Delegates file out, still buzzing. Some bow as they pass—hero worship. Others avert eyes—terrified by what heroism costs. I feel both like cold rain.
Kylan lifts me again—no protest this time. He carries through side passage, sentinel lighting sconce ahead. My cheek rests against his heartbeat; its steadiness counters ragged flutter of mine. I whisper, “Arm numb.”
He glances down, expression snarling at invisible enemy. “We shed sleeve, cool wound.”
In a secluded healer chamber, he lays me on crystal woven hammock. Moonlight filters through roof gap, glinting on lattice. He removes torn sleeve. Crystal lines reach shoulder now, yet glow softer, as if sated for moment. My skin around bloom mottles.
Everest appears with healer kit. He dissolves bark slivers in steam, preparing poultice. Isabelle mixes resilience draught licking periwinkle flame. They work in silent tandem— practiced dance of married warlords.
Kylan never leaves bedside. He wipes sweat from my brow, murmurs tales of cub scouts crossing brooks. I listen, exhaustion lulling. Pain retreats to distant thunder.
When healers finish bandaging around quartz ridges, Isabelle brushes fingers across my uninjured arm. “You turned tide tonight.”
“For now,” I whisper. “Parasitic veins will seek new host.”
“Let them try soil,” she replies coldly. “Terrastria stands ready.”
Everest nods. “And stone remembers betrayal.”
Kylan tucks blanket. “I stand ready as well. You sleep.”
I attempt breathless laugh. “Dreamless night would be gift.”
“Then accept.” He presses soft kiss to forehead, nothing like fire in hut, but warmth as steady as dawn. Bond pulses gentle.
Eyes close. Voices fade. Before sleep’s anchor drops I hear one last murmur—Kylan to healers: “Signal me at slightest change.” He will stand vigil as always.
Dream finds me still: not prophecy but silence. In that lull, I sense time’s river racing on, pulling me toward edge none can avoid, but I also feel council’s current shifting, swept by tonight’s light. My mortality shines too bright for me to look at directly, yet if its flare guides others before extinguishing, perhaps that is enough.
For now, I let rest cradle bones. The war resumes with sunrise.
18
KYLAN
Night inside Twilight Citadel is never truly dark. Lanterns that burn on storm-glass fuel line every balcony, staining the roofline’s living wood with opaline flares that sway to an invisible rhythm. High above that woven halo, Convergence’s pearl ring glares like an accusing eye—its rim now banded by rust red, a bruise that spreads each time I look away.
I climb the final spiral stair and push through the hatch onto the rooftop terrace. Wind crashes against me, smelling of wet pine and distant lightning. Squalls worry the banners strapped to buttresses, whipping Terrastria’s root sigil sideways so it looks more like a claw. Below, in the courtyard, healers patrol the Boundary Pool, their lantern beams sketching frantic circles across still-healing stone. Turquoise light flickers where Carmilla’s rune membrane clings to yesterday’s fissure, but faint spider cracks keep blooming—hairline lines that glow sullen violet rather than blue. A ticking hourglass everyone pretends not to see.
I want to drop over the railing, sprint down, and help them repatch every new crack with blood and spit if I must. Instead I force myself toward the rooftop’s eastern parapet, whereEverest Ashfall waits. He stands so still he could be part of the battlements—long coat snapping behind him, twin sword hilts rising over shoulders like crossed branches. Only the slow curl of steam from the mug in his hand proves he hasn’t turned entirely to stone.
“Couldn’t sleep either,” he says without turning. Voice low, scraped by gravel.
“Sleep is for shepherds who’ve counted their flock safe.” I settle beside him, lean forearms on chilled parapet. Below us, the forest canopy undulates under erratic gusts. Occasional flashes of sheet lightning turn treetops silver.
Everest offers the mug. “Juniper-honey tonic. Bitter aftertaste warns you it’s working.”
I take it, sip. It tastes like spring runoff through charred cedar—hopeful and harsh all at once. “Thanks. Carmilla’s resting. Isabelle wove a resonance net around her cot.”
“I know. She’s still humming about calibrations, half-asleep.” His mouth quirks, pride and worry sharing tight quarters. “I remember that stage—when prophecy gnaws bone faster after every heroic gesture.”
Wind ruffles my hair; I ignore it. “You’ve walked this path.”
“Walked, crawled, charged, fled.” He finally looks at me, obsidian eyes catching stray lantern sheen. “And I’ve buried brothers who fell in step with oracles and saints.” He reaches into coat, pulls something wrapped in waxed cloth. “I kept this for you. Don’t know if it’s blessing or burden.”
He unwraps cloth: a polished river stone, flat, almond-sized, swirling lines of green and twilight purple. Same token he pressed into my palm weeks ago as quiet warning, before all this accelerated.
“I still have the first,” I say. He shakes head. “That was practice. This one’s etched.” He tilts the stone toward lantern light. Fine silver script coils across polished surface—names,no, fragments of names: Vaerra, Durik, Yarrow. The letters shimmer, sinking into strata before vanishing, new ones drifting up. It’s as though the rock records the departed in real time.
