He sat between Mor and Vyr, his profile sharp in the firelight. He hadn’t approached her all day. She’d avoided him too. A careful dance of distance and deflection. He turned his head slightly, as if feeling the weight of her gaze, yet didn’t look her way.
Her attention moved back to the flames. So warm. So bright.
“Lara.”
A hand clamped around her arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
She blinked. The world swam back into focus—faces ringing the fire, all of them staring at her. When had the conversation stopped?
She stiffened, turning to Bree. Her warder’s hand was still locked around her arm. “What?”
“I called your name.” Bree’s voice was quiet, controlled in that way that meant she was barely holding back alarm. “Five times, at least. You didn’t hear me.”
Lara’s pulse kicked hard. “It’s getting worse.” The words scraped out. “Thank the Gods we’re close.”
“The fevers?” Mor leaned forward, firelight carving shadows under her cheekbones. “You're still losing time?”
Lara nodded. She looked down at her right hand, at theOrd-ree sealcatching the firelight. “I'll be glad to be rid of this.” Once, she’d worn it with pride. Now, she wanted to claw it off, tear it from her finger, and throw it into the fire.
The ring pulsed. Once. As if it had heard her.
“Soon,” Mor said.
“We need to talk about what happensafterThe Shattered Crown.” Alar’s voice cut in.
He’d been quiet all evening, but now the authority in his voice made everyone turn.
“Assuming this works … that we close the rift and survive … what then?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Mor. The firelight turned his face to planes and angles, all sharp edges. Never had he looked so much like his father. “Does our alliance end the moment the ritual is complete?”
Mor’s jaw tightened. “Not necessarily.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
Her dark eyes narrowed. The air between them shivered. “My first responsibility is to my own people.”
“Of course it is,” he said, his attention never wavering. “Just as Lara’s is to hers. But that’s not what I asked.” He paused, letting silence swell between them. “Do we all go back to being enemies?”
Eagal shifted on Mor’s shoulder, feathers ruffling, his beady gaze fixed on Alar. Vyr’s face had gone carefully blank, while Sablebane watched his son intently.
“That depends.” Mor’s tone held a steely edge. “On whether the Marav … and wulvers…are willing to compromise.”
Lara’s gaze flicked between them, tension coiling in her gut. Alar was right to bring this subject up—she too wanted assurances from Mor—but his timing was poor.
“Alar.” She didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t need to. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her, even as he continued to stare the Raven Queen down. “One thing at a time. Let’s close the rift first. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”
He frowned. For a moment, she thought he’d push harder—demand commitments that Mor clearly wasn’t willing to give.
He then sat back. “Very well,” he said softly. “This conversation can wait … for now.”
A nerve jumped in Mor’s cheek, yet she said nothing.
Alar turned his gaze away from her then—from all of them—and stared into the fire. Lara watched him, noting the way he held himself apart now. The careful distance he’d been maintaining all day suddenly seemed deliberate. Calculated.
He’d do as promised. Stay away. No more watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking. No more excuses to talk.
The realization landed strangely in her chest. Heavy and hollow at once.
She should be grateful. This was what she wanted.
