“And another still,” he went on, “claims you will destroy the Blood Fae and bring order from their ashes.”
He paused.
“Some prophesize your death,” he added, quieter now. “Sacrifice. A martyr’s end. The only one who can pay the cost of the war that’s coming.”
I stared at him, numb. “How do we discern which one is true?”
His eyes were deep, old. “The destroyer has many stories written about her. But there’s one variable that remains the same in every version.”
“What?” I whispered.
“You are aStorm Reaper,bonded to the Sentinel.”
My breath caught.
“Your dragon,” he said, “has many names. Some call herVorthiya.Which means the many in the old tongue.Others,The Warden of Flame.But in every version, she isThe Sentinel.I’m not sure why.”
His voice dropped lower.
“Herfaithin you is the difference between one outcome or another.”
My lips parted. “What are you saying?”
“If she doesn’t trust you,” Alahathrial said, his gaze piercing, “then you turn against her. And thedarkerprophecies come into play.”
I stared at him, heart thundering. “So I need her to trust me?”
He shook his head slowly. “Iwishit were that simple. You need far more than that… but that’s all I can give you today.”
He turned away, voice thinner now. “I must rest.”
Zander didn’t say a word.
He just turned quickly and walked out.
I followed, my boots silent on the stone as the door to Alahathrial’s suite closed behind us.
The prophecy was no longer some distant warning.
It was a shadow that followed me step for step.
And Kaelith’s silence had never felt so loud.
Zander didn’t say a word as we left Alahathrial’s chamber behind us, but I could feel the fury bleeding off him like heat from sun-scorched steel.
He stalked ahead of me through the narrow corridor, his jaw clenched so tight I was surprised he hadn’t cracked a tooth. When we emerged into the colder, moonlit stretch of the west wing, he stopped, bracing both hands against the stone wall as if he needed something solid to hold on to.
I stepped beside him, quiet. Waiting.
Then his voice broke the silence, low and sharp.
“Heusedher.”
He didn’t look at me, just stared at the stone, his knuckles white.
“My father let another man, letthatman into her bed. And for what? An heir? A stronger bloodline?” His voice faltered, jagged with disbelief. “She deserved more than that. She deserved achoice.”
I said nothing. The pain in his voice was too raw, too real.
