The taste of Nesilhan still lingers on my tongue as I stride through the palace corridors, sweet and intoxicating and entirely distracting. My body is still thrumming with the aftermath of what we just shared—the desperate hunger, the way she'd gasped my name, the feeling of finally,finallyhaving her look at me with something other than hatred.
And then Yasar had to fucking interrupt.
I can still see the smirk on his face when he'd walked in, claiming he'd been "drawn" by the emotions. The binding between them had pulled him there like a dog on a leash, and the knowledge makes my jaw clench with barely suppressed rage.
"You know," Yasar says from behind me, his voice carrying that insufferable amusement, "I have to say, cousin dearest, your stamina is quite impressive. The way you had her screaming?—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll throw you through the nearest window," I snap without breaking stride.
"Touchy." But there's an edge to his tone now, something sharp beneath the mockery. Those unsettling eyes of his probably gleaming with malicious satisfaction. I hope he felt it too—the shift between Nesilhan and me. The reconnection. I hope it's killing him.
Good.
Emir, wisely, says nothing. He leads us through the winding passages toward the throne room, his pace brisk but controlled. Whatever news he has, it's serious enough that even he's concerned.
We round the final corner and I taste ash in the air before I see the messenger. The scout is covered in road dust and exhaustion, slumped against the wall outside the throne room doors. When he sees me approach, he straightens with visible effort.
"My lord," he gasps, and I can see the fear in his eyes. "The eastern provinces—they've declared independence."
The words land with devastating force, driving all thoughts of Nesilhan's skin and taste from my mind.
"Inside," I command, gesturing to the throne room. "Now. Then we move to the war room."
The scout nods, following us through the throne room and down the adjacent corridor to the war room where strategic discussions actually happen. The throne room is for intimidation and ceremony—the war room is for actual planning.
I don't bother sitting. Instead, I move directly to the massive map table that dominates the center of the room, my hands gripping the edges as the scout produces a formal declaration from his travel-worn pack.
I take it, my shadows automatically darkening the room as I read. Seventeen provincial governors from the eastern territories—primarily Lord Riza's Dogu Gölgeleri and theeastern reaches of Lord Kemer's Kuzey Sinirlari—have formally withdrawn their allegiance to the Shadow Court.
But it's not rebellion for rebellion's sake. It's fear.
"The Shadow Court leadership has proven incapable of defending our territories against Light Court aggression. In the past month alone, we have lost the Silvermont Pass, the Crystal Valley, and three major mining settlements to enemy forces. We can no longer in good conscience submit to a rule that leaves our people defenseless."
My hands shake as I read further. The Light Court isn't just making incursions anymore—they're winning. Taking actual territory, displacing thousands of our people, and I've been so consumed with my personal grief that I failed to see how badly we're losing this war.
"How bad is it?" I ask Emir, though part of me already knows the answer will be devastating.
"Catastrophic, my lord." Emir moves to join me at the map table, producing red pins he's clearly been preparing. He begins marking recent losses with the grim focus of someone cataloging the dead. "The Light Court has taken four major settlements in the past three weeks. We've lost control of the northern trade routes entirely. Refugee camps are overflowing in the capital, and our supply lines are stretched beyond capacity."
I watch as each red pin goes down, the visual representation of our losses making the situation horrifyingly clear. The red pins vastly outnumber the blue ones marking our remaining strongholds. While I've been drowning in guilt and self-pity—and yes, finally making progress with my wife—my realm has been falling apart.
"And these provincial governors?" I gesture to the declaration.
"They're not wrong to be afraid," Emir admits reluctantly. "Their territories are completely exposed. We don't have theforces to defend them, not with our main armies tied up in the western campaigns."
This uprising isn't about my personal failings or my choice in the healing chambers. It's about survival. These governors are watching their people die while their supposed ruler remains paralyzed by grief.
"They're trying to negotiate separate peace treaties with the Light Court," Emir continues. "Better to surrender and keep their people alive than maintain loyalty to a court that can't protect them."
Seventeen provinces. Thousands of people. All abandoning the Shadow Court because I've been too broken to lead them properly.
"Fascinating timing," Yasar observes, moving to study the map with apparent interest. "These territories—they've always been independently minded, haven't they? Proud people who remember governing themselves before the Shadow Court expanded its influence."
"Your point being?" I ask, though something in his tone sets my teeth on edge.
"Oh, no point really." He traces a finger along the eastern borders. "Simply observing that sometimes when people feel... unprotected... they make desperate choices. Seek comfort where they can find it." The pause is deliberate, loaded. "In my experience, abandonment often leads to the most... intimate of alliances."
Before I can respond—or murder him—the war room doors open. Nesilhan enters with Elçin at her side, both of them having clearly dressed in haste. Nesilhan's hair is still slightly disheveled, her dress hastily laced, and the sight sends a bolt of heat through me despite the dire circumstances.
