Chapter 1

I stand alone in my tower, the obsidian walls cool against my bare shoulders as I lean over the scrying pool. The water shivers, reflecting not the crimson moon outside but the hollow ache inside me—a ripple of longing I've carried for centuries. My hair spills over my shoulders like ink, brushing the edge of the pool, and I catch my own eyes in the surface: violet, glowing faintly, cursed. To touch is to bind, to steal a soul's freedom. It's why I've locked myself here in Vyrithia, where the mists twist and the winds moan like lovers lost to time. My fingers hover over the water, trembling with the urge to feel something—anything—but I pull back. Always, I pull back.

Until tonight.

A prickle dances up my spine, sharp and electric. My wards hum, a warning woven into the air—someone's breached the outer ring. I straighten, my silk gown whispering against my thighs as I glide to the window. The storm rages beyond the glass, a chaos of lightning and shadow, and there, in the courtyard below, a figure emerges from the mist. Broad shoulders, a cloak snapping in the wind, strides too sure for a lost soul. My pulse quickens, a traitor to my calm. Who dares this place?

I descend the spiral stairs, the air growing thick with my own magic—violet sparks flicker at my fingertips, ready to unravel this intruder. The heavy doors groan open at my touch, and there he stands, rain-slicked and defiant, a man carved from the storm itself. His hair clings to his brow, dark and wild, and those eyes—gray as the tempest, piercing through me like a blade. He's all hard edges and quiet danger, a scar tracing his jaw that begs to be touched. My breath catches, and I hate it.

"Shelter," he says, voice low and rough, cutting through the howl of the wind. "The storm drove me here." A lie, I can taste it—sharp, metallic, woven into the tilt of his mouth. He steps closer, boots echoing on the stone, and I don't retreat. Not yet.

"You've found more than shelter," I reply, letting my words curl like smoke. "This tower doesn't welcome strays." My gaze rakes over him—leather clinging to his muscled frame, water beading on his skin. He smells of rain and cedar, a scent that tugs at something deep and restless in me.

"Then call me a guest," he counters, a ghost of a grin tugging his lips. "Kaelen. No titles, no chains." He sheds his cloak, letting it fall in a wet heap, and I notice the dagger at his hip, the calluses on his hands. A wanderer, a fighter. A thief, maybe. My wards whisper his intent isn't pure, but those eyes hold mine, unflinching, and I feel the pull—a heat I haven't known in lifetimes.

"Come in, then, Kaelen," I say, stepping aside, my voice a velvet dare. He brushes past me, close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from him, and my fingers twitch, aching to graze that damp skin. I clench them into fists. "But know this: my hospitality has a price."

He pauses, turning just enough to meet my gaze again. "I'm good for it," he murmurs, and there's a spark in his tone—playful, challenging. My lips part, a retort dying as I imagine what that price could be. Not gold, not secrets. Something more dangerous.

I lead him into the grand hall, the floating orbs casting their violet glow over us. The air hums, thick with the scent of ozone and my own restraint. He doesn't flinch at the magic, doesn't bow to the weight of this place. Instead, he watches me—too closely, too boldly—like he's already peeling back my defenses. I should send him away, unravel his lie, banish him to the storm. But as I pour enchanted wine into a goblet, my hand brushing near his, I wonder how it would feel to let him stay. To let him see me. To let him *touch*.

The thought sears through me, forbidden and sweet, and I know I'm already lost.