I open my mouth to protest. Whatever Varok plans to do about General Thorne, I refuse to be shuttled away like some fragile trinket, but he continues before I can voice a single objection.
"Sareth, assign four of your best Talons to escort them through the obsidian gate and directly to the Temple. They are not to stop for any reason, not to speak with anyone they encounter, not to deviate from the most direct path." His voice drops lower, taking on that edge I've come to recognize as the sovereign's command rather than my bloodmate's request. "They are to be delivered into Eira's personal care and guarded until I return. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, Sovereign." Sareth gestures to four warriors who immediately break from the formation and approach us. Two I already know: Dreth with his distinctive copper scales and Kessith with his emerald coloring. The other two are unfamiliar, but their movements speak of lethal competence.
"Nirik's wound worsens," Varok continues, glancing toward his injured warrior. "He requires the Temple healers' attention immediately."
Varok turns to me then, his fierce gaze softening despite the circumstances. Through our bond, I feel his concern, his reluctance to part from me again so soon after finding me. His clawed fingers brush mine briefly.
"Ashira," he says, using his private name for me, "go with them. Stay with Eira. She will keep you safe until I return."
I meet his gaze steadily, swallowing the immediate refusal that rises to my lips. Now is not the time for this argument, not with so many watching, not with Zara trembling at my side and Nirik barely conscious. I nod once, though the gesture costs me dearly. We both know I have no intention of meekly retreating to safety.
Varok coils, bringing his face level with Zara's. "Little seer," he says, his voice gentling in the way it only does for her, "I entrust Leira to your care. Keep each other safe."
Zara's small chin lifts, her violet eyes overbright with exhaustion and unshed tears. "I will guard her with my life, Ry'Varok," she promises with a solemnity that breaks my heart.
Before our escort can form around us, a commotion ripples through the Talons. One breaks formation, his scales flickering between midnight blue and iridescent purple as he rushes toward Sareth with urgency that sets my nerves on edge. The warrior extends his arm, offering a serpentglass tablet.
"Prithas," he says, voice low but carrying in the still air, "urgent transmission regarding Malikor.” Sareth takes it with a sharp nod, the tablet's surface immediately flaring with amber light. Varok moves beside him in one fluid motion, both their faces bathed in the tablet's eerie glow as a tense, clipped voice emerges.
"Commander, we have reached Malikor's post," the voice reports, each word precise with military discipline despite obvious tension. "He is gone. There are signs of a struggle.” A pause. "There is blood. Not much, but fresh enough to still glisten."
Varok's tail carves a violent slash through the ash as he leans closer to the tablet, his yellow eyes narrowing to slits. “Jarik will pay for this.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides as I watch Varok's scales ripple with barely contained fury. Malikor is missing. Blood is glistening at his post. I don't need our bond to tell me what Varok plans to do next. It's written in every tense line of his powerful form, in the way his tail carves trenches through the ash-covered ground, in the heat that radiates from his scales in palpable waves. He means to confront Thorne directly, and I have no intention of being shuttled back to safety while he does.
Dreth and Kessith approach, their expressions grim and determined. "Come," Dreth says, extending a clawed hand toward me. "We must get you and the youngling to the temple immediately."
I plant my feet firmly in the ash. "No."
The single word drops like a stone between us. Dreth's scales ripple with surprise, his pupils contracting to thin slits. Beside me, Zara's small hand tightens around mine.
"Ny'Leira?" she questions softly, her small fingers trembling against mine.
I kneel beside her, bringing our faces level. "Remember your vision, Zara? The one where we stood together, hands joined like this," I squeeze her fingers gently, "under a blue sky?" I tilt my chin upward, drawing her gaze to the ash-stained heavens burning crimson with dawn. "Look. The sky isn't blue. Your vision hasn't happened yet, which means we'll both survive this day to see it come true."
I push to my feet, drawing myself up to full height despite the exhaustion dragging at every limb. "Take Zara and Nirik," I say, meeting Dreth's eyes directly. "They need safety and healing. I'm staying with Varok.”
Varok turns at the sound of my refusal, his fiery gaze narrowing as he glides to me with fluid grace that belies the tension coiling beneath his scales. "This is not open for discussion, Ashira."
"Actually, it is." I lift my chin, meeting his gaze directly. "I'm not a fragile ornament to be tucked away while the real decisions are made."
A low hiss escapes him, not of anger but of frustration. Heat pulses between us through our bond—his concern, his fear for me, his desperate need to know I'm safe after having found me. I understand all of it, feel it washing over me in waves, but I stand firm.
"You do not understand the risk you take,” he says, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes his warriors snap to attention. "Thorne is?—"
"Using me as a pawn," I interrupt, "has been since the beginning. I'm tired of it, Varok. Tired of being manipulated, first by my father, by Thorne, then sheltered from the truth by you." The words come out sharper than intended, and I see him flinch as if physically struck. I soften my tone, reaching for his hand. "I'm not accusing you. I know you wanted to protect me from the truth of the OathCoil. But don't you see? This involves me directly. The Threadborn Prophecy is all happening because of me.”
"Which is precisely why you must be protected," he growls, frustration bleeding into his words. “It means you are even more valuable."
"Valuable to whom? To the prophecy? To you? Or to myself?" I take a step closer, lowering my voice so only he can hear. "I've been a diplomatic offering,” I challenge. “A symbol of peace, and a target for kidnapping. I'm done being defined by what others want from me."
Around us, the Talons maintain a respectful distance, though I can feel their gazes on us, sense their discomfort at witnessing this intimate dispute between their sovereign and his bloodmate. Only Sareth remains close, his massive form a silent sentinel of disapproval at Varok’s side.
I flex my fingers, feeling the familiar heat build beneath my skin. "But what I am not is a liability." A spark ignites in my palm, swirling into a perfect sphere of crimson flame that bathes our faces in its glow. "I am the Threadborn, Varok. And your flame is mine.”
Something changes in his expression, the sharp amber in his eyes melting at the edges, and our bond hums in response. I feel it immediately: recognition of my strength, respect for mydetermination, and beneath it all, a pride that I am no longer merely his to protect but a force of my own making.
