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It’s very late when Obsiddias feels the magic flare into life for the first time.
For a heartbeat, he’s so flabbergasted that he refuses to believe it. The little dragonborn is cocky—but surely he’s not enough of a fool to make use of his power mere hours after their conversation?
“Obsiddias, are you quite all right?” Emberrissa asks.
His sister has always been very attentive. But this isn’t something Obsiddias can share with her—not yet. One word from him and the little dragonborn is dead, Hero of Ashen Rest or not. And Obsiddias doesn’t want him dead. Not until he’s certain that Xantheus has been irrevocably corrupted by the crownsteel in his chest.
And he wasn’t corrupted, a few hours ago. Infuriatingly smug and prideful, yes—but then, so are many Caldrans.
“It’s nothing,” Obsiddias says as he stands, then bows to their father. “It’s getting rather late. May I retire, father?”
“I know that look,” Emberrissa murmurs, her eyes laughing at him. “That’s not tiredness. He has some new idea or theory—he’ll be up all night with his books.”
It’s not far from the truth, Obsiddias has to admit, and so probably a better answer than claiming tiredness.
His father merely laughs his booming laugh and waves him off. “The night is late—but it was a good party, wasn’t it? Make sure to get some sleep.”
Obsiddias gives him a respectful nod before he leaves the room. It’s not until the door shuts behind him that he takes a deep breath. A rush of heat spreads through his body, his blood turning to golden honey in his veins as his heart speeds up—
He shakes the sensation off with a silent snarl, catching himself when he sees a guard’s eyes grow wide.
Not here. Not here and now. Something strange is happening to Xantheus—or perhaps something strange is happening to him.
Did he fail to notice how far the corruption had spread? Is Xantheus using the magic Obsiddias placed on him as a weapon against him?
Impossible, Obsiddias tells himself again, his steps speeding up as he ignores the guards. They’ll think the same as Emberrissa anyway. It isn’t unheard of for Obsiddias to storm off to his private library at all times of day or night. No one will think twice about his behavior tonight.
By the time he all but falls through the door of his library and slams it shut behind him, throwing an arcane lock on it for good measure, his hands are trembling. His body feels hot.
What is happening to him?
The dragonborn is a talented sorcerer, but far from Obsiddias’ power. Xantheus shouldn’t be able to turn one of Obsiddias’ own spells against him. Unless—would the crownsteel be able to affect draconic magic in such a way?
As furious and panicked as Obsiddias is, the thought is intriguing. Nothing in his research has ever hinted at such a possibility.
He really should have told his father right then and there. Instead, Obsiddias casts another spell. With a whispered word, out of the air a line shimmers into existence—ethereally blue, but now also glowing with an energy that shouldn’t be there. A warm glow of golden light is pulsing just slightly too fast, like Obsiddias’ own panicked heartbeat—like the heat washing through his body.
Xantheus. It’s impossible, but there’s no doubt about it.
Without thinking, Obsiddias weaves another spell. This time, as soon as he whispers the word, he is drawn forward and out of his body, towards the barely visible line of energy. In his ethereal form, he follows it back to its source.
It only takes a moment, his surroundings a blur, before he finds himself in a large, ramshackle house. The room he’s in is empty, except for a bedroll laid out on the floor. And on the bedroll, a familiar figure is twisting and turning.
Even in his sleep, Xantheus makes sure to keep a shirt on. The lacing at the top has come undone, revealing the bandages underneath. And now that Obsiddias knows what is hiding there, he doesn’t have to see it. He can feel it. He can taste it—the power in the air is a seductive promise, calling out to him to step closer, to reach out, to claim what should be his—
“Obsiddias.”
It’s the sound of his name that stops him, his hand a hair’s breadth from Xantheus’ chest.
Obsiddias doesn’t remember kneeling down and reaching out.
Something close to shame intermingled with fury rushes through him. He is his own master, has always been. Why would he, who knows more about the dangers of crownsteel than many, fall victim to it?
Then he sees that Xantheus’ eyes are closed. For a moment, the world seems to shift around him when Obsiddias realizes that Xantheus hasn’t called out to stop him.
Xantheus is still asleep. He has no idea that Obsiddias is here, watching him.
“Obsiddias,” Xantheus sighs again—because that is what that sound is. A breathless, choked whisper, almost a moan.
As Xantheus shifts, the blanket that covers him slips down. Obsiddias’ breath catches in his throat.
Xantheus’ hand is between his legs, fingers wrapped around his cock. He is hard—and it’s undeniable now that the rush of heat washing through Obsiddias, the hot, golden energy pulsating through the bond between them, isn’t the warning the spell was supposed to give him.
Obsiddias isn’t feeling Xantheus using the power of crownsteel. He’s feeling Xantheus’ arousal, the honey-sweet heat of it pulsating in his own veins in time to the soft gasps that spill from Xantheus’ lips.
For a moment, Obsiddias is too offended by his magic disobeying him to truly take in the sight in front of him. It takes another urgent moan until he realizes just what has drawn him here.
It isn’t just Xantheus’ arousal. It’s the fact that Xantheus is dreaming about him.
Before he can think better of it, Obsiddias reaches out. An ethereal, clawed finger touches the thread of energy that connects them. A heartbeat later, he finds himself in Xantheus’ dream.
Xantheus is pinned against the wall. Obsiddias has one hand around his throat, but he isn’t choking him. His fingers are gentle, brushing Xantheus’ skin, the touch in equal parts caress and threat. His knee is between Xantheus’ legs—and Xantheus is fully hard, straining against him shamelessly with choked little gasps.
Xantheus’ eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused with pleasure. Unlike their real encounter in the library, he isn’t struggling to get away. In this dream, he’s struggling to press himself even closer.
“You presume much, little ilkir,” Obsiddias hears his dream-self growl.
Xantheus shivers against him, his eyes opening wide once more. His pulse flutters against Obsiddias’ fingers.
Experimentally, Obsiddias tightens his fingers a little, and Xantheus moans again, his cock just as hard against his thigh.
Interesting.
“If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it already,” Xantheus says breathlessly, and Obsiddias can’t truly argue with that, not even in a dream.
“Don’t you know who I am?” he asks instead, amused despite himself. “You should be terrified.”
“I am,” Xantheus gasps.
“You don’t sound like it.”
He shouldn’t play with the dragonborn like this. It’s beneath him. Then Xantheus squirms against him again, arousal pulsating through the strange bond he’s forged between them, and all thoughts of decorum are forgotten.
Obsiddias leans in. He knows Xantheus can feel the heat of his breath against his lips by the way his eyes dilate.
“Is this really all you can think of? With your life at stake—worse, the constant threat of corruption hanging over you? If my father entered this room and saw just one glimpse of your chest, you’d be dead,” Obsiddias teases.
“You’re… you’re more intriguing than death or crownsteel.” Xantheus’ hands tremble against Obsiddias’ arms, but instead of trying to push him away, his fingers only tighten. “And more terrifying.”
“Flatterer,” Obsiddias murmurs—but he isn’t displeased.
He’s felt the pull of the crownsteel. To know that instead of dreaming about harnessing its power, Xantheus is dreaming about him—that is flattering.
“Perhaps you’re not as much of a fool as I thought you were,” he says softly. “You underestimate my power at your own peril.”
Xantheus shivers against him, his body hot, his skin damp with sweat.
“You’re like no one I’ve ever known,” Xantheus says. “I want… I want to trust you. I want someone I can trust so badly.”
His entire body is as tense as a strung bow. When Obsiddias reaches down to press the heel of his hand against where Xantheus’ cock strains against his trousers, his hips jerk forward with helpless little thrusts.
“But you can’t,” Obsiddias says gently, well aware of the thin layer of fabric that’s all that stands between him and the crownsteel right now.
With a choked cry, Xantheus comes right then and there, spilling himself in his trousers as his back arches.
Obsiddias huffs a laugh against the top of his head. A wave of Xantheus’ pleasure washes through him. Obsiddias is aroused as well—he can’t deny it. But there’s too much at stake to give in to it right now.
He has a lot to think about.
Xantheus slumps against him as he pants for air. All tension has left him. Boneless, he relaxes in Obsiddias’ arms, his eyes closed and his mouth parted, lips bitten and wet.
He looks strangely vulnerable, and Obsiddias finds himself idly wondering about the past he revealed earlier. Was it really true that Xantheus has never had so much as a single letter from his own father?
When Obsiddias finally lets go, Xantheus’ knees prove so weak that he slumps to the floor.
Obsiddias has to bite back another smile, amused as well as confused. Of all the things to feel about a golden dragonborn with crownsteel embedded in his chest—softness is not an emotion he’d expected.
Still out of breath, Xantheus looks up at him from his knees. He licks his bruised lips.
“Let me touch you.”
Xantheus’ words are soft, his eyes wide and genuine as he gazes up at him. For a moment, with arousal running hot through his own veins, Obsiddias is almost tempted to give in.
Instead, with a small smile, he kneels as well—still nearly twice as tall as Xantheus—and leans in. Xantheus draws in a shaky breath when Obsiddias rests a finger against his lips, the sharp tip of his claw lightly touching skin without piercing it.
“Do you think you deserve that?” Obsiddias murmurs and lets his smile widen.
Xantheus swallows audibly. Even now, well aware that this is a dream, Obsiddias can’t help but wonder at the heat that washes through his own body once more—heat, this time, that doesn’t originate in the spell he’d used to track Xantheus.
Oh, Obsiddias has had lovers before—it’s rare for him, but not unheard of. Still, he prefers his library and his studies. He’s not easily distracted from his pursuit of magic. Over the years, only a few have caught his interest.
But it has never happened like this, in one single, disastrous meeting involving coming face to face with the most dangerous substance in Ilmera.
Perhaps he should have told his father. That would have solved the problem very easily.
But as he gazes down at Xantheus Auregan—disheveled, dazed and an all-out mess—Obsiddias finds that he doesn’t want to see the little dragonborn dead.
Xantheus’ magic is interesting. The crownsteel in his chest and the way it interacts with Xantheus’ runes is the most intriguing problem Obsiddias has encountered in many, many years.
And perhaps—perhaps Xantheus’ cockiness is a little endearing. Obsiddias knows it isn’t a good idea, but a part of him wants to see just where this cockiness will take him.
“Bring me answers, little ilkir,” he whispers, leaning in just for the pleasure of seeing Xantheus’ eyes go wide once more.
“Bring me answers, and then… Then I might reward you.”
Obsiddias rises in one smooth movement, the embroidered silk of his robe falling in gleaming folds around him as he towers above the kneeling dragonborn.
Obsiddias has to bite back another smile. He rarely engages in theatrics—and never of the kind one finds in torrid romances.
Still, Xantheus’ reaction to him makes it too rewarding to resist.
He has to spend more time studying the way the tracking spell has changed, in any case. To find out whether that’s due to the crownsteel or Xantheus’ own innate magic.
And if Xantheus keeps dreaming of him—well, that will help him study the phenomenon.
As the dream starts to fade away around him, Obsiddias keeps his eyes on Xantheus. He no longer looks terrified—and no longer aroused out of his mind.
Instead, his eyes are strangely earnest as he gazes up at Obsiddias, as if he wants to make sure to remember the sight of him.
Obsiddias shakes his head at himself as his ethereal body is pulled back to his library. It isn’t just because of his studies that he hopes he sees Xantheus again. The little dragonborn is proving to be a much greater problem than Obsiddias could have imagined.
But then, there’s nothing Obsiddias likes more than a challenge. And Xantheus is the most intriguing challenge he has ever known.