I wake up with a jolt, the remnants of the little dinner with the Jade Mountain winglet swirling in my mind, and a dull ache settling in my temples. The headache feels like a heavy stone pressing against my skull, a steady throb that sends ripples of discomfort through my body. It's not the worst pain I've ever felt, but it's enough to make me wince as I sit up in bed. I rub at my forehead, hoping to ease it, but the pulsing still lingers.

The soft, almost imperceptible sound of a door creaks open, and I glance up, expecting nothing more than a fleeting breeze. But then, it's him.

The black marble door swings inward with a fluid motion that almost seems unnatural, and there, standing in the doorway, is Darkstalker. His wings fold in, sleek and shadowed, his eyes glittering in the dim light of the room. He steps forward, his presence so much larger than the space itself, and his smile—oh, that smile—spreads across his face like a spring sunrise.

"My love, you're awake," he says, his voice a smooth melody that sounds so warm, so sincere. The words, however, fall cold against the storm rising inside me. I don't want to look at him. I can't.

I turn away, pressing my hand to my temple as if I can physically block out the sight of him, the voice of him, the everything of him. His smile falters, and I feel his gaze fall on the back of my head like a weight, a sense of dismay creeping into his tone.

"My love, what's wrong?"

That one question—so full of concern, so falsely tender—pushes me to the edge. My spine stiffens, and the hurt, the confusion, the anger all blend together, a sharp burst of emotion that cuts through me like a blade.

I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. "What's wrong? You stole me from my own home! You kidnapped me, that's what's wrong! I don't even know who you are!" My fists clench against the covers, nails digging into the fabric as if I can hold onto my anger long enough to make it real, to make it stop feeling like a nightmare I can't wake from.

The room feels heavy with the words hanging in the air, each syllable a knife I've thrown at him, and I don't care. I don't care if it breaks the quiet illusion he's trying to build around us, because this isn't love. This is something else entirely.

Darkstalker's gaze hardens as I snap at him, the calm expression on his face giving way to something darker, something sharper. He steps closer, the air around him thickening with an almost palpable tension. His voice is a soft, insistent whisper, his words a slow, deliberate pull, as if trying to reel me in, to bend me to his will with every syllable.

"But my love," he says, a slight tremor of frustration now threading through the smoothness of his tone, "haven't you had the visions, too? Of seeing us rule the NightWing kingdom together?" He lets the question linger in the space between us, eyes burning with a pleading, almost desperate light.

I can feel the heat building in my chest, the frustration turning into something raw and untamed. I snort in disdain, a cloud of smoke swirling from my nostrils, curling in the cool air like the venom inside me. "No, of course not! I am a Wyvern, I don't have visions!" I snap the words out like a whip, my claws digging into the bed, fingers trembling with barely contained fury.

For a moment, Darkstalker says nothing. His face flickers with disbelief, and then—without warning—his eyes narrow. The temperature in the room drops a few degrees, a thin, icy sheen glinting in his gaze. A dangerous cold fills the space between us, the air growing thick with his anger.

His hiss is quiet, but it's enough to send a chill racing down my spine. "You are my queen, no matter what you or anyone else says," he growls, his voice now deep and laden with ice. "You may not be a NightWing, but I don't care." He pauses, the words coming out with an intensity I've never heard from him before. "You are my one true love."

The words hit like a thunderclap, and for a moment, I freeze. There's something cold and irrevocable in his certainty, in the way he says it, as if the very declaration of it will shape reality into his vision.

But it's not enough. It's not enough to make me believe in him, not enough to erase the gnawing, sinking feeling in my gut, the feeling that he's not the dragon I thought he was, that his love is a gilded cage with chains I can't see.

He steps closer still, and I can feel the heat from his body, but it's all wrong. It's suffocating, too much, too overwhelming. "What happened with Clearsight isn't your fault," he continues, his voice smoothing again, like velvet over steel. "I won't let it taint our relationship either."

I grit my teeth, my heart racing. Clearsight. That name. The shadow it casts over everything. His name burns in my chest like a brand, and I turn away again, the ache inside me blooming into something fierce.

"You don't understand," I whisper, though I'm not sure I even understand myself. "It's not just about Clearsight. It's about everything you're doing. I don't want to rule anything with you, Darkstalker. I just want freedom."

And yet, even as I say it, the weight of his eyes presses down on me. His love is suffocating, and I can't breathe.

His claw reaches forward, slow and deliberate, the cold of it biting into the air before it even touches me. I flinch instinctively, but I can't move fast enough. The tip of his claw grazes my temples, and the touch feels like ice spreading beneath my skin, creeping through my veins until it reaches the very core of me. The chill sinks deep, like he's leaving his mark there, something that will never fully thaw.

I can see the sorrow in his eyes, the sadness that doesn't quite match the coldness of his voice. He looks at me as though this is the only choice left, the only path he can take.

"Very well then," he says, his voice low, almost mournful, but there's an edge to it now—a finality in his words that makes my stomach twist. "I'll force you."

The words hit harder than any blow could, like a heavy weight pressing down on my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs. I want to scream, to fight, to tear myself away from him, but my limbs feel sluggish, like they don't belong to me anymore.

And then, like a storm breaking free from the sky, black ash swirls around me. It's suffocating, swirling in thick clouds that blot out the light, coating my vision in a haze of darkness. The air is thick with the acrid smell of it, burning my nostrils and lungs as it wraps around me like chains. I gasp for breath, but it's like trying to inhale smoke. It chokes me, clings to my skin, my thoughts.

My vision blurs, the edges of everything starting to fade, slipping away from my grasp. My mind spins in a haze, a fog of helplessness and dread, and my body betrays me, heavy and unresponsive, as if the very weight of his magic is pulling me down, making it impossible to stay conscious.

I slump forward, my limbs losing all strength. The world tilts, tilts, tilts, until there's nothing left but the feeling of cold and the shadow of his smile.

And then... nothing.