“It can bind her power long enough for me to finish what I was made for.”
Silence fell again. Heavier this time.
It wasn’t just a battle anymore.
It was reckoning.
Thauren spoke last. “Formations must be final by midnight. Every commander briefed. Every soldier armed and blooded. We’ve prepared for this moment across lifetimes. We meet her in the morning.”
Kael rose.
Alarik followed.
But Maris remained, her hand on the sword at her hip, her eyes unfocused, like she already stood on the battlefield, watching it unfold.
She was many things now.
A weapon. A goddess.
And somehow, still, utterly mortal.
Chapter sixty-seven
Holy Goodbye
-Maris-
The army of Achyron gathered beneath a bruised sky.
The cliffs of Nerium burned with torchlight, firelight danced across a thousand armored forms. Banners from four kingdoms: Nythra’s Wolf, Calanthe’s Basilisk, Virellia’s Leviathan, and Eryndor’s Stag swayed together in the salted wind.
Tomorrow, they would bleed as one.
Tonight, they would feast.
The way the nightbound always did —loud, fast, and fevered. Music crashed from the palace halls. Laughter tangled with shouted toasts. Drums pounded like war cries in the dark. Someone uncorked a barrel of sea-spiced mead. Another twirled a sword in place of a dance partner.
It should have felt wrong.
But instead… it felt holy.
A farewell cloaked in defiance.
Maris moved through the courtyard like a ghost in a goddess’s skin. Her gown was simple, high neck storm-gray silk threaded with moonlight but her presence was anything but.Her crown rested on her brow. They watched her as she passed. Warriors bowed. Nobles parted.
She was the Veil Breaker and this was her war.
Near the outer ring of the celebration, a contingent of human warriors stood in formation, stoic, straight-backed, unsure of their place. Most of Eryndor forces had arrived late, their passage south delayed by shadow storms. But their presence was unmistakable now, steel-clad and sharp-eyed, led by Commander Rennic, a grizzled soldier with silver in his beard and the burden of too many lost wars behind his gaze.
She approached them slowly.
“Commander Rennic,” she greeted.
He inclined his head, voice gravel-thick. “My queen.”
“We owe this land more than one debt. And you more than one life.” He bowed.
She reached out, brushing her fingers against his breastplate. Her magic pulsed faintly into the iron— resilience, fortitude, hope. He blinked, startled.
