I scan the room, calculating. “Ben. Rhonan—diplomatic leverage if this turns political.” My eyes find the other dragon prince. “Evren, if you’re willing. Derek for tracking.”
“Rafe for magical support,” Ben adds. “He’s got the raw power if things go sideways.”
I nod. Six. Small enough to move fast, capable enough to fight our way out if we have to.
Around us, warriors straighten—ready, silent, waiting for the order that hasn’t even been given.
Nyxiana nods sharply. “Portal stability depends on how long we can hold it. The more power we channel, the longer the window—but it’s not infinite. Move fast.”
I feel the pack’s energy shift around me. The hopeless rage that consumed me minutes ago has transformed into deadly focus. We have a plan. We have a target. We have a timeline.
Through whatever fragile thread still connects us, I send a single thought toward Lyanna: Hold on. I’m coming.
The pre-dawn air bites sharp against my skin as I pace the compound’s edge. Shadows still blanket the valley, but frenetic energy crackles through our territory. We could have taken days to prepare—the time difference gives us that luxury. But every hour she’s trapped there is an hour too long.
We launch at first light. Minutes now, not hours.
Near the Lodge entrance, Ben studies a glowing projection of the palace layout—the same magical reconstruction the dragon specialists created. His finger traces entry points, pausing at key locations before continuing along extraction routes. Derek moves methodically through communication devices nearby, testing each one with quick, practiced movements. The soft crackle of magic-enhanced comms breaks the silence at regular intervals.
Across the clearing, Nyxiana stands with eyes closed, silver-white hair lifting slightly in an unfelt breeze. The air around her shimmers with accumulated power—frost crystals forming and dissipating with each breath. Lachlan, Elysia, and two fae portal guardians form a circle around her, their energies synchronizing in preparation for the unprecedented portal creation.
Evren moves between groups, his natural restlessness channeled into precise coordination. Gold flickers in his eyes as he relays information from his specialists to Derek, translating dragon technical jargon into terms our pack can use. Occasionally, he glances skyward where dawn will soon break, dragon fire leaking from the corners of his mouth when he speaks rapidly to his own people in Draconic.
I feel a tug through whatever connects us—sharp, aching, but surprisingly clear.
Lyanna is awake. Fighting. I can feel her determination pulsing across the dimensional barrier, a thin thread of steel they couldn’t sever no matter how hard they tried. The connection screams with pain, but underneath that agony lies something powerful—she hasn’t surrendered. Neither will I.
Dane approaches silently, coming to stand beside me. His presence carries the weight of Alpha authority, but he doesn’t speak immediately. We watch the preparations together, pack leader and warrior, both knowing the impossible odds.
“She’s one of us,” he says finally, voice low enough that only I can hear. “You’ll bring her home.”
I nod once. Words are unnecessary between us. When the mission launches, we’ll breach realms, storm a fae palace, and bring my mate home. Anyone who stands in the way won’t stand for long.
The sky’s edge begins to lighten imperceptibly. The rescue mission will launch soon. Impossible doesn’t matter. Only her return does.
She’s my mate, my healer, my future. Dimensional barriers can’t change that.
Chapter 30
Lyanna
Istand perfectly still as three silent attendants work around me. Their faces are blank, eyes averted, as though I’m not a person but a doll to be dressed. One tightens the laces at my back while another arranges my hair in an intricate upswept style adorned with tiny silver stars.
The silver-blue silk settles heavily across my shoulders. The gown is exquisite—of course it is—with flowing sleeves and a modest neckline adorned with platinum threading that catches the late afternoon light streaming through the warded windows. House Silverthorne’s status woven into every thread. Not quite a wedding gown, but a statement of who I am. Who I’m expected to be.
I catalog every detail of my surroundings while appearing compliant. The guards below my window follow a predictable pattern—three-hour shifts with a noticeable gap during changeover near the eastern gardens.
The attendant working on my hair steps back, revealing my reflection. I barely recognize the court-perfect fae noble staring back at me.
The reflection stirs memories I’ve spent years trying to bury—endless formal functions where smiles were weapons and every word carried hidden meaning. I’d escaped this world deliberately, trading silk for practical healer’s robes, choosing Lachlan’s progressive enclave over the suffocating politics of Gleann na Sidhe. My mother’s death had been the excuse I needed to leave; my father’s grief made him too distracted to stop me. Now here I am again, dressed in expectations I fled a decade ago.
This dressing chamber is different from my sleeping quarters—more formal, with higher ceilings and mirrors on three walls. I study the ward patterns etched into the doorframes while pretending to admire my appearance. Seven-point binding structure here, compared to the five-point in my bedroom. Reinforced at the corners with what looks like newer enchantment work. They’ve upgraded security since my arrival. They’re not just keeping me in—they’re watching more closely than before.
As the attendants move around the room collecting discarded items, I map the visible portion of the palace through the window. The ceremonial hall is three buildings east. The portal chamber would be northwest, beyond the fountain courtyard. If Callum comes—whenCallum comes—he’ll need to know these paths.
Suddenly, the connection to Callum flares in my chest—a burning, yearning pull across realms that makes me gasp.My hand presses against my sternum where the sensation is strongest.
One attendant glances up, quickly averting her eyes when she notices me watching. I let my hand fall casually, as if adjusting a fold in the fabric. The burning doesn’t fade. Callum is there, across dimensions, his determination pulsing through whatever fragile thread still connects us.
