The storm loomed over Vican, the scent of rain thick in the air as Daric stood on his balcony, overlooking the city that still dared to call him king. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the streets below, where somewhere, in the shadows, you plotted his demise. The thought sent a slow grin curling at his lips.

Lifting his goblet, he took a sip of wine, though the taste barely registered. His mind was elsewhere—on the last time he had seen you, the way your breath had quickened as your dagger pressed to his ribs. He had only laughed, tilting his head just enough for the blade to draw blood. Your hand had trembled, not with fear, but with something else, something neither of you would name.

He still bore the scratch from your blade, a thin, barely healed line along his side. He traced it absently with his fingers, recalling the fury in your eyes, the tension in your body when he had pinned you between himself and the cold stone wall. Always running, always returning. The game was as intoxicating as the heat of your skin.

Thunder rumbled, shaking the heavens. He turned from the balcony, setting his goblet aside as he stepped back into his chambers.

The shift was subtle, but he felt it. A change in the air, the faintest whisper of movement, the scent of steel and rain-soaked leather carried on the wind. The torches flickered.

Daric smirked, running a hand through his tousled chestnut hair before glancing toward the door. “I was beginning to think you’d lost interest.”