My cousin transitions smoothly back to tactical discussion, spreading additional documents across the table—detailed sketches of Light Court fortifications, supply routes, guard rotations. The kind of intelligence that takes months to gather, delivered with casual ease as if he carries this information everywhere.
"The key," Yasar explains, "is understanding that the Light Court military structure operates on rigid hierarchy. Disrupt the command chain, and the entire formation collapses into chaos. They lack shadow warriors' flexibility—their strength lies in coordination and discipline."
"You're suggesting we target their commanders specifically?" Zoran leans forward, professional interest overriding his obvious discomfort with Yasar's knowledge of his former court.
"Not just commanders. Communication nodes. The Light Court uses essence-linked crystals for battlefield coordination—destroy three specific relay points, and their entire eastern division goes blind." Yasar produces another map, this one marking crystal locations with sharp detail. "I've already identified the weak points in their ward systems."
I study my cousin across the table. His posture is relaxed, confident, but there's something in the way he occasionally glances toward Nesilhan—as if checking her reaction, measuring her response to his brilliance.
This isn't a normal attraction. I can feel it through my bond with her: that magnetic pull dragging her attention toward him even when she's fighting it. The intensity is wrong—too strong, too immediate, too visceral for someone she just met.
And the timing. Yasar disappeared fifty years ago, intelligence suggests Erlik is planning something with family, and suddenly he appears right when Nesilhan is most vulnerable? When the war gives him perfect justification?
There's a pattern here. I just can't see all the pieces yet.
"These relay points," I say, forcing my focus back to strategy instead of murder fantasies, "would require infiltration teams. Shadow walkers who can pass Light Court wards undetected."
"Exactly." Yasar's smile is sharp with anticipation. "I volunteer to lead the primary team. My particular magical signature"—his shadows ripple, and I catch the faint scent of smoke, the hint of heat that shouldn't exist in shadow magic—"allows me to pass Light Court detection more easily than conventional shadow wielders."
"How convenient," I say flatly. "And your team would consist of...?"
"A small group. Five, perhaps six. Elite shadow walkers with stealth specializations." His gaze flicks deliberately to Nesilhan. "And ideally, someone with Light Court magic to help navigate their wards from the inside."
Absolutely fucking not.
"No," I say before anyone else can respond.
Yasar's expression remains pleasant, but his eyes glint with dark amusement. "No?"
"My wife is not joining your infiltration team. Feel free to recruit from the rest of the court, but she stays here."
"I can speak for myself," she says, her voice carrying across the war room with icy clarity. She moves forward, Elçin shadowing her like a protective storm, and I feel the momentevery eye in the room turns to watch. "And I don't recall asking for your permission, husband."
The formal title sounds like an insult the way she wields it.
"Touching as this marital dispute is," Elçin interjects before I can respond, "perhaps we should consider the strategic merit first? Lady Nesilhan's magic is still recovering from recent trauma. Infiltration missions require peak physical condition."
I could kiss Elçin for that strategic save, except she's staring at Yasar like she's calculating exactly how many steps it would take to reach him and how many bones she could break before anyone intervened.
"A valid concern," Yasar concedes smoothly. "Though from what I've observed, Lady Nesilhan's power seems quite recovered. That light display during yesterday's training session was... impressive."
He was watching her train. Of course he was.
My shadows expand further, darkness creeping up the walls like living vines. Several council members edge away from the table.
"How long exactly have you been observing my wife's training sessions?" I ask, my tone pleasant enough to make grown warriors nervous.
"Long enough to recognize exceptional talent." Yasar meets my gaze without flinching, and there's a challenge written in every line of his perfect posture. "Surely you don't expect me to ignore the most powerful Light Court wielder in your court? That would be tactically irresponsible."
"What I expect," I say softly, "is for you to remember that she's not a tactical asset for you to evaluate. She's my wife."
Yasar's expression shifts, and he inclines his head smoothly. "Of course. Forgive me, cousin. I meant no disrespect." The apology is perfectly delivered, but something in his eyes suggests the point has already been made to those watching.
The room holds its breath. My shadows ripple at the edges of my control, a silent reminder of what lies beneath the surface.
"Good," Zoran cuts in, his tone sharp enough to redirect attention. "Because we're supposed to be planning a war strategy, not whatever political theater this is becoming." He looks pointedly at Yasar. "Your tactics are sound. We'll implement the strike strategy against the communication nodes. But the team composition will be decided by Emir, not by ambitious relatives."
Yasar's smile remains fixed, though his fingers drum once against the table—a tell I've seen since childhood when his calculations don't land as planned. "Of course," my cousin agrees. "I merely offered suggestions. Emir's expertise is obviously superior to mine in such matters."
