their shared living space—a modest, dimly lit chamber tucked away in the fortress’s guest wing. The walls were rough-hewn stone and heavy beams of oak, thick rugs scattered across the floor to hold back the mountain chill. The faint smell of steel and leather followed them in, mingling with the sharper tang of scorched magic that always clung to their gear after a fight.

Without ceremony, they began stripping off their armor. Every piece was heavy with dried blood, ash, and sweat from the day’s grim work. Each strap unbuckled and each greave removed felt like shedding a layer of skin.

They were filthy, both of them. Painted in the aftermath of days spent carving their way through bandit camps, executing justice where no law dared to tread. Necessary work, yes—but brutal. Some might have called it slaughter. And those critics wouldn’t have been wrong.

Lucas peeled out of his breastplate with a grunt, standing in nothing but a sweat-soaked singlet clinging to his chest and a pair of worn breeches hanging low on his hips. Blood and dust stained the fabric, but he didn’t care. Wordless, he padded toward the washroom, boots left neatly at the threshold.

Merci trailed behind, stripping with none of his discipline. She tugged her crimson coat free and let it drop, then her vest, then her shirt—each piece discarded where it fell, leaving a trail of bloody cloth across the floorboards. “Ugh, finally,” she muttered, brushing past him and leaping into the massive stone tub with a splash that sent water sloshing over the edges.

“Mmmmmm.” She sank into the steaming water with a sigh of pure bliss. “That’s perfect.”

Lucas followed, folding his arms as he leaned against the doorway. “I set a trigger spell before we left. Keyed it to activate once we stepped back onto the estate grounds.”

He nodded toward the tub. “Heat glyph. Delayed ignition. Water warms itself the second the wards recognize our return.”

Merci cracked one glowing red eye open. “You pre-heated the bath with magic?”

“I planned ahead,” he replied, dry as parchment. “Didn’t feel like washing gore off with freezing mountain water.”

“Practical and considerate,” she smirked. “Careful, Lucas—you’re starting to sound like a real person.”

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s not start making wild accusations.”

“Anyway, get in here,” Merci drawled, stretching her arms lazily along the tub’s edge. “I need you to wash the blood and muck out of my hair. Pretty sure I’ve got a piece of someone’s lung stuck behind my ear.”

Lucas snorted, already tugging off the last of his gear. “Charming as ever.”

He stepped into the tub opposite her, sinking down with a long sigh as the heat bled into his sore muscles. For a moment, the world outside the washroom fell away.

Merci shifted forward, presenting her back. “Be a dear, would you? You’ve got better reach.”

Lucas muttered under his breath but moved behind her, gathering her thick black hair into his hands. He worked his fingers through it slowly, carefully untangling blood-matted strands with surprising gentleness.

“Damn,” he muttered. “You weren’t exaggerating. This might actually be lung.”

“Told you,” she said with a grin. “If it starts whispering, just drown me.”

“I’ll think about it.” He worked soap into a lather, massaging it into her scalp with deliberate pressure, slow and methodical.

“Don’t expect me to write a eulogy.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she murmured, leaning her head back slightly, eyes half-lidded. “But if you did, I’d want it to be sarcastic. And dramatic. Maybe set something on fire.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The silence that followed was warm, wrapped in steam and the comfort of routine. Lucas rinsed her hair carefully, pouring water over her head until the dirt and gore ran clear. This wasn’t new—this ritual had happened a dozen times before, maybe more—but there was always something unspoken beneath it. Something neither of them bothered to name.

“You’ve got good hands,” she said softly. “For someone who sets people on fire for a living.”

Lucas paused just long enough for her to notice. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

He gave her hair one last sweep with his hand. “There. Lung-free.”

Merci tilted her head back, smirking at him over her shoulder. “You’re the best. I still reserve the right to mock you in public.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

They both sank deeper into the tub, shoulders brushing as they leaned against the edge. The heat dulled the ache in their muscles, melted the weight of exhaustion, gave them—if only for a moment—peace.

But peace never lasted long.

That familiar gleam flickered in her crimson eyes, bright and dangerous. Trouble.

She turned toward him, lips curling into a smirk that was equal parts invitation and challenge. “Now… I could use attention of another kind.”

⚠️ NSFW Content Ahead 

She leaned closer, her smirk softening into something slower, deliberate. “Now… I could use attention of another kind.”

Lucas didn’t roll his eyes this time. He simply raised one brow, already recognizing the fire in her gaze. “Thought you’d never ask,” he murmured.

Merci grinned, flashing just enough fang to make it a promise. “Oh, I wasn’t asking.”

His body eased forward, arms slipping around her waist, pulling her in with practiced familiarity. Their lips met—hard, urgent, more clash than caress. Water rippled around them as the tub became their battlefield.

She shoved him back against the stone rim—not to stop him, but to reset the board. “Too slow,” she teased. “You’ll never keep up if you let me set the pace.”

Lucas smirked, eyes flashing. “Then I’ll just have to steal it back.” He lifted her from the water in one smooth motion. Her legs locked around his waist, pale skin slick against his chest, clinging to him like she belonged there.

They stumbled into the chamber beyond, dripping and steaming, leaving a trail across the stone floor. The door groaned shut behind them, sealing the world out.

He lowered her to the bed with deliberate force, looming over her like a commander about to issue orders. But Merci only laughed, tugging him down with her, red eyes glowing. “Careful, soldier—you sound like you think you’re in charge.”

“Somebody has to be,” he muttered against her lips.

Her legs tightened, hips rising to meet his. A gasp tore from her throat as he pressed into her. “Not bad,” she breathed, half-mocking, half-moan.

Lucas’s reply came low, almost a growl. “Not done.”

They moved like duelists—measured at first, then escalating into reckless strikes. Every thrust, every gasp, every clawing hand carried that rhythm of challenge, the clash of wills as much as bodies. Her nails raked lines down his back. His grip on her hips was unrelenting, keeping her locked to him.

Merci’s lips curled into a feral smile as her fangs lengthened. “You’re lucky I like it rough.”

“Lucky?” Lucas rasped into her ear. “I call it survival.”

When his release surged, her fangs struck. Blood and pleasure crashed together, a storm that left him gasping as arcane fire bled into her veins.

But Merci wasn’t finished. With a vicious twist she flipped him, straddling his hips, crimson eyes blazing. Blood ran from her lips as she licked them clean, smirking. “Better view from up here.”

Pinned beneath her, Lucas let out a strained laugh. “Figures. You’ve never been much for subtlety.”

Their rhythm rebuilt—harder, faster, merciless. The chamber filled with the sounds of war turned intimate: breath, skin, and pounding hearts.

At last she collapsed against him, whispering ragged into his ear. “Mine.”

Lucas’s hands still gripped her hips, even as his chest heaved. He managed a tired chuckle. “Sure. For now. Are you done, or—”

“Oh, hell no,” Merci cut him off, her laugh low and dangerous. “I’m just letting you catch your breath. I can go all night.”

Before he could muster a reply, she rolled her hips and mounted him again, red eyes blazing with hunger. His groan turned into a growl, half pleasure, half exasperation.

“Relentless,” he muttered, fingers digging into her thighs.

“Complaining?” she teased, leaning down to bite his lower lip before kissing him deep. “Didn’t think so.”

The pace slowed eventually, but only when both were pushed to the edge of exhaustion. When she finally collapsed against his chest, her fangs retracted, and her voice softened to a murmur. “There. Now you’re mine for real.”

Lucas’s arms tightened around her as his breathing steadied. “If I’d known that was your plan, I might’ve fought harder.”

She smirked against his skin. “You? Fight harder? Please. You were begging by the end.”

He huffed out a laugh, too tired to argue but unwilling to give her the last word. “Must’ve been someone else. I don’t beg.”

“Sure,” she said, dragging the word out with smug satisfaction.

For a while they just lay there, tangled in sweat and sheets, the quiet broken only by the rhythm of their breathing. The world outside didn’t matter—the fortress, Laundervan, the war. All of it felt far away.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Lucas muttered, voice low, half-groan, half-laugh.

“Probably,” Merci said without hesitation, settling comfortably against him, her smirk fading into something softer as she curled into his chest. “But what a way to go.”

His hand lingered at her back, fingers splayed against cool skin, tracing the curve of her spine almost unconsciously. 

End of NSFW 

Later, the storm passed.

Their bodies lay tangled beneath the blankets, skin still warm and slick from sweat, limbs comfortably intertwined. The fire had burned low, casting soft shadows that swayed across the stone walls.

Merci’s head rested on his chest, her hair damp against his skin. Her fingers moved lazily, tracing the faded scars scattered across his torso—maps of old battles, some long forgotten, others still sharp in memory.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was quieter. Tired. Content. “I needed that.”

Lucas, still catching his breath, let out a low grunt of agreement. “Yeah… figured you did.”

“Not just the blood,” she added after a pause. Her nails ghosted across one particularly deep scar as her smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. “Though… that helped.”

He angled his chin down, giving her a sidelong look. “You gonna be drunk off me again?”

“Mmm… maybe,” she hummed, eyes closing as she nestled closer against him. “You’re like vintage wine… but with more fireworks.”

Lucas huffed a laugh through his nose, the sound half amusement, half exhaustion. “That’s a first. Most people don’t compare me to fine alcohol.”

“Most people don’t survive long enough to,” she shot back, though the sharpness had no teeth now—it was softened by the weight of her body melting into his.

For a while, neither of them said anything more. They didn’t need to. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was earned. Heavy with battles survived, blood spilled, trust forged the hard way.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Merci slowly trailed her fingers across his chest, letting them “walk” playfully over the glowing pattern etched into his skin. “Tell me about this one,” she murmured.

Lucas glanced down. The swirling tattoo pulsed faintly with magic—its glow shifting hues depending on the energy flowing through him. Right now, it glowed with the soft, pale blue of water and restoration. Calm. Spent.

“It’s called the Wellspring,” he said quietly. “Old magic. Real old. They don’t teach it anymore.”

Her brow arched slightly. “Why not?”

“The one who created it—an elf named Veylan—let his own creations kill him,” Lucas continued. “Said the magic should die with him. Said he’d made monsters, not men.”

“The elf branded every Battle Mage with a tattoo like this one. It’s what made us what we are. Said it would help us survive what came next. And it did. We tore through the enemy like gods.”

Merci stayed quiet, her fingers pausing on a curve of the ink.

Her voice, when it came, was soft. “And do you think he was right?”

Lucas closed his eyes for a moment. The tattoo beneath her hand pulsed once, glowing faintly gold—like embers beneath skin.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Yeah. I do.”

The things Battle Mages could do… We are monsters.
And—

His eyes darkened as the memory surfaced.
Not one that haunted him unwillingly—but one he chose to carry.
A burden he had earned.
This wasn’t the kind of memory that crept in with guilt.
It was one he held onto, because forgetting would be worse.

The kind of memory that rose like smoke from burned villages.
The kind that tasted like ash and sounded like screams.

And just like that—he was back in it.

Flash back

Lucas and several other figures moved through the darkness.
There was no torchlight—only a faint, dulled glow bleeding from beneath their armor. It pulsed gently, low and steady, like a heartbeat keeping time with their march. Shadows warped and stretched over the wet, churned earth as rain whispered from the storm-cloaked sky.

Their plates and chainmail clinked soft and metallic, half-muffled by the steady patter. The storm had rolled in hours ago; now the world was nothing but mist, metal, and the iron-cold scent of coming blood.

A voice cut the hush—low, gravel-thick. “These fuckers just won’t quit.”

“Would you?” another man answered, a dry edge to his words.

The speaker towered a full foot above Lucas, built like a siege engine. His dark skin was nearly swallowed by the night; his presence was more felt than seen, a living wall of muscle and shadow. Lucas didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. None of them did.

They were Battle Mages. They were the end of the road.

Lucas slipped back behind a sodden tree, rain beading off the rim of his hood. From inside his cloak he drew a soaked, hand-drawn map. The ink had bled at the edges but stayed legible; he unfolded it with care, hunching his shoulders to shield it from the worst of the weather.

Beside him, an elven woman crouched low, her blue eyes glowing faintly as they scanned the page. He cupped a controlled, pale flame in his palm and lifted it toward the map—the light steady, small enough to not give them away but bright enough to read the crude marks.

The map showed a typical border village: clustered homes squatting around a muddy central square, the husk of a ruined temple at one edge. X’s and O’s scarred the parchment in crude strokes—points of interest, kill zones, safe approaches and traps.

Lucas pointed to several circled structures, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. “We know they’re harboring the enemy. The King ordered it: anyone who sides with them dies with them.”

He traced his finger across the paper, tapping the buildings ringed in red. “We hit the houses marked in red first—confirmed shelters. After that we sweep through the rest. If anyone resists…”

He let the small flame in his hand gutter higher for a heartbeat, throwing hard lines of shadow across his face.

“…they fall with the rest.”

No one asked why. They already knew the answer.

Lucas uttered just two words—“Split up.”

That was all it took.

They had fought side by side too long to require detailed orders. Each Battle Mage already knew their quadrant, their favored element, their method of approach. It was fire-and-forget warfare—brutal tactics sharpened by years of coordinated slaughter.

This was the Second Great War, and the Unified Ken had no interest in letting it spiral into another century of attrition like the last conflict. There would be no protracted sieges, no hollow treaties, no diplomacy to soften the blow. The leash had been taken off the Battle Mages, and the command was clear: end the war swiftly, no matter the cost.

The squad moved as if on a single breath, dispersing into the storm-dark forest. They slipped between tree trunks and brush with practiced ease, armor whispering against bark and bramble. One by one they vanished into the black, until only the soft pulse of their enchanted glow betrayed them at all.

Lucas moved, the faint clicks of chainmail betraying his presence to anyone less skilled than he. Yet he had mastered the art of quiet motion even in full armor; each step was measured, deliberate, and almost predatory.

A sword flared into being in his hand with a puff of fire, its heat briefly licking the rain-slick air. His eyes locked on the nearest figure—a lone village guard, weary and soaked, posted at the fringe of the square. For a fleeting moment, a pang of sorrow stirred in Lucas’s chest. The man’s fate was sealed the instant he stood against them. But just as quickly as the feeling rose, Lucas crushed it down. This was the enemy. Nothing more.

He advanced with lethal precision, his team fanning out behind him like shadows. The elven archer’s bowstring gave the faintest creak as it drew taut—a sound Lucas’s trained ear caught even amid the rain. To the other side, Barricad, the towering swordsman, called forth his greatsword in a ripple of steel and power.

Lucas slipped behind the guard, his movements fluid and merciless. In one motion, he seized the man bodily, hand clamping over his mouth as his blade punched through the guard’s back, sliding up and out through his chest. The man gave no cry—only a muffled gasp swallowed by Lucas’s palm.

He wrenched the sword free, letting the body crumple to the mud. No flourish. No fanfare. Only silence.

Then a bolt of fire tore into the sky.

The signal.

And then they moved in.

Lucas and his battle partners raised their hands in near-perfect unison, the magic already coiled beneath their skin, thrumming like stormlight waiting to break. Heat prickled across his knuckles, and he felt the familiar weight of the summoned sword humming in his grip. To his left, Barricad called stone from the earth, the ground trembling beneath his boots. To his right, the elf’s voice cracked with lightning, blue arcs dancing along her fingertips.

Their targets—those circled buildings marked in red—vanished in a single orchestrated breath. Fire swallowed timbers in an instant. Stone cracked and buckled. The thunderclap of collapsing beams rolled outward like cannon fire. Entire walls bowed inward and folded like paper, crushed beneath the weight of unleashed magic. The village square lit up with violent color, fire and lightning blooming upward into the night sky like cruel flowers born of war.

And then it happened. The moment that never left him.

A child darted into the street.

Barefoot, wide-eyed, no more than seven or eight. Mud streaked her thin legs as she ran, arms outstretched toward the burning chaos as if she could make it stop.

Lucas froze, every muscle locked.

From behind, a mother screamed. Her voice cut through the thunder of destruction, raw and jagged. She sprinted after the child, cloak whipping in the wind, desperation etched into every movement. For a heartbeat, Lucas thought she was only reaching to protect—shielding her little one with her body. But then her hand slipped beneath her cloak.

Steel glinted.

A crossbow.

She swung it up, quick and practiced, the bowstring already drawn. She aimed not at the flames, not at the sky—at him. Straight at his chest.

Lucas blinked.

And instinct overtook thought.

The spell leapt from his hand before his mind caught up. A flash of lightning split the air, slicing wind tearing through the smoke. The world lit white, then red, then silence.

When his vision cleared, mother and child were gone. Erased. Nothing but drifting ash swirled in their place, settling into the mud with the bitter metallic sting of ozone. The only proof they had ever been there was the echo of a scream still ringing in his ears.

He didn’t even remember casting the spell. His fingertips still shimmered with light, sparks hissing into the rain, his hand locked tight around the hilt of his summoned sword. His breath came ragged, his chest aching, but he could not move.

This was war.

Yet something inside him twisted.

He told himself it had been necessary. The mother was armed, the child would only grow into another enemy soldier. That was what they had been taught—drilled into them until it was instinct. No hesitation. No mercy. War was not about fairness. It was about survival, about ending the fight before it dragged on another century.

And still… he couldn’t force down the image. Small feet pounding the mud. Eyes wide with fear. The look on the mother’s face—not rage, not defiance, but raw desperation. A last stand with nothing but a child in her arms and a crossbow in her hands.

Behind him, Barricad’s voice rumbled through the storm. “Onward. Don’t stop.” No judgment in the words, no pity. Just the certainty of orders followed.

The elf didn’t even glance at him, her lightning already dancing toward another target.

The squad pressed forward, relentless as the tide. And Lucas followed, his boots heavy in the mud, the echo of ash and lightning still clinging to him like a second skin.

He told himself it was necessary. He told himself it was war.

But the truth was simpler.

He had killed them. And he would remember.

Shouts erupted ahead—enemy soldiers pouring from alleyways and broken homes, determined to meet the Battle Mages head-on. Steel clanged. Magic cracked the sky in jagged arcs of light.

Lucas’s sword solidified in his grip, forged from summoned heat and focused will. Its edges pulsed like molten glass.

The hesitation was gone.

He advanced.

“Together, brother,” Barricad growled, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the crash of falling stone.

An enemy sword bounced harmlessly off his armored shoulder, the blow absorbed as if it were nothing. Barricad’s greatsword came down in reply, cleaving through the enemy soldier from crown to gut—splitting him the long way with brutal finality.

Lucas gave a single nod. No words were needed.

They were destruction incarnate. And they would see it through—side by side.

To their flank, the elf woman drew the charge of half a dozen foes. At a glance, she looked vulnerable—dressed only in chain and a simple tunic, her slender frame marking her clearly as a Battle Mage. The enemy thought her the softer target.

They were wrong.

With a flicker of her hands, curved blades of pure conjured steel manifested at her sides. She spun into the rush of soldiers, becoming a whirling dervish of blood and light. Her twin swords carved arcs through flesh and armor alike, each movement so swift and precise it was hard to tell where the dance ended and the slaughter began.

Her attackers staggered under the assault. Spells crackled from her lips as easily as her blades struck, bursts of lightning weaving between slashes. The air filled with screams and the sharp metallic tang of opened bodies. One soldier lost his arm, another was gutted, and still another crumpled with his throat cut wide.

The elf was fluid, merciless—too quick for them to land a proper strike. She dismantled her attackers not only by blade, but by spell, turning their attempted ambush into a massacre. Limbs fell, blood pooled, and still she spun through them until nothing remained but bodies and silence.

Breathing hard, her curved blades dripping crimson, she rushed to rejoin her team.

In the distance, carried on the cold, bitter wind, came the thunder of fresh explosions. The ground shook with each impact, dust and sparks scattering into the storm. Lightning crackled like a war drum, splitting the night with violent rhythm. Whole buildings collapsed in on themselves, torn apart not by chaos, but by precise, deliberate strikes. This was no wild rampage. Each target had been marked. Each strike carried purpose.

Then came the screams.

High-pitched. Fragile.

Children crying in the wreckage.

Their voices carried through the smoke, a piercing counterpoint to the roar of battle. They rose and fell like the keening of ghosts, echoing down streets now half-swallowed by fire.

More orphans, Lucas thought. More broken families left in the mud, made by decree as much as by steel.

But he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t.

Their parents had chosen their side. They had opened their doors, given shelter to enemies of the realm. They had gambled with their children’s lives when they took in rebels, when they defied the King’s edict. They had known the risks.

This wasn’t cruelty, he told himself.

It was consequence.

That’s what he believed. What he had to believe. Because if it wasn’t consequence—if it was cruelty—then every scream, every shattered life, would be on his soul.

And he could not carry that weight. Not and keep moving forward.

Part 2

Smack.

Merci’s palm cracked lightly across Lucas’s cheek—not enough to hurt, but sharp enough to jolt him back to the present.

“Where’d you go just now?” she asked, her crimson eyes narrowing. “You were just staring into space.”

Lucas blinked, grounding himself in the dim firelight. His breath came slow as he looked down at her—at the vampire curled against him beneath the blankets, skin cool as riverstone against his own heat. He slid his arm more tightly around her waist, needing the chill weight of her body to anchor him.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Just… remembering one of the worst parts of the war.”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t speak. She waited.

Lucas exhaled hard through his nose. “Second week in-country. Command sent us to clear a border village. Intel said they were hiding enemy soldiers—patching them up, feeding them, keeping them in the fight. Orders were clear: no quarter given.”

His jaw tightened. He paused, as though the words themselves carried a taste he couldn’t swallow.

“I hit my target. One of the main buildings—fire and stone. Reduced it to rubble.” His voice dipped. “And then… it happened.”

He stared up at the ceiling, eyes far away, tone falling into a low monotone.

“A child ran into the street—barefoot, small, couldn’t have been older than seven. I don’t even know if it was a boy or girl. Just a flash of movement in the smoke.”

Merci’s hand drifted to his chest, fingers idly tracing the jagged edge of an old scar, her silence pulling him further into confession.

“The mother sprinted after them, threw herself around the kid, shielding them with her body. And then…” His voice hardened, flat as steel. “She pulled a crossbow from under her cloak. A distraction. She used the child to get a shot off.”

Merci’s hand stilled against his ribs.

“I reacted,” Lucas said. “No thought. No hesitation. Just instinct. Lightning and wind—reflexes I don’t even remember triggering. A second later… they were both gone. Vaporized. Nothing left but the stink of ozone.”

He closed his eyes. His voice tightened, breaking against the memory. “I can still see that kid’s face. Just standing there, confused. Not even scared. Just… innocent. And then nothing.”

For a time, Merci said nothing. She only leaned in, pressing her cheek against his chest, letting her silence wrap around them like a shroud. Lucas didn’t resist. He just held her tighter, burying his grief in the steady, grounding presence of her cold embrace.

At last, she spoke—quiet, but firm. “The Vanguard fought a filthy war. One of shadows, lies, and human shields.”

Her fingers began to trace along another scar, slower this time, almost absent. “They couldn’t win head-on, so they wormed their way into the cracks. They poisoned minds, twisted loyalties, turned civilians into weapons. You forget—I was alive during all that. I didn’t wear a uniform, I didn’t fly the Arcane Army’s banner, but I still fought my own battles.”

She shifted, lifting her gaze to him. Crimson eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, steady and ancient. “People forget how old I really am. But I remember the early signs. The fear. The rot. The slow corruption creeping in. Manipulation tactics?”

A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips as she bared her fangs in a pointed, knowing grin. “That’s my wheelhouse. Subterfuge, misdirection, pulling strings—it’s what I was made for.”

Lucas gave a small grunt—half laugh, half sigh.

Merci’s tone darkened, her expression sharpening like a drawn blade. “Az-Au-Wrath Cartwright was a manipulative son of a bitch.”

Her words lingered in the low firelight, hard and cold as steel, before she finally settled back into him—less predator now, more anchor.

Without lifting her head, she asked softly, “Does your father know that we’re a couple?”

Lucas tightened his hold around her waist, a dry edge slipping into his tone. “He’s an idiot, so I doubt it.”

Merci gave a small hum, almost amused, though her crimson eyes stayed fixed on the fire’s glow. “Then I suppose he’ll find out the hard way.”

Lucas exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh, brushing his hand along her back as if the thought of it carried both dread and relief.