Cale locked eyes with the man holding the dagger to Tiana’s throat.

  The attacker’s face was mostly obscured—cloth wrapped tightly around his head, revealing only deep brown eyes that gleamed with intent. His arms were similarly covered, concealing any identifying features. All that was visible was the glint of his blade and the menace in his gaze.

  Tiana struggled in his grasp. The alcohol still dulled her limbs, making her resistance sluggish. Her breaths came uneven, her expression flickering between fury and fear.

  The second attacker—the one who had first spoken, dropping in front of them like a predator from the dark—stepped closer. He was lean, with sunken cheeks and a long scar running from his temple to his jaw. His grin stretched wide, teeth yellowed and jagged.

  "Not so tough now, huh?" he sneered.

  He turned his gaze to Tiana, reaching for her chest. "Let’s see what you’ve been hiding—"

  He didn’t get the chance.

  A scream of pain tore from his throat as he jerked backward, stumbling. His hand—once holding the dagger—was now a mangled mess. Jagged shards of metal jutted from his flesh, glistening red.

  He howled. "What the—?!"

  The man holding Tiana froze. "Shit. A metal mage." He dropped his dagger in an instant, panic flaring in his voice.

  Tiana acted.

  She slammed her forehead into his nose. Bone cracked. He reeled back, clutching his face as blood poured between his fingers.

  The third attacker—the one Cale had disarmed earlier—was still nearby. Broad-shouldered with a shaved head and a thick, greasy beard, his leather armor bore stains and wear from countless fights. He had been staggered, but not finished.

  Now, fury burning in his eyes, he moved forward.

  But then—all three men shimmered.

  Their forms blurred, edges bending and warping like heat haze.

  "They’re trying to run," Cale muttered.

  He didn’t trust his eyes. Instead, he reached out with his senses.

  The metal shards embedded in the wounded one’s hand pulsed like beacons.

  Cale dashed forward.

  A moment later, screams erupted.

  The illusions shattered.

  The three attackers stood before him, wide-eyed and caught off guard.

  The illusionist—cloaked, wrapped in layers of dark cloth—locked eyes with one of the others. In a blink, both men vanished.

  Gone.

  Only one remained was the one with the metal shards in his flesh.

  "Mem! Son of a whore! Don’t leave me here!" he screamed after them.

  He turned to flee, but Cale was faster.

  He lunged, seizing the man by the throat. He lifted him effortlessly, as though he weighed nothing.

  The thug kicked and scratched, gasping for breath. But Cale didn’t flinch. His body was steel—unforgiving and cold.

  Cale’s eyes blazed silver-blue, void of mercy.

  The man gurgled. Spit dribbled down his chin. His face turned blue.

  Cale’s grip tightened.

  This man had tried to hurt Tiana.

  He deserved to die.

  But then—

  A hand. Gentle. Resting on his shoulder.

  Tiana.

  Her presence broke through like sunlight through storm clouds.

  "Let him go," she said softly. Her voice was low, yet filled with something undeniable.

  Cale didn’t move. His stare remained locked on the man gasping in his grip.

  "No," he said, voice low and trembling. "He tried to hurt you."

  A flicker of something—sly smile—touched her face. But it vanished.

  "Don’t do something you’ll regret," she said gently. "This isn’t you."

  He looked at her.

  Then back at the man.

  The thug’s eyes rolled. His lips trembled. His limbs twitched.

  Cale’s hand shook.

  And with a roar of self-restraint, he flung the man aside.

  The thug crashed to the ground, gasping. Without looking back, he scrambled to his feet and bolted into the night, clutching his ruined arm.

  Silence fell.

  Tiana stepped forward and, without a word, wrapped her arms around Cale from behind. Her head rested against his back, her breath warm against the cold.

  Cale looked down.

  His hand—bloody, trembling—wouldn’t stop shaking.

  He stared at blood.

  "Let’s go back to our room," Tiana whispered.

  His voice was raw. "Yeah... we should."

  They walked slowly into the dark.

  The street was still empty.

  But something in Cale felt irrevocably changed.

  Like a thread had snapped inside him—and he wasn’t sure what it held together anymore.

  The thug staggered down the alley, blood leaking through his clenched fingers as he cradled his mangled hand. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one sharp and wet as he limped forward and ducked into the narrow shadows between two buildings. He slammed his back against a cold stone wall, chest heaving.

  "Shit... shit... shit," he muttered, staring down at his ruined hand. Skin hung in shredded ribbons, bone glinting beneath. Panic clawed at his throat, but he pressed harder on the wound, trying to focus.

  Then—

  Hooo.

  The sound echoed, soft and low, but impossibly close.

  His gaze jerked left.

  A white owl.

  It perched on a crooked beam above him, unmoving, watching. Its feathers shimmered in the dim light, too clean, too perfect for this rotting part of the city. Its blue eyes glowed with intent.

  It stared.

  Unblinking.

  The thug's breath caught in his throat.

  "An owl? What the hell..."

  The owl opened its beak.

  But what came out wasn’t a hoot.

  It was a grin.

  Rows of needle-sharp teeth unfolded from the inside of its maw, stretching longer than should be possible. The beak split wider, unnaturally wide, as if its face were tearing open.

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  The thug froze.

  He couldn’t move.

  The owl dropped from the beam—not with the flutter of wings, but with a slither. Its head stretched forward like a serpent’s, neck elongating grotesquely, feathers rippling like scales.

  What stood before him now was no owl.

  It was a mockery of one.

  A creature woven from nightmare and primal dread. It had wings, yes, vast and powerful, their feathers edged like blades and tinted in hues of deep green and spectral blue. But instead of grace, they moved with a serpentine slither, like the coils of a beast far more ancient.

  Its body resembled that of a great predatory feline, crouched and muscled for the kill, with claws too long and too thin, curling like black scythes. The limbs moved in silence, each step disturbingly slow, as though savoring the moment before the end.

  Layered upon its back were feathers like overlapping scales, thick and armored, rising in ridges along its spine—like a funeral cloak made from the discarded wings of the dead.

  And its face...

  Its face was wrong.

  It wore the facial mask of a barn owl, bone-pale and smooth, as if carved from porcelain. But the eyes were hollow and soulless, glowing faintly blue like lights beneath ice. No pupils. No emotion. Only hunger.

  Two curved horns curled forward from its skull, black as obsidian, their edges ragged and chipped—as if gnawed by something even darker.

  And when it opened its mouth—

  The porcelain split.

  Rows of razor-sharp, needle-thin teeth unfurled from the smooth white mask, far too many to be natural. A wet, sinewy tongue lashed between them, tasting the air, the fear, the blood.

  It made no sound as it approached.

  Only the hoarse, ragged breathing of its prey remained—until that too was silenced.

  The thing cocked its head.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A sudden snap of its neck echoed like a breaking bone.

  The thug tried to scream, but his voice caught in his throat.

  The creature lunged.

  Its jaws opened wide, impossibly wide, as if to swallow him whole.

  There was a wet sound—like meat tearing from bone.

  Then silence.

  The alley was still once more.

  Only the faint flutter of feathers remained.

  And the slow drip... drip... drip... of something thick hitting stone.

  On their way back, they stopped at an old stone well, half-hidden between the buildings. The moon cast pale light over it, silvering the surface of the water.

  Tiana drew a wooden bucket up with a creak of the rope and lowered Cale’s hands into the water.

  The blood washed away in rippling clouds, staining the surface red before vanishing into the deep.

  She said nothing—just gently held his wrist as she cleaned every trace of what had happened.

  When his hands were clean, she reached into her robe and drew out a white cloth. Carefully, tenderly, she dried his fingers.

  He didn’t resist.

  But his gaze was far off, hollow, staring into nothing.

  Tiana watched him. She took his hand in hers.

  Cale’s gaze refocused.

  He met her eyes.

  She gave his hand a squeeze. A small, understanding smile curled her lips.

  They returned to the Crooked Lantern.

  The tavern’s main floor was mostly empty now—just a few late drinkers huddled around flickering lanterns. Laughter had died down, leaving only quiet murmurs.

  They climbed the stairs and entered their room.

  Cale dragged himself to his bed, footsteps heavy.

  Tiana shut the door behind them. Then she turned, crossed the room, and sat beside him.

  Her fingers curled around his.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked, worry shadowing her voice.

  Cale stared at the floor.

  "I almost killed that man," he whispered. "If you hadn’t stopped me... I would’ve done it."

  He clenched his jaw.

  "When I saw his hand reaching for you—something snapped. All I wanted... all I thought... was that he needed to die."

  "Cale," Tiana said softly. "Can you look at me?"

  He turned his head slowly.

  And then—

  Her lips met his.

  Warm.

  Unexpected.

  Real.

  Cale’s eyes widened, heart pounding.

  Her lips moved against his in a tender, brief kiss. Then she pulled back, just enough to look into his eyes.

  Before he could speak, she took his hand and guided it gently to her chest.

  "Can you feel it?" she whispered.

  He nodded slowly.

  Her heart thundered against his palm.

  "You made it beat like this," she murmured against his ear.

  Cale felt heat rush to his face, his chest tight with emotion.

  Tiana’s hand lingered over Cale’s, her warmth grounding him like an anchor cast into a storming sea.

  He sat in silence, breath uneven, unsure of what to do or say. The touch of her heart beneath his palm was still pulsing in his mind. He could feel the tremor in his own chest, like a war drum beating too hard, too fast, as if it were trying to break free of his ribs. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with strength or weakness—but everything to do with letting someone see him, truly see him.

  "You’re still trembling," she whispered, her voice low, tender. "Let me help you."

  Cale looked at her, unsure of what she meant. Her fingers traced the edge of his jaw with such careful precision, then slid to cup his face. Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone, as if she were memorizing the shape of him.

  "Tiana..." he murmured. But the rest of his words caught in his throat, tangled in fear and longing and disbelief.

  She leaned in again, slower this time, her gaze never leaving his. Their lips met once more, a question asked with every inch. It wasn’t urgent or hungry—it was honest. Cale didn’t pull away.

  Her kiss deepened, still not demanding, but certain. Present. Like a lifeline offered in quiet waters. Her hands slid from his face to his shoulders, down the curve of his arms, until they found his hands again—still trembling. Still uncertain.

  She smiled gently. "Let me guide you."

  His heart thundered in his chest, louder than it had even during battle. Every part of him felt hot, confused, uncertain—and yet, somewhere deep down, he didn’t want to run. He wanted to stay. He wanted this closeness, this connection. He wanted something human, something gentle. Something that wasn’t pain or blood or loss.

  She kissed him again, slower this time, deeper. Her hands explored the tense lines of his back, tracing his spine with soft fingers. She led him gently, never rushing, allowing him to follow her rhythm, her reassurance.

  Each movement became a conversation of skin and breath. Each shared touch said, "You are safe. You are wanted. You are not alone."

  Cale’s awkwardness began to melt away—not because he knew what to do, but because she made it safe not to know. Her every touch was patient, her every sigh an invitation, not a demand.

  Clothes were removed not with haste, but reverence. Not a shred of shame. Every piece fell away like old armor, stripped from wounds too long hidden. Each exposed part of him felt like a revelation. Vulnerable. Real.

  When she pulled him close, guiding him gently onto the bed, her expression remained open. Honest. Without fear.

  "Just feel," she said, resting her forehead against his.

  He did.

  And when they finally became one, it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was real.

  Cale’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between awe and emotion. The intimacy overwhelmed him—not just the sensation, but the trust. The closeness. The way she looked at him like he mattered.

  He moved with her, not with practiced skill, but with instinct and care. And when he faltered, she whispered gentle reassurances. When he hesitated, she guided him with her touch. And when he found the courage to meet her movements fully, she smiled—a radiant, trembling smile that made something in him ache.

  When it was over, they lay together in the quiet, skin against skin, warmth and breath shared in the hush of the room.

  Tiana held him. Her fingers traced slow, calming patterns over his bare back, like wind through tall grass.

  Cale buried his face against her shoulder, eyes closed, not speaking. Just breathing.

  And for the first time in a long while—maybe ever—he let himself be held without shame.

  No walls. No armor. No masks.

  Outside, the city was still. But in that silence, something inside Cale shifted. Something long locked away loosened. Something broken began, quietly, to mend.

  Something healed.

  That night, as sleep took him, Cale dreamed.

  Not of the city. Not of Tiana.

  But of a battlefield.

  A wave of steel and fire surged across the earth, crashing into enemy ranks like a living avalanche. The ground shook beneath their march. Magic screamed through the air. Enemies broke and burned.

  In his hand, a massive blade crackled with spirits bound in iron. With each swing, it unleashed cries—some mournful, others victorious.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He didn’t falter.

  He was the storm.

  The sky darkened with ash. Light burst from the battlefield in violent arcs. Warlords fell. Siege engines shattered under his will. Iron spears erupted from the earth with a gesture.

  He was invincible.

  He awoke with a gasp, drenched in sweat.

  His heart pounded. The fire of the dream burned in his blood.

  He looked around, panicked—until he saw her.

  Tiana stirred under the sheets, the soft glow of morning sun painting golden across her pale skin. Her lashes fluttered as she blinked up at Cale, her emerald eyes still foggy with sleep.

  Cale smiled, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.

  Tiana's eyes gleamed with mischief.

  "You looked like you were going to break halfway through. But... credit where it’s due—" she smirked and leaned in, brushing her lips against his, "—you catch on fast."

  Cale flushed. "I... I wasn’t sure I was doing it right."

  Her smile softened. "You did fine, metal-boy. More than fine."

  He met her gaze, his expression earnest and shy. "If you say so... that means a lot."

  She laughed quietly and kissed him again, slower this time. "Don’t let it go to your head."

  Tiana tugged him closer, burying her face into his chest.

  The silence that followed was filled with steady breaths and shared warmth.

  They walked together down the stairs and chose a table in the corner, near the hearth. It wasn’t early by any means, but despite that, there were already a few patrons scattered throughout the tavern. Some sat in pairs murmuring over mugs, others sipped slowly at their tea in silence, lost in thought.

  A young girl with bright eyes and an apron too big for her frame came to their table.

  "What would you like?" she asked.

  "What do you have?" Tiana asked in return.

  "There’s still some smoked trout from this morning, served with boiled roots and garlic cream. And we’ve just brewed a fresh pot of mint and honey tea."

  Tiana smiled. "That sounds delicious. What do you think, Cale?"

  Cale nodded. "Yeah... it must taste good."

  The girl nodded and skipped away. Soon, she returned with wooden trays holding their food and two steaming mugs of tea.

  As they began to eat, Cale's gaze wandered toward the entrance.

  The door creaked open.

  A man stepped inside. He looked old, but he carried himself with dignity. His short-cut hair was gray as frost, his face cleanly shaved, every wrinkle carved with time and purpose. He was skinny, but there was a tension in his frame—like a bowstring drawn just before the arrow flies. He wore simple, dark clothes: a deep brown wool coat with silver clasps, a tunic of gray linen, and thick leather gloves folded neatly in one hand. A cane hung on his forearm, though he didn’t seem to rely on it.

  Everyone in the tavern paused.

  Conversations died mid-sentence. Mugs froze halfway to lips. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to dim slightly.

  The man walked to an empty table near the center of the room and sat down with slow, deliberate grace.

  The serving girl approached timidly. He spoke softly to her, and she nodded quickly before rushing back toward the kitchen.

  A group of younger men, barely more than boys, approached the old man with nervous energy.

  They bowed their heads.

  "Master Roderic," one of them said, his voice reverent. "Forgive us, but... would you tell us one of your war stories? From the Iron Conquest?"

  Cale turned slightly, trying to listen without drawing attention.

  The old man looked at the young men with a tired gaze, then gave a small smile—gentle, but weighted.

  "War stories," he said. His voice was like gravel soaked in memory. "Everyone wants to hear the glory. The charge. The victory. They never ask about the silence afterward. About the sound a sword makes when it cuts through someone who trusted you."

  The boys looked down, sheepish.

  Roderic sighed and lifted his tea as the girl placed it on the table.

  "But if you insist... I’ll tell you one. Not for your entertainment. For your education."