But reason clawed its way through the fury, slow and reluctant. Ira was not challenging him.
He was warning him.
Power was already wavering. If Rune didn’t stand tall now, if he hid her instead of honoring her, the courts would decide the story for him. And Rune had not survived damnation to let cowards write his legend.
“We wish to keep the seven factions united,” Sal’vathar said once Rune released Ira. “With Vorak’s coming, even whispers can turn tides. They must be reminded who rules them.”
Ira grunted in agreement as he rubbed the claw marks in his neck.
“I do,”Rune said, voice carrying through the cavern. “All whispers against it will be silenced.”
The promise fell like thunder and the mountain shuddered.
A murmur rippled through the Dominions. Sal’vathar remained still, the corners of his mouth twitching with something that might have been disdain—or amusement.
Rune’s claws itched with the urge to tear out his throat.
Sal’vathar had long been marked as a threat, he could not strike. Not yet. Not without consequence.
The Court of Sin and Ruin was vile, but it functioned on careful rules. And rules ensured balance, if not peace. Killing one Dominion without proper cause would fracture the courts, weaken them all, and invite chaos at a time Rune could not afford it. He needed every blade, every banner, every drop of magic when Vorak came.
The shadows settled with his patience. So he would wait, like a spider at the center of its web.
Sal’vathar inclined his head slightly. “We are here to serve you, my king.”
Rune let the quiet stretch between them like a noose.
“Good,” Rune said at last. “When the time comes to summon your legions, you will march.”
Sal’vathar gave a shallow bow. “As you command.”
Rune said nothing more. But shadows coiled tighter around his shoulders, and deep in his gut, the old magic stirred restlessly.
With that, the Dominions retreated without another word and vanished into the pitch-black hall.
Once they were gone, Deimos exhaled a low whistle. “I thought Ira was going to lose his head.”
Hadeon grunted, taking a breath.
Rune dismissed them with an idle flick of his hand and they vanished in smoke. He turned away, dropping back on his throne. Why did it feel like his control was slipping?
A sound brushed the edge of his awareness. A melody threaded with golden memory, sorrow, longing.
A voice soft and sweet, low as dusk wind in the trees.
Alora.
Rune’s breath stilled, the world halting as though time itself bowed to listen. The bond ignited like flame in his chest, a ribbon drawn tight through his ribs like silk, pulling.
Abyss take him, she was calling for him.
He should have ignored it, but Rune was already moving toward the song.
Already falling.
Rune caught Alora’s scent first before he found her standing on the edge of a cliff like a vision spun from starlight. Moonlight pooled over her skin, softening the curves of her face as her song carried over the land. Her golden-brown hair tousled in the mountain breeze. It caught the light like liquid honey, wild and unbound, as he remembered it.
The silk of her dress clung to her like petals shaped by flame, curling around her waist and thighs in fluid layers, shifting with every breath of wind.
