Chapter 13: The Depths of Steel and Bone
The wind howled over the rusted spires of Valenhold's western ridge, carrying with it the scent of smoke, blood, and distant thunder. Ethan Walker stood at the edge of the crumbling parapet, golden eyes reflecting the boiling clouds above. His coat fluttered around his frame, still stitched with the insignia of the Valen estate, though he had long since outgrown the role of a lord's ward.
Below him, the borderlands trembled.
The skirmishes with the feral beastkin tribes had turned into full-fledged engagements. More than once in the past week, Ethan had felt the pulse of raw mana ripple from the edge of the territory. Something ancient stirred beneath the bones of the land, and his evolving senses could no longer ignore it.
But it wasn't the danger that pulled him here. It was the woman.
Lady Ilyra Ven'sar.
The commander of the Northern Militia, a former cultivator of high standing from one of Emerald's noble houses, now exiled and living among humans. Tall, commanding, with an ass that defied logic and breasts that could've nursed empires, she had arrived in Valenhold a week prior. Since then, Ethan had done everything in his power to remain composed.
He'd failed.
More than once, he had caught himself staring—drooling, even—while she issued orders with that husky, accent-tinged voice. She moved like a storm, like a goddess in armor, and it was driving him to madness. His energy—his very cells—reacted strangely around her. It wasn't love. It was lust. Crippling, obsessive, arrogant lust.
And she knew.
She always knew.
"Ethan," came the voice behind him.
Smooth. Velvet layered in steel.
He turned slowly, knowing it would be her.
Lady Ilyra stood with her arms crossed, dressed in reinforced leathers that did nothing to hide the curve of her hips. A single silver streak ran through her otherwise raven-black hair, falling past her cheekbone. Her golden eyes—more feline than human—narrowed slightly.
"You've been watching me."
Ethan arched an eyebrow. "Can you blame me?"
She stepped forward, boots clicking against the stone. "You fight like a prodigy. Lead like a commander. But the moment I bend over a map, you start panting like a pup."
He coughed. "You do it on purpose."
"I do," she admitted without shame. "I wanted to see how disciplined you really are. So far? You're failing."
He laughed, the sound low and dangerous. "My discipline ends where your curves begin."
Her mouth quirked. "You need to learn control. Not everything can be solved with instinct."
Ethan stepped closer. The air between them sizzled. "My instincts have saved me from death, betrayal, and worse. But they also brought me here. To you."
She blinked once. A pause.
Then, slowly, she removed a glove.
"Fine," she whispered. "Then prove you're strong enough to take what you want."
He didn't need another invitation.
Their lips collided, years of tension erupting in a single, fiery kiss. Her tongue battled his with the force of a seasoned warrior. Their energies flared, magic crackling in the air. He grabbed her waist, pulling her against him, groaning at the way her curves molded to him like molten metal.
She retaliated by grabbing his collar and slamming him against the tower wall.
"You arrogant brat," she growled, biting his neck.
"You divine MILF," he groaned.
And then they were both lost in it. Heat, hunger, dominance. Ethan's energy surged, instinctively matching her level. For a moment, the stone floor beneath them groaned as their bodies collided with enough force to crack the surface. Ilyra was no delicate flower; she rode him like a general, matching every thrust with a growl of pleasure and warlike ferocity.
Hours passed. The storm outside only grew worse. But inside the tower, the storm had already erupted.
By morning, Ethan lay on his back, panting. Ilyra straddled him, hair disheveled, body glistening with sweat and satisfaction.
"You're stronger than you look," she admitted, breathless.
"And you're everything I fantasized about since the moment you walked into that war room."
She laughed. "You're insane."
"I'm evolving."
Their moment of peace didn't last.
A knock slammed against the tower door.
"Lord Ethan! Milady Ilyra!"
He groaned, throwing on his coat. "This better be worth it."
A young scout stood at the entrance, eyes wide, clearly having heard something through the reinforced stone walls.
"The beastkin tribes… They've stopped fighting. They've begun retreating. But not inland. Underground."
Ilyra stood beside Ethan now, her body glowing with residual power. "Underground?"
"Yes," the scout said. "They're heading toward the ruins beneath the Blackstone Mountains. Something's calling to them."
Ethan felt it then.
A tug.
A pulse.
The same signature of energy that had awakened in him months ago. But it wasn't from his body. It was distant, ancient, and horrifyingly familiar.
"Aether?" he whispered.
Lady Ilyra looked at him. "You know what it is."
"No," Ethan said, voice grim. "But it knows me."
And as he stepped forward, his skin rippled. His body had already begun to adapt.
Whatever lay in the depths, it was calling him.
And this time, he was going to answer.