"That's impossible," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm the only—the prophecy spoke of one child?—"
"The rumors say it's a man," Zoran continues, his expression troubled. "A young man, around your age, who can wield both light and shadow magic. Father's been parading him before the Light Court nobility, claiming he's the true fulfillment of the prophecy. That you were..." He hesitates, glancing at his sister with obvious pain. "That you were a mistake. A false dawn."
"A man," I repeat flatly. "Taren has produced a male heir who can supposedly wield twilight magic, and he expects anyone to believe this? Where has this miracle son been hiding for two decades?"
"Unknown. The intelligence is fragmented—most of it secondhand accounts from refugees and deserters. But multiple sources confirm the same details. Young. Powerful. Utterly loyal to my father." Zoran's grip on his cane tightens. "And apparently, he's been training for years specifically to counter Shadow Court magic. Whatever he is, wherever he came from, Father's been planning this for a long time."
"A male Twilight Heir. Convenient, isn't it? Taren finally gets the son he always wanted—one who won't question orders or develop inconvenient loyalties." Yasar says.
"You think it's a fabrication?" Elçin asks, her eyes narrowing.
"I think Taren has spent twenty years preparing for this war," Yasar replies carefully. "And I think he's not above manufacturing prophecy fulfillment when the original doesn't suit his purposes." His violet gaze flickers to Nesilhan, something unreadable in his expression. "The question is whether this heir is a lie, a weapon, or something worse."
I watch Nesilhan's face as Yasar speaks. Something flickers in her expression—not just shock, but something deeper. Something that looks almost like recognition.
"Nes?" I ask quietly.
"It's nothing," she says quickly. Too quickly. "Just... trying to process. A rival Twilight Heir. It's a lot to take in."
She's lying. Or rather, she's not telling me something. Without our bond, I can't feel what she's hiding, but I've learned to read her well enough to know when she's keeping secrets.
I file it away for later. Right now, we have more pressing concerns.
"Zoran," I say, drawing his attention away from his sister, "everything you know about this supposed Twilight Heir—I want it documented. Every rumor, every sighting, every scrap of intelligence. Bring it to the war council tomorrow night."
He nods, though his eyes keep drifting back to Nesilhan with obvious concern. "I'll have a full report prepared."
"Good. Now go rest. That's an order—and unlike Emir, you don't have centuries of loyal service to fall back on if you argue with me."
Zoran manages a weak smile. "I wouldn't dream of it." He turns to Nesilhan, pulling her into one more brief embrace. "We'll talk more tomorrow. There's... there's a lot I need to tell you. About Father. About what I've learned while you were gone."
"Tomorrow," she agrees, though I catch the way her hands tremble as she releases him.
Emir turns to leave, pausing only to press one more lingering kiss to Banu's temple—a gesture so tender and possessive that it makes something in my chest twist with an emotion I refuse to examine too closely—before heading toward the door that used to lead to the healer's wing before half the palace collapsed. Zoran follows, leaning on his cane, his steps careful and measured.
As they leave—Emir supporting Banu, Zoran limping alongside them—I watch how carefully Emir ensures she's steady on her feet, how Zoran's hand briefly touches his sister's shoulder in passing. Decades of military discipline, and Emir's still putting someone else's welfare above his own comfort. And Zoran—the soft scholar who used to flinch at violence—has become someone who fights beside my general and walks away upright.
War changes people. Sometimes for the worse. Occasionally, for the better.
CHAPTER 30
GHOSTS AND GRIEVANCES
Kaan
The silencethat follows their departure is absolute. Two months. We lost two months while the realm burned.
And now there's a rival Twilight Heir. A convenient male alternative that Taren can parade before the courts as the "true" prophecy fulfillment.
The timing is too perfect. The appearance is too convenient. Someone has been planning this for a long time.
I turn to find Nesilhan standing near one of the broken pillars, her golden eyes reflecting the sickly light bleeding through the reality tears above. Without the bond between us, I can't feel what she's thinking. Can't sense the emotions that used to flow between us like breathing.
But I can see the way she's holding herself—too still, too careful. Whatever Zoran said about the Twilight Heir hit something deep.
"Two months," she says quietly, and I hear the weight in her voice. "While we were gone for days, your realm lost two months to war."
"The fae reinforcements were supposed to be the turning point," I say, bitterness threading through every word. "Elite warriors with magic that could counter the Light Court's advantages. Without them, we're not just outnumbered—we're outmatched in every meaningful way."
