"We need to talk," I say quietly.
"No." She doesn't look back. "We don't."
She vanishes into the palace with Elçin, leaving me standing in the courtyard with Zoran and a certainty that whatever happened while we were fighting might be worse than the war itself.
"Well," Zoran says after a moment. "He's not even trying to hide it anymore."
"Find Emir." My shadows writhe with dark promise. "Tell him to watch Yasar. Carefully. I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he speaks to."
"You think he's working with Erlik?"
"I think my cousin's playing a game." I stare at the palace where both Yasar and Nesilhan disappeared. "And my wife is somehow caught in it."
The war councilconvenes as sunset bleeds across the sky, painting everything in shades of blood and shadow. The great hall thrums with post-battle energy—generals still high on victory, discussing casualty reports with the casual ease of those who've grown comfortable with death.
I should be focused on strategy, on Lord Taren's next move, on the thousand tactical considerations that come with defending seven fractured territories against Light Court invasion.
Instead, I'm watching my wife and cousin very deliberately not look at each other.
They sit at opposite ends of the war table—Nesilhan to my right as befits the Shadow Queen, Yasar to my left where honored advisors belong. Between them stretches twenty feet of ancient onyx and enough tension to choke on.
"The Light Court will regroup," General Malachar is saying, his scarred face serious. "Lord Taren won't accept this defeat quietly."
"Let them come," Lord Riza interjects with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. "We showed them what happens when light challenges shadow."
"We showed them one battle," Yasar corrects mildly. "Wars are won by those who think three moves ahead, not those who celebrate single victories."
He's right, which makes me want to strangle him more.
"What do you suggest?" Zoran asks from his place among my generals—a Light Court noble in shadow armor, the irony not lost on anyone. "Since you seem to have opinions about everything except actual fighting."
Yasar's smile could cut glass. "I suggest we consider why Lord Taren chose now to attack. What changed? What prompted such sudden aggression after years of cold peace?"
"My son's death." The words escape before I can stop them, sharp enough to draw blood. "They think grief makes me weak."
"Does it?" Yasar's question is soft, almost sympathetic. But his gaze flicks to Nesilhan for just a moment—so quick I almost miss it.
She stiffens. Through the bond, fresh terror spikes.
"Weakness is relative," I say carefully, studying them both. "As is strength. Sometimes they're indistinguishable."
"How philosophical." Yasar leans back in his chair. "Though philosophy won't stop the next assault. I have contacts inthe eastern territories who report unusual movement near the Whispering Marshes. If Lord Taren is smart—and he is—he'll try to divide our forces."
"Your contacts." I let skepticism drip from every word. "The same ones who kept you busy during today's battle?"
"Information is a weapon, cousin. Sometimes more valuable than shadows or swords."
"And yet information doesn't bleed," Zoran observes. "Doesn't scream when you drive steel through its heart. Some of us prefer tangible victories."
"Some of us," Yasar returns smoothly, "prefer victories that last longer than the echo of screams."
Nesilhan stands abruptly, her chair scraping against stone. "If you'll excuse me, I need air."
"The council isn't finished," I say, though what I mean is: don't leave me alone with him.
"Then finish it without me." She moves toward the doors with rigid control. "I'm sure you can manage strategy without my input. You certainly manage everything else that way."
The barb hits exactly where she intended. Four months of distance condensed into one perfectly placed wound.
