Vane didn’t say a word.
His one good eye flicked slowly from the silver-wolf scroll parchment on his counter that had Soren and Kaelen’s drawings, to the heavy single cloak draped over Soren and Kaelen.
For two agonizing seconds, the only sound in the dusty shop was the rhythmic tick-tick of the brass scale.
Then, Vane let out a dry, hacking cough and swiped the poster off his counter.
“Haven’t seen ’em,” Vane rasped, crumbling the parchment in his gnarled fist and tossing it into a waste bin.
“Last I heard, two men fitting that description were seen heading toward the eastern slaughterhouses an hour ago.”
The lead Northern scout grunted, his jaw tight.
“If you’re lying, old man, Lord Boran will burn this shack to ash.”
Without another word, the two heavily armored scouts turned and marched back out into the snow, immediately slamming shut the massive oak door behind them.
Soren let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his shoulders dropping a bit under the cloak.
“That’ll cost you,” Vane said softly, turning his back to them and reaching under his counter to pull an iron latch, and immediately a trapdoor in the floorboards creaked open, revealing a dark stone staircase leading straight down into the shadows.
“The cellar connects to the lower roots.
Get out before those wolves realize I gave ’em the wrong trail.”
“What do you want for the diversion?” Kaelen asked, his grip remaining firm around Soren’s waist under the cloak.
“Bring me a vial of Sunken Crystal from the ruins when you return,” Vane replied, not looking back.
“Now move.”
They didn’t hesitate.
Ditching the single cloak, Soren and Kaelen slipped through the narrow trapdoor, stepping down into the damp, underground tunnels beneath Ash-Haven.
The air below was thick with the scent of wet mold and rotting iron while water dripped rhythmically from the ceiling, echoing in the blackness.
The rose-colored chain between their wrists glowed faintly, casting long, eerie pink shadows against the slick stone walls.
They moved quickly, three feet apart, keeping their boots quiet in the mud.
Soren kept his hand on his dagger, his eyes darting across every dark corner, while Kaelen walked with his sword half-drawn, his High Alpha senses alert for the slightest shift in air pressure.
“The scouts won’t stay tricked for long,” Soren whispered, his voice hushed.
“Once they search the eastern district, they’ll loop back.”
“Then we don’t stay in the open,” Kaelen muttered, his golden eyes scanning the tunnel ahead.
“We find a place to lay low until nightfall.”
Suddenly, the heavy crunch of iron boots resonated from the upper grate just twenty yards ahead.
Flashlight beams cut through the gloom as a secondary patrol of Northern Pack scouts peered down into the aqueduct gap.
“Search the lower drains!” a scout yelled from above.
“Boran wants every cellar checked!”
Soren froze, his hand tightening on his weapon.
There was no cover down here—just a straight, narrow stone ledge running alongside the rushing water.
Before Soren could draw his blade, a shadow appeared from a dark recessed corner right beside them.
A leather-gloved hand shot out of the dark, grabbing Kaelen by the shoulder of his leather tunic and yanking him backward.
Because of the chain, Soren was hauled violently right along with him into the narrow, pitch-black nook behind a heavy wooden drainage door.
“Shh,” a smooth, melodic voice breathed in the darkness.
The stranger pressed himself flat against the wall, pulling Kaelen deeper into the shadows while Soren was squished uncomfortably between Kaelen’s broad chest and the cold stone.
The scent of sweet tobacco, spiced cloves, and stale wine filled the tight space.
Above them, the boots of the Northern scouts marched past the grate, their voices fading down the long tunnel until silence returned.
The stranger let out a low, amused chuckle.
He casually reached up, clicking a small brass lantern open just enough to let a thin sliver of warm light illuminate the small alcove.
“Well, well, well,” the stranger purred, pushing his dark hood back to reveal a handsome, sharp-featured face framed by dark wavy hair and a teasing, dimpled smile and a silver earring dangling from his left ear,with his dark eyes gleamed with sudden, unmistakable delight.
“If it isn’t the mighty Commander of the High Citadel.”
Kaelen blinked, his Alpha aura flaring for a fraction of a second before he visibly relaxed, his broad shoulders lowering.
“Rys?” Kaelen said, his deep voice carrying a rare tone of genuine surprise
“In the flesh, darling,” Rys grinned.
Without an ounce of hesitation or boundary, Rys stepped forward and threw his arms around Kaelen’s neck, pulling the massive Alpha into a tight, familiar hug.
Kaelen didn’t push him away.
In fact, to Soren’s complete astonishment, Kaelen actually patted Rys’s back with a small, fond chuckle.
“I thought you were serving a sentence in the iron mines,” Kaelen said, stepping back slightly, though Rys kept a casual hand resting right on Kaelen’s broad forearm.
“Escaped three months ago, no thanks to your clear citadel laws,” Rys winked, his gaze sliding down Kaelen’s arm—and then dropping straight to the glowing rose-iron chain connecting Kaelen’s right wrist to Soren’s left wrist.
Rys’s eyebrows shot up.
He traced the chain with his eyes until his gaze landed squarely on Soren. New chapters come out on g.com first.
Soren stood perfectly straight against the stone wall, his face completely void of emotion, his eyes ice-cold.
“And who is this lovely little pet you’ve got attached to you?” Rys asked, his voice dripping with playful curiosity as he took a step closer to Soren, inspecting him like a rare specimen.
“A bit pale, isn’t he?
And so…
serious.”
“He’s not a pet,” Kaelen said firmly, stepping slightly between them, though his hand remained close to Rys’s side.
“This is Soren.
He’s a Citadel spell-cutter.”
“Ah.
A magic-user,” Rys hummed, flashing Soren a dazzling, theatrical smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Well, Soren, you’re looking a bit stiff.
Then again, being chained few feet away from Kaelen’s massive ego must be exhausting.”
Soren tilted his head slightly, his expression remaining smooth, polite, and utterly detached.
“I manage,” Soren said, his voice as smooth and cold as polished glass.
“And you are?”
“Rys,” Kaelen answered for him.
“An old friend.
I saved his life during the border fetish war four years ago.”
“Saved my life, stole my heart, the usual Citadel routine,” Rys teased playfully, giving Kaelen’s arm a little squeeze before turning back toward the dark tunnel.
“Come on.
The wolves are swarming the town, but I have a hideout nearby.
You two look like you could use a drink—and whatever explanation goes with that shiny bracelet.”
Rys led them through a series of twisting back passages, eventually opening a trapdoor that led up into the attic of an abandoned timber warehouse on the edge of Ash-Haven.
The hut was surprisingly cozy.
A small, concealed iron stove glowed with dim orange embers, casting a warm light over plush fur rugs, cluttered wooden tables, and racks of smuggled goods.
“Home sweet home,” Rys announced, tossing his heavy leather cloak onto a chair.
He immediately walked over to a shelf, grabbing a bottle of dark amber liquor and three wooden cups.
“Sit, sit!
Make yourselves comfortable please.”
Kaelen walked over to a wooden bench near the stove then sat down with a heavy sigh of exhaustion.
Because of the chain, Soren had no choice but to also sit right beside him on the bench, their shoulders brushing.
Rys walked over, pouring the liquor and instead of handing a cup to Soren first, Rys leaned right over Kaelen, his fingers lightly brushing Kaelen’s shoulder as he handed him the drink.
“You look rough, Kaelen,” Rys murmured, his voice softening into something low and intimate as he looked down at the Alpha.
“Still carrying the weight of the world on those broad shoulders, aren’t you?”
“It’s been a long week,” Kaelen said quietly, taking a sip of the drink.
“I can see that,” Rys purred.
He reached out, his thumb gently catching the edge of Kaelen’s collar, tucking away a stray thread near his throat.
“You always did push yourself too hard.
Remember that night in the eastern camp?
I had to physically hold you down just to get you to sleep.”
Kaelen let out a low, nostalgic chuckle.
“You almost got yourself stripped of your rank for that.”
“Worth it,” Rys smirked.
Sitting right beside Kaelen, Soren held his wooden cup in both hands.
His pale face was a picture of absolute, serene composure.
He didn’t twitch.
He didn’t frown.
He didn’t even make a sound either.
But on the inside, a dark, sharp knot was tightening right behind his ribs—a cold, burning sensation that made his blood feel like ice water.
Soren stared down at the brown liquid in his cup, his grip tightening just enough for his knuckles to turn white.
He had known Kaelen for months as the cold, unreachable Citadel Commander—rigid, noble, and fiercely protective.
He had assumed Kaelen was a man who kept everyone at a distance.
Yet here was this smuggler, touching Kaelen’s collar, talking about holding him down in his tent, looking at him with an intimacy that felt like a slap to Soren’s face.
Rys finally turned his gaze toward Soren, casually leaning his hip against the wooden table right in front of them.
“So, Soren is it?,” Rys said, crossing his arms and tilting his head.
“How exactly did a Citadel spell-cutter end up soul-bound to my favorite Alpha?
Because from where I’m standing, you look more like a liability than a partner.”
Kaelen frowned, shifting on the bench.
“Rys—”
“I am merely stating facts, Commander,” he replied with an innocent smile that showed the omega’s dimple on each side of his cheeks.
Soren calmly interrupted, his voice ringing out in cool, crisp, and utterly unbothered form.
He raised his eyes, meeting Rys’s playful gaze with a flat, empty stare.
“It was an occupational hazard.
Nothing more.
Once we reach the Sunken Ruins and secure the Sun-Drop Nectar, the chain will be dissolved, and the
Commander can return to his…
colorful past.”
Rys raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on the icy edge beneath Soren’s polite words, but his smirk only widened.
“The Sunken Ruins?” Rys laughed, shaking his head as he looked at Kaelen.
“Kaelen, darling, you can’t be serious.
The Ruins are a death trap!
The main roads through the sunken valley were destroyed in the land-slips last month.”
Kaelen’s jaw set.
“We have no choice.
It’s the only place with the anchor”
Rys leaned down, placing a hand directly on Kaelen’s knee.
“Then you’re lucky you ran into me.
I know the old smuggler trails through the valley.
The main road is gone, but I can guide you through the back passes.”
Soren looked down at Rys’s hand sitting casually on Kaelen’s knee.
The rose-colored chain between Soren and Kaelen hummed softly, vibrating with a tiny, faint spark of restless magic from Soren’s pulse.
“We don’t need a guide,” Soren said softly, taking a calm, deliberate sip of his drink.
“Oh?” Rys turned to him, amused.
“And you know the terrain, little spell-cutter?”
“I know how to read ancient regional maps,” Soren replied, setting his cup down on the bench with a soft, precise clink.
“And I prefer to travel without unnecessary distractions.”
“Distractions?” Rys chuckled, leaning in a little closer to Soren, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“Darling, without me, you two won’t last two days in the Reaches.
Besides…
Kaelen knows I always have his back.”
Rys looked up at Kaelen, giving his knee a reassuring pat before standing up.
“I’ll go check the perimeter and secure some travel packs for tomorrow.
Rest up, boys.
We have a long journey ahead of us.”
Rys gave Kaelen one last lingering look before sliding down the loft ladder, the wooden door lock hatch snapping shut behind
Whew guys !
Chapter 24is finally here
Rys just crashed the party, and Soren’s ice-cold composure is about to melt from sheer jealousy.
Between the smuggler, the oblivious Commander, and that frustratingly tight chain keeping them locked shoulder-to-shoulder, safety has never felt so suffocating.
Can Soren survive this trip to the Sunken Ruins with his sanity intact?
Drop your theories below, and see you in the next chapter(•~•)