Chapter 32: Teeth of the cornered

"You heard the commander. You should head over to her," Daphne said to Zaeryn. And then she sauntered over, leaning over him with calculated intimacy.

The warmth of her breath ghosted across his cheek as her fingers worked with methodical precision, unclipping each sensor with soft, deliberate clicks that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet of the lab.

Dr. Aurena and Lirien exchanged looks, their brows lifting slightly. For starters, Daphne didn’t need to be that close to remove the sensors—but she was. Her intentions were more than just removing the sensors they could see.

Her sleeve brushed his arm. Her scent wrapped around him—that sharp, electric sweetness that had haunted the edges of his awareness all afternoon. She was close enough that he could see the subtle flecks of silver in her violet eyes, the way her pulse jumped at the base of her throat.

Zaeryn’s grin was lazy, practiced. "Disappointed I’m leaving so soon?"

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Annoyance—but not at him. At herself. Because the truth was, she was indeed disappointed that he was leaving. And that irritated her more than anything.

’Wait... why is it bothering me that this little bastard is leaving?’ she thought, the question flashing like static in her mind. "Don’t think this is over." Her fingers paused against his temple, the final sensor forgotten for a heartbeat. "We might need... more comprehensive tests."

The words hung between them like a promise and a threat. Her gaze drifted to his lower body, a deliberate sweep that felt like a caress—before climbing back to lock with his.

Zaeryn’s chuckle was low, almost amused. "Sounds like you’re looking forward to it." Then his expression shifted, the playful mask slipping away to reveal something harder, more resolute. "But I hate to disappoint you—this is the last time I’m allowing these tests to happen."

The change in his tone cut through the lab’s ambient hum. Even Dr. Sylis looked up from her console, and Daphne’s fingers stilled completely against his skin.

Her eyebrows arched, but there was wariness now beneath the intrigue. "You sound convinced." She straightened slightly, though she didn’t step back. "Planning to run? Disappear into the sectors shadows?" Her voice dropped to silk over steel. "Impossible. We’ll find you. And when we do, the Council will have you confined indefinitely."

Zaeryn’s laugh was rich, genuinely amused this time. "I’m not that stupid." He sat forward slightly, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "I’ve decide that I’ll make a deal with Lysara instead. You want answers, don’t you? You want to know why I was able to survive the fade attack?"

The lab fell silent except for the soft hum of cooling equipment. Daphne’s breath caught—just barely, but he noticed. Behind her, Lirien and Sylis exchanged glances. For a long moment, no one spoke.

Fast forward a little while later.

Zaeryn left the lab.

The halls of the Citadel stretched out before him. He walked without rushing, hands in his pockets, but his mind was a storm.

He was thinking about what he just told Daphne and the others in the lab. And he meant it. He was going to try and make things easier for himself. He had realized how this is.

By keeping the truth from them, he was only making it worse for himself. That way, they were going to keep poking him with needles, keep testing. Like he some rare animal they dragged in from the wild. And if he refused? They’d cage him. And to them they would have a pretty good reason to do so.

He’d seen the look in Daphne’s eyes—curiosity, hunger, calculation. It wasn’t just science driving her. It was control. He fascinated her a lot, both scientifically and personally. And she wasn’t alone. They were all waiting for him to slip, to give them a reason to lock him down permanently.

Zaeryn exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth curving in a humorless smirk. ’They think I’m cornered. Maybe I am. But a cornered man with teeth is still dangerous.’

Reaching the outside of Lysara’s office, the door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a chamber that looked more like a war strategist’s den than an office.

The chamber was sharp and clean, its obsidian walls gleaming in the daylight streaming through a narrow vertical window.

In the center stood a sleek black desk, its surface polished to a mirror shine, paired with an angular chair that looked more like a throne than office furniture.

The room was minimal but purposeful — a few personal touches softened the strict lines: a slender silver vase holding fresh white lilies, a low shelf neatly arranged with a handful of well-worn books, and a small sculpture of a soaring hawk etched from obsidian.

Zaeryn stepped inside. His posture was easy, but his mind wasn’t. He didn’t know why Lysara had summoned him here. People like Lysara didn’t call you in for a casual chat.

The door sealed behind him. A soft floral fragrance greeted him.

Lysara sat behind the sleek desk, her frame poised like a drawn blade.

High Commander of the Citadel, she radiated power without effort. After seeing her the first time, Zaeryn should have been used to her—but he wasn’t yet. She was simply too breathtaking to look at.

Her uniform, black with silver trim, hugged a form both elegant and lethal. Her hair was braided close against her head, giving nothing for an enemy to grab. Every detail about her said control.

"Zaeryn," she greeted, voice smooth. Her tone wasn’t warm, or hostile. Just calm.

He gave a small nod. "You wanted to see me."

"I did." She gestured to the chair in the center. "Sit."

He crossed the floor and sank into the chair. "You know, usually when a stunning woman calls me in, there’s wine involved," he said lightly. Not because he intended to flirt or be funny at this moment. It was just that, he couldn’t help it sometimes.

Words would just fly out of his mouth when nervous or afraid. Sarcasm was his shield against awkward situations. It usually worked, and well, sometimes it only annoyed people.

Lysara didn’t smile. Her lips, full and unpainted, stayed neutral as steel. If she understood the jab, she ignored it completely.

"This isn’t that kind of meeting," she said.

"That’s too bad," Zaeryn muttered, stretching his legs out like he owned the room. His heart was pounding, but hell if he’d show it.

He looked at her as she stood in front of him, expecting her to sit before starting the questions or whatever reason she wanted him here.

However, to his surprise, she didn’t sit down.

Instead, she moved behind him, circling slowly. Boots clicked with a sharp, steady rhythm.

Zaeryn’s shoulders tensed. What was she up to? However, he didn’t turn around, though he would have felt safer if he could see what she was doing.

Her presence filled the chamber—commanding, dangerous, and... stunning. That was the word. Stunning. Beautiful in a way that was all edge and precision.

Her midnight hair was pulled into a severe knot, drawing attention to her flawless jawline and sharp cheekbones. Her eyes, dark and unblinking, locked on him like a hawk sizing up prey.

She wasn’t just attractive. She was the kind of beautiful that made you feel like looking too long might cost you something.

Finally, her voice broke the silence.

"Yesterday, Ysmeine told us something so that we would set you free," she said. "She claims you’re not just an anomaly. She claims you’re Athea’s son."

Zaeryn’s spine stiffened—but only slightly. He forced his voice to stay level.

"She wasn’t lying."

"Tell me about her." Lysara’s tone was soft, but the softness was a trap. "About Athea."

He arched a brow. "We’re starting with family history? That’s... intimate."

"I need to confirm the truth," she replied smoothly. "For all I know, Ysmeine fabricated this to shield you."

Zaeryn leaned back—well, as much as the rigid chair allowed.

"Athea’s my mother. That’s the truth. But if you’re hoping for bedtime stories, you’re out of luck. I was an infant when she sent me away." His fists clenched on his lap. "I haven’t seen her in person for.... I would say since I was born. And I’m not even exaggerating."

Lysara noticed the change in his voice, the clench of his fists.

"Well, it’s public knowledge that the royal family can’t have male heirs, even if a member of the family by some miracle has one. It’s forbidden. So her giving you away was her way of protecting you," she said, and then her arm reached out to him in a comforting way, resting on his shoulder as she stood behind him, her voice suddenly unsettlingly gentle.

"But still, I can understand how you feel. She’s your mother after all. You would have liked it if she was... present in your life."

Zaeryn flinched, a sharp, involuntary jerk as her words, soft as they were, pierced through his practiced composure. The casual touch of her hand on his shoulder felt like a brand, not actual comfort. He was too alert to mistake her touch or unexpected softness of voice for something genuine.

He knew she might be faking sympathy because she saw an opening. But the sheer audacity of her to do that made a bitter laugh catch in his throat.

’This is good. Just perfect. Let’s see who falls for the other tricks,’ he thought to himself as an idea hit him: He’d try vulnerability, see if it made her drop her guard. Manipulative? Maybe. But right now, survival mattered more than pride. If playing the broken son bought him even the smallest advantage, then so be it.

"Present?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low, stripped of all sarcasm.

"She wasn’t ’absent,’ High Commander. She abandoned me. Shipped me off like a package, to be raised by someone else, so she could maintain her position, her power."

He was faking, of course. Athea didn’t ship him off. But the plan was to make the situation seem even worse. So his words were sharp, clipped—sounding like he was finally letting out something that he’d buried within him for years.

Zaeryn finally turned in his chair to face her, his eyes locked on hers. His fists stayed clenched on his lap, trembling just enough to sell the act.

"So no," he said coldly. "I wouldn’t have liked her to be present. I would have liked her to be a mother... instead of a political opportunist."

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow. Her hand lingered a second too long on his shoulder before she withdrew, slow, controlled.

"Thank you, Zaeryn, for telling me all that. I appreciate that you trusted me enough to tell me something so personal."

Zaeryn nodded.

Lysara’s eyes narrowed, studying him carefully."While you were on your way here, Daphne sent me your results from today’s. I have gotten a look at them. And they are intriguing to say the least."

"Unusual’s one word for it," Zaeryn replied dryly. "And believe me, I’m as intrigued as all of you."

She leaned back against the desk slightly, her tone low but sharp. "According to the reports, you have no trace of M-degradation. Do you know what that means?"

Zaeryn smirked, voice laced with sarcasm.

"From the way Daphne and the others explained it? I’d say it’s pretty rare."

"Rare?" Lysara repeated, her gaze steady.

"Every male is born with it. It’s why your kind can’t handle combat resonance or magic flows without burning out."

She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. "Except you."

Zaeryn shrugged, though the motion was more practiced than casual.

"Guess I got lucky."

"Luck doesn’t rewrite biology." Her voice remained calm, but the intensity behind it filled the room.

"Does your mom know about this? Your condition?"

Zaeryn hesitated. "Who? Athea? I don’t think so. I didn’t even know, until yesterday. But is there really something wrong with me? I mean, I fought off a zombie and defeated it. Shouldn’t that be celebrated instead of you people trying to turn me into some kind of experiment?"

That seemed to make something inside her shift. Lysara’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the hint of a flicker behind her calm mask.

"That fight of yours..." she said slowly, choosing her words, "It’s not just about survival. It’s about what you represent. An impossible anomaly."

She took a step closer, lowering her voice. "When news gets out about you, it will make a lot of people uneasy. Your immunity challenges everything they believe about men—and power."

"But," she paused, "I’m not blind to potential. You could be a symbol. A tool. If you’re willing to cooperate."

Zaeryn’s jaw clenched. He could be a tool?