"Why didn't you mention this earlier?"
"Because I wasn't sure if it was real or just wishful thinking," she admits. "But now, with everything happening... I think we're meant to find them. Or they're meant to find us."
I study her face, seeing the conviction there. "Then we follow that thread. See where it leads."
"Together," she says firmly.
"Together," I agree.
Yasar clears his throat delicately. "How wonderful. Young love conquers all. I'm practically weeping with joy."
"Shouldn't you be literally anywhere else?" Elçin appears at his shoulder.
"I'm simply concerned about priorities," Yasar replies smoothly.
"Your concern is noted and thoroughly unwanted," Elçin says. "Much like everything else about you."
"So hostile," Yasar tsks. "One might think you're fighting some deeper attraction?—"
"One would be catastrophically wrong," Elçin interrupts.
"We'll see," Yasar murmurs, his eyes gleaming with challenge.
I shake my head, releasing Nesilhan's hand. "Two hours. Be ready."
As everyone files out, I remain in the war room for a moment, staring at the map with its damning red pins. Eighteen provinces in rebellion. Three days to prevent total collapse. And our best hope lies with fairy Dream Walkers who may or may not actually exist.
But I've built my entire rule on impossible odds and creative solutions. This is just another challenge—albeit one with catastrophically high stakes.
The taste of Nesilhan still lingers on my tongue, sweet and promising. And despite the crisis threatening to tear my realm apart, I feel something I haven't felt in months.
Purpose. Direction. A clear path forward, even if that path leads through dreams and fairy magic and desperate political negotiations.
Now I just have to make sure I don't fuck it up.
Again.
CHAPTER 17
BATTLE
Nesilhan
The war roomis a cacophony of raised voices and heated arguments when the scout stumbles in, his face ashen and streaked with grime. The room falls silent as all eyes turn to the disheveled man, his chest heaving with exertion and his eyes wide with panic.
I feel a chill run down my spine, a sense of foreboding settling in my gut like a lead weight. I've seen that look before, on the faces of soldiers who have witnessed horrors beyond imagining. My fingers twitch instinctively, itching to summon my magic, to feel the comforting weight of my power at the ready.
"My lord," the scout gasps out, his voice trembling with exhaustion and something else, something that makes my blood run cold. "Taren's elite guards—they're slaughtering civilians. The villages near the palace, they're—" His voice breaks, and he swallows hard, his hands shaking as he grips the edge of the map table for support.
Kaan's eyes narrow, his darkness pooling at him like a restless snake. "How many guards?" he demands, his voice sharp as a blade.
The scout shakes his head, his eyes haunted. "I can't say exactly, my lord. Maybe ten, maybe more. They're moving too fast, cutting down anyone in their path."
Kaan doesn't explode. Doesn't rage. He just looks at the report for a long moment, something cold and ancient settling behind his eyes.
"I'll handle it myself," he says softly.
Somehow, that's worse.
