Zoran leans forward, studying the troop markers with sharp interest. "Mountain fighters in marshland. That's a significant tactical error."
"Father doesn't see it that way," Solene continues. "He thinks their shadow resistance is all that matters. He's positioning them here—" she traces a line along the eastern edge ofthe marshes, "—in a corridor formation meant to protect the extraction team."
"Which means if we collapse that corridor from both ends..." Zoran's finger follows the strategic implications on the map.
Emir nods grimly. "They'll be trapped. No retreat, no reinforcements."
Banu bounces on her toes, her earlier playfulness returned but edged with something sharper. "I can mask our forces until they're practically on top of them. A few well-placed illusions, some misdirection..." She grins, showing teeth. "They won't know we're there until it's too late."
"What about the western assault?" Emir asks. "If it's a feint, we can't ignore it entirely."
"Minimal forces," I decide. "Enough to make it look like we've taken the bait. The bulk of our strength goes to the marshes." I look at Solene. "You're certain about the timing?"
"The new moon," she confirms. "Father believes darkness will force your shadow warriors to conserve energy. He doesn't realize they see better in absolute darkness than most people see at noon."
I allow my smirk to spread. "Then we give him exactly what he expects. A worried Shadow Lord, spreading his forces thin, leaving his wife vulnerable." I pause, letting the anticipation build. "And when his elite team walks into that marsh..."
"They don't walk out," Nesilhan finishes, her voice cold as winter iron.
"There's one more thing," Solene adds. "Father's appointed Lord Vestin to lead the extraction team. He trusts Vestin's experience, but the man is arrogant. He'll expect your forces to follow traditional Shadow Court formations—concentrated strikes from obvious positions. He won't anticipate guerrilla tactics or unconventional approaches."
"Vestin." Zoran's expression darkens. "I know him. Brilliant strategist, but he underestimates opponents who don't fight by established rules."
"Perfect." I straighten, decision crystallizing. "Then we don't fight by any rules he'll recognize."
The council disperses to make final preparations, but Nesilhan lingers, studying the troop positions and escape routes marked on the maps. Her hands are steady now, I notice. The grief is still there—carved into the shadows beneath her eyes, her cheeks—but it's been joined by something else.
Purpose.
I move to stand beside her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
"You don't have to be there," I say quietly. "Solene's intelligence gives us options we didn't have before. We could position you somewhere safe, use a decoy?—"
"No." She doesn't look at me, but her voice carries a raw edge that makes my chest ache. "I spent months blaming myself for our baby's death. Destroying myself with guilt while my father watched—while heknewwhat he'd done and said nothing. He let me believe I killed our son whenhewas the one who—" Her voice breaks, and she presses a hand to her mouth, visibly fighting for control.
I don't touch her. I want to—every instinct screams at me to pull her into my arms and hold her until the shaking stops—but I know better. She needs to feel this rage, needs to let it burn through the grief. Comfort would only smother what's keeping her standing.
"He doesn't get to take anything else from me," she continues, steadier now. "Not my home. Not my husband. Not my future." She finally looks at me, and the devastation in her eyes is tempered by something fiercer. "I want him to know it was me. When he's on his knees, defeated, I want him to look upand see his daughter standing over him. The daughter he threw away for politics."
My shadows writhe in response to the cold fury in her voice. "Well, that's delightfully vengeful. I'm impressed. And slightly aroused, if I'm being honest."
She stares at me, caught off guard. "Did you just?—"
"What? You're standing there looking like an avenging goddess planning patricide, and I'm supposed to pretend that doesn't do something for me?" I shrug, allowing a hint of my usual smirk. "I'm a monster, not a liar."
For a moment, she just blinks at me. Then—impossibly—the corner of her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not yet. But something close.
"You're unbelievable," she says, but there's less ice in it than before.
"I prefer 'charmingly inappropriate in moments of crisis.' It's a gift, really. Eight centuries of practice." I study her face, memorizing the determined set of her jaw, the fierce light in her eyes despite the grief still shadowing them. "Besides, if we're going to destroy your father, we might as well enjoy ourselves. Vengeance should be savored, not suffered through like a tactful dinner."
She reaches out and takes my hand—a simple gesture that somehow means everything. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly, but her grip is firm.
"Then let's give my father a demonstration."
"Now you're speaking my language." I squeeze her hand once. "Fair warning—I plan to be theatrical about it. There may be dramatic shadow displays. Possibly a villainous monologue. I've been workshopping some material."
"Of course you have," she murmurs, but she doesn't pull away.
