Page 83 of Claimed By Flame


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He blinked.

Then his expression shifted.

Understanding.

They weren’t going deeper into the Wyrdlands.

Not hiding in the cracks of ancient shadow.

They were goingback—to the Citadel. To the Emperor’s doorstep. Because no one would believe they’d be reckless enough to gotowardtheir enemy.

No one but them.

Cassian smirked, a flare of admiration flickering through the heat of battle.

“You’re insane,” he said.

She grinned through blood-streaked lips. “And youloveit.”

They were running—through the wreckage of the ruin, leaping over fallen columns and burning stone. The ground behind them shuddered as one assassin launched a bolt of red magic toward Cassian’s back.

Seraphine spun mid-run and slashed it from the air with her glaive. The magic sparked and hissed as it died, but the energy sizzled across her skin.

They were heading toward the last place anyone would look.

Back. To the Citadel.

Because no one would be reckless orstupidenough to run straight into the dragon’s mouth.

They ran.

Through the ruins, the broken trees and warping magic. Through a land that hated them but couldn’t stop them.

The assassins chased. But Seraphine had fire again. Not just Whitefire.

But love.

It burned brighter than prophecy.

THIRTY-FOUR

CASSIAN

They’d run until their lungs burned and their legs shook and the trees stopped whispering threats. The Wyrdlands swallowed sound, swallowed scent, swallowed pursuit like it fed on it.

At last—they were alone.

Cassian collapsed beside a fallen stone outcropping, his breath ragged. Seraphine slumped to the ground near him, wiping blood from her jaw. Not hers. Not this time. Her hands trembled slightly as she rewrapped the hilt of her glaive.

Eventually, Seraphine drifted into sleep, curled near the ashes of their dying fire. Her body was still tense even in rest, jaw clenched like she might fight even her dreams. Cassian sat watch, his back to the stone, blade across his lap, mind on fire.

They were close.

Too close.

He couldfeelthe blade now—every shard humming, alive and near-complete. All except one.

One.