Sample Episodes

The war room smelled of old parchment and burned-out candles. Elara stood over the tactical map, silver light dancing from her fingertips as she traced supply lines. The Council's latest directive was suicide—send the mages to the front with no protection. They wanted martyrs, not victories.

"You're the knight who thinks they can change everything?"

She didn't bother looking up, though she could feel his presence fill the doorway—tall, armored, insufferable. The Council's golden boy, come to put the unruly mage in her place.

"And you're the mage who thinks she knows better than the High Council."

His voice was warm honey over steel. Infuriating.

She finally glanced up. Silver eyes met hers with an intensity that made her breath catch—just for a second. Dark hair, strong jaw, the kind of face that probably made court ladies swoon. Then she remembered who he served.

"I don't think, Sir Kael. I know." She turned back to the map. "Your orders will get my people killed. I won't follow them."

Silence. Then the soft clink of armor as he moved closer. Too close. She could smell leather and something earthy—forge smoke, maybe. Her magic prickled in warning.

"The Council anticipated your… reluctance." He set a sealed parchment on the table. Royal seal. "You've been reassigned. To my command."

Elara's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

"Effective immediately. You and I will be working very closely, Lady Elara." The corner of his mouth quirked. Not quite a smile. "I'm told you appreciate direct communication. So here it is: I need a mage who can think strategically. You need a commander who won't waste your talents. The Council wants results. Let's give them results."

"You can't just—"

"I just did." He moved around the table, studying her defensive positions. "Interesting. You've accounted for terrain better than our last three tacticians." He looked up. "Where did you learn this?"

Against her will, her pride flickered. "Books. Observation. Unlike your Council, I don't assume magic solves everything."

"Good." He tapped a northern route. "Then you'll see why this approach is suicide."

She blinked. "You… agree with me?"

"Of course I agree with you. I'm not an idiot." He pulled off his gauntlets, and she caught sight of scarred hands—working hands, not soft noble fingers. "The question is whether you're willing to work with someone wearing this armor, or if your pride will get in the way of saving lives."

The honesty threw her. She'd expected bluster, intimidation, maybe a threat. Not… reason.

"I work with competence, Sir Kael. Show me you're competent."

"Deal." He extended a hand.

She stared at it for three heartbeats. Then, against every instinct, she took it. His grip was warm, firm, and something electric passed between them—magic recognizing something in him. Something dangerous.

"We start at dawn," he said, not letting go immediately. "Bring your best arguments. I'll bring mine. Between us, maybe we'll find a strategy that doesn't murder everyone."

"Maybe." She pulled her hand back, ignoring the lingering warmth. "Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Lady Elara." He bowed—a real bow, not mocking—and left.

Elara stared at the map, her hand still tingling.

This was going to be complicated.

The war room smelled of old parchment and burned-out candles. Elara stood over the tactical map, silver light dancing from her fingertips as she traced supply lines. The Council's latest directive was suicide—send the mages to the front with no protection. They wanted martyrs, not victories.

"You're the knight who thinks they can change everything?"

She didn't bother looking up, though she could feel his presence fill the doorway—tall, armored, insufferable. The Council's golden boy, come to put the unruly mage in her place.

"And you're the mage who thinks she knows better than the High Council."

His voice was warm honey over steel. Infuriating. And far too close.

She finally glanced up. Silver eyes met hers with an intensity that made her breath catch—just for a second. Dark hair, strong jaw, the kind of face that probably made court ladies swoon. Then she remembered who he served.

"I don't think, Sir Kael. I know." She turned back to the map, trying to ignore how her pulse had quickened. "Your orders will get my people killed. I won't follow them."

Silence. Then the soft clink of armor as he moved closer. Too close. She could smell leather and something earthy—forge smoke, maybe. Her magic prickled in warning, or maybe anticipation.

"The Council anticipated your… reluctance." He set a sealed parchment on the table beside her hand. Royal seal. His fingers brushed hers—accidentally or not, she couldn't tell.

Elara's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

"Effective immediately, you've been reassigned. To my command." His gaze held hers. "You and I will be working very closely, Lady Elara."

"You can't just—"

"I just did." He moved around the table, studying her defensive positions. The space suddenly felt smaller. "Interesting. You've accounted for terrain better than our last three tacticians." He looked up, and there was genuine appreciation in his expression. "Where did you learn this?"

Against her will, her pride flickered. "Books. Observation. Unlike your Council, I don't assume magic solves everything."

"Good." He leaned over the map, his shoulder nearly touching hers. "Then you'll see why this approach is suicide."

The proximity was deliberate. She could feel the heat of him through her robes.

She blinked. "You… agree with me?"

"Of course I agree with you. I'm not an idiot." He pulled off his gauntlets, and she caught sight of scarred hands—working hands, not soft noble fingers. "The question is whether you're willing to work with someone wearing this armor, or if your pride will get in the way of saving lives."

The honesty threw her. She'd expected bluster, intimidation, maybe a threat. Not… reason. Not that low, steady voice that made something curl in her stomach.

"I work with competence, Sir Kael. Show me you're competent."

"Deal." He extended a hand.

She stared at it for three heartbeats. Then, against every instinct, she took it. His grip was warm, firm, and something electric passed between them—magic recognizing something in him. Something dangerous. Something wanting.

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse point. His eyes darkened slightly.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Your magic likes me."

"My magic," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "doesn't know what's good for it."

"Maybe." He didn't let go immediately. "Or maybe it knows exactly what it wants."

The air between them felt charged. She could see the moment his gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. A question.

She pulled her hand back, ignoring the loss of warmth, the way her skin still tingled where he'd touched her.

"We start at dawn," he said quietly. "Bring your best arguments. I'll bring mine. Between us, maybe we'll find a strategy that doesn't murder everyone."

"Maybe." Her voice came out rougher than intended. "Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Lady Elara." He bowed—a real bow, not mocking—but his eyes never left hers. "Sleep well."

Fat chance of that.

She watched him leave, all grace and contained power, and tried to ignore how the room suddenly felt colder without him in it.

When she looked back at the map, her hands were shaking slightly. The mark where his thumb had pressed still felt warm.

This was going to be very, very complicated.