Thorne stripped his gloves, flexing blood-stiff fingers. His dragon’s dark eyes followed his movement, restless. There was something feral in the silence between them, something half-contained.
Kaen arrived then, cloak dry despite the rain, as though the storm itself bent away from him. Two guards flanked his steps.
“Kieran,” he greeted smoothly. “I see you returned with souvenirs.” His gaze fell on the black shard. “Charming.”
“It’s corruption,” Kieran said flatly. “Not ornament.”
Kaen’s eyes flicked to the sky, where the storm still churned. “Perhaps corruption is what we need. Power unbound by the council’s caution might end this war before it begins.”
Solas’s jaw tightened. “You speak of darkness as if it’s a weapon to be wielded.”
“And if it is?” Kaen asked, soft as a knife sliding free. “Would you rather let the kingdom burn for pride?”
The exchange drew murmurs, but Thaelyn barely heard them. Her gaze had caught on Thorne. He stood apart from the others, his head bowed slightly, water sliding from his hair into his eyes. He looked hollow, like the battlefield had carved something out of him.
She took a step forward before she realized what she was doing.
“Thorne,” she whispered.
His head lifted. For a breath, the distance between them vanished. His eyes, storm-blue, rimmed with exhaustion, met hers. There was a question there. And fear.
Then Commander Dareth’s voice broke through. “Prince Kaen, we’ll brief you once the wounded are tended.”
Kaen smiled thinly. “Of course. I’ll inform the King that the shadows have returned.” His gaze lingered on Thaelyn. “And that they seem particularly drawn to your academy.”
The dragon fields were now empty. Only embers and the low moan of wind through the cliffs remained. Thaelyn waited near the stables until Thorne finally stepped out of the infirmary wing. Up close, he looked even worse, with cuts across his knuckles, soot along his jaw, and shadows beneath his eyes.
“What happened out there?” she asked.
Thorne hesitated. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “They moved like smoke. No sound. When we struck them, they split apart and reformed. They fed on our fire.”
Thaelyn swallowed hard. “Fed?”
“Every time Vornokh breathed flame, the light went out. Like it was swallowed.” He looked past her, toward the mountains. “It wasn’t an army. It was hunger.”
The wind tugged at her cloak. “And the border?”
“Gone.” His voice was hoarse. “The Rift’s edge is spreading. You felt it first in the Trial.”
She shook her head. “No. That was something else.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe it was the first whisper of what’s coming.”
He started to walk away, then paused. The torchlight caught in his eyes, turning the blue to iron. “They think I don’t hear it,” he murmured. “But the darkness speaks to the dragons, too. Vornokh won’t rest. He says the wind lies.”
Thorne’s silhouette vanished into the rain. Thaelyn’s breath stilled. Outside, thunder cracked so loud it shook the walls. For an instant, she swore she heard a whisper riding the wind, low, distant, familiar.
“We are not done. War has come to Asgar.”
Chapter
Fifteen
The sun bled across the mountains, its light stretched thin through a sky fractured by unrest. The Scorchfield’s glass dome caught the first blaze of dawn, igniting runes etched into its curved surface, old, spell-forged sigils that shimmered faintly, holding centuries of power. It was not a place made for peace. It was a crucible for war, said to endure even a dragon's fury, the air thrummed with unease, the kind that coiled beneath the skin and warned of breaking points.
