But something Emir said catches up to me. Months. Three expeditions.
"Emir," I say, my voice cutting through the reunions with sudden urgency. "What the fuck happened here? We've been gone for four days. Maybe a week at most. Surely?—"
He pulls back from Banu slightly, his arm still protectively around her as he finally turns his full attention to me. Zoran retrieves his cane and moves to stand beside him—the two of them presenting a united front that speaks of weeks fighting side by side.
The look in Emir's eyes makes my blood run cold.
"Kaan..." He stops, tries again. His gaze sweeps over all of us—me, Nesilhan, Yasar, Elçin—as if cataloging ghosts. "You've been gone for two months."
The silence that follows is absolute.
"That's impossible," Elçin breathes. "We were only gone for four days in the Veil. Maybe six at most."
"Two months," Emir repeats, and his voice carries the weight of every day he's lived through in our absence. "The Eastern Gateway collapsed six weeks ago. The entire eastern quadrant of the city went with it. Fourteen thousand dead in the initial collapse. Another twenty-five thousand in the fires that followed. We thought..." His voice breaks, actually breaks. "We thought you were dead. All of you. We held memorial services. We burned offerings. We mourned."
"Thousands of souls," Yasar says quietly, his eyes darkening with something that looks almost like genuine grief. "The Veil'stime distortion was worse than any of us anticipated. Four days for us. Two months of slaughter for everyone else."
Elçin's expression has gone hard as granite. "The Queen knew. She had to have known what the temporal cost would be. That manipulative—" She cuts herself off, jaw clenching. "We were played."
"We took turns giving eulogies," Zoran adds quietly. "Emir's was surprisingly emotional. Mine was more practical—someone had to discuss succession contingencies while he was busy threatening to execute anyone who suggested you might actually be dead."
"They were being defeatist," Emir mutters. "Defeatism during wartime is punishable by?—"
"By strongly worded disapproval, according to the actual law books. You might have been improvising slightly."
Despite everything—the devastation, the casualties, the weight of two lost months—I almost smile. Zoran and Emir, bickering like old soldiers. Whatever happened while we were gone, it's forged something between them. An unlikely alliance born of shared desperation.
Each casualty figure lands with sickening weight. Thirty-nine thousand dead while we played politics with a fae queen.
"The war?" I ask, though I already know the answer from their expressions.
"The Light Court struck hard and fast," Emir says, and the words carry the weight of months of desperate defense. "They advanced unchallenged for weeks before we managed to organize proper resistance. Without you, without the authority of the throne... Lords started withdrawing their forces to protect their own holdings. Some switched sides entirely. We've lost roughly fifty-five percent of our territory. The remaining loyal factions are spread thin across defensive positions that won't hold much longer."
"Emir handled the military strategy," Zoran adds. "I provided intelligence on Light Court tactics and weak points. Between the two of us, we managed to hold what's left." His jaw tightens. "My father's forces don't fight the way they used to. They're more ruthless. More willing to target civilians. Something's changed in the Light Court command structure."
"Taren's always been ruthless," Yasar says, his voice carrying the cold certainty of someone who knows the Light King personally. "But targeting civilians deliberately? That's new. That's desperate." He exchanges a glance with Elçin. "Something's driving him. Something beyond simple conquest."
"Or someone," Elçin adds grimly. "New commanders often bring new tactics. And desperation breeds atrocity."
The scope of the disaster unfolds before me like a map drawn in blood and failure. Fifty-five percent. More than half my realm, gone. Years of careful political maneuvering, of building alliances and crushing rebellions, of forging the Shadow Court into something resembling unity—all of it unraveling in two months.
"The lords?" I ask, though I suspect I already know this answer too.
"Those who haven't fled to their country estates or defected outright are... restless. There have been three separate attempts to claim the throne in your absence. We put them down, but barely. Your authority has been severely undermined." Emir's voice takes on a bitter edge. "Amazing how quickly loyalty evaporates when the object of that loyalty disappears without explanation."
"General Torin was the first," Zoran says. "He lasted six hours before Emir's shadows introduced him to the concept of terminal disappointment. Lord Vasek tried a more political approach—he lasted three days before the council voted to have him arrested. Councillor Meren was the most creative. She triedto claim regency through some obscure legal precedent from the Third Era."
"She's currently enjoying the hospitality of the dungeons," Emir finishes. "What's left of the dungeons, anyway."
Yasar lets out a low whistle. "Three coup attempts in two months. Your lords certainly don't waste time, cousin."
"They smell blood in the water," Elçin observes, her storm-gray eyes sweeping the ruined throne room. "A missing king, a collapsing realm, an advancing enemy—it's the perfect recipe for ambitious lords to test their luck."
"And now they'll learn exactly how unlucky they are," Yasar adds with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Nothing quite like a resurrection to remind people why they should stay loyal."
Two months is an eternity in wartime. More than enough time for ambitious lords to convince themselves they'd make better leaders. More than enough time for fear to turn into opportunism, for desperation to breed treachery.
"How many lords can we count on?" I ask, dreading the answer.
