Malrik
He never looked at us as threats.
I catalog my brothers’ positions without turning my head — instinct, maybe, or the strange leadership that’s fallen on my shoulders since this nightmare began. Torric is a furnace barely contained, heat rolling off him in waves that make the snow steam at his feet. Aspen stands ice-still beside him, frost creeping up his arms in sharp crystalline patterns. Finn’s chaos crackles erratically, sparking and dying like a flame that can’t decide whether to catch.
Darian burns.
His light magic — pure now, uncorrupted — blazes around him like a second skin. He’s not controlling it. Can’t control it. The power is too new, too raw, too tied to the emotions I can feel hemorrhaging through the bond.
And Kieran stands behind Kaia like a wall of ancient stone, every muscle coiled, ready to throw himself between her and whatever comes next.
None of us matter to Alekir.
We’re pieces on a board. Tools shaped for a single purpose. The only one he sees as real is her.
That should comfort me. It doesn’t.
Thorne approaches.
His movements are careful, deliberate — the gait of a man walking through a minefield he helped plant. He looked at Darian once, at the end of Alekir’s speech. That single glance held more guilt than words could carry.
“Into position,” Thorne says quietly. His voice cracks on the second word. “Please. Don’t make this harder than—”
I step between them.
Thorne stops.
“Don’t touch him.” My voice comes out low. Controlled. The voice I learned in my father’s court, when showing emotion meant showing weakness.
Thorne’s expression fractures. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Then step back.”
He does.
I feel Darian’s gratitude through the bond — sharp and desperate and threaded with something that might be shame. His light flickers dangerously, unstable, and I reach back without looking. My hand finds his arm. Anchors him.
I’ve got you.
I don’t say it out loud. Don’t need to. The bond carries it.
A surge of gold-white light splits the air.
I spin, shadows rising instinctively — but it’s not an attack. It’s an arrival.
Lady Virath materializes beside the Gate’s outer ring.
She’s nothing like I remember from the council meetings.
The elegant politician is gone. In her place stands somethingwrong. Her pristine white robes crackle with an aura that doesn’t belong in this realm — too bright, too sharp, like lightthat’s learned to cut. Her golden hair whips around her face despite the stillness Alekir forced on the air. And her eyes—
Her eyes are too deep. Too empty. They devour the light around them, leaving only a hollow chill.
She’s not hiding anymore.
And she’s not alone.
The skytears openbehind her.
