Chosen. Not just for the dragons. Not just for each other. But for something bigger than any of us could yet name.
Zander hesitated at the door, the flickering torchlight catching on the silver in his dark tunic.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Don’t wait up.”
Riven saluted him mockingly. “Try not to start a revolution without us.”
Zander’s smile was subtle, but real.
“No promises.”
We were sprawled across our bunks, armor peeled off, and the pressure of the day unwinding from our shoulders. The conversation was light—something about dragon droppings and how Ferrula had nearly slipped in one near the eastern trench, when the barracks door creaked open.
Solei slipped in like a whisper of shadow, her hood low until she pulled it back, blond hair tumbling free. Her presence shifted the air, sharpened it, like the hum of a blade just before it sings.
Teren grinned from his bunk, leaning back against his wall with a mock-sigh. “Is it just me, or is Ashlyn’s sister getting sexier every time she breaks into our barracks?”
Solei didn’t miss a beat. Her smile was slow and dangerous, right before she whipped a dagger at his head.
The blade thudded into the wooden post beside him, quivering just a hair from his ear.
Teren chuckled, utterly unfazed. He reached up, plucked the dagger from the wood, and ran a thumb along the edge. “Like I said. Sexy.”
Riven snorted, and Cordelle buried his face in his blanket to smother his laugh.
Solei ignored the theatrics and pulled a tightly bound scroll from the inner pocket of her cloak. “Enough flirting, soldier boy.” Her voice was all business now. She walked past Eilvin’s empty bunk and moved straight to Cordelle’s, holding the scroll out to him.
“My father didn’t recognize the script,” she said. “Which means it’s old. Older than the Unification Treaty. Maybe even before the exile of the Blood Fae.”
Cordelle sat up straighter, suddenly alert, green eyes wide. “Where did you get this?”
“A messenger,” she said, tone vague on purpose. “And before you ask, he is dead now.”
She laid the scroll gently across his blanket like it were something sacred. Cordy looked down at the brittle parchment, already studying the faint, inked markings as his fingers hovered over it without touching.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said quietly. “But if it’s what I think it is… this may take a minute.”
Solei nodded once, her expression unreadable. “Do your thing.”
Cordelle’s eyes scanned the parchment like he was reading something holy. We all leaned in, the quiet of the barracks pressing in around us, even the dragons outside seemed to hold their breath.
His finger finally settled on a curved symbol, etched in fading ink and lined with delicate slashes.
“That,” he said, his voice laced with awe, “is the sigil for the Crown Council. Or… it was. Before the Unification Treaty.”
My stomach tightened. “What does it say?”
He looked up, pupils wide with wonder. “It’s a decree. From one of the former kings—Rayne’s line, maybe even the one who established the accords. It speaks of a desperate appeal made to the Light Fae.”
Jax stiffened slightly across the room, but he didn’t interrupt.
“How does that help us?” I asked, moving closer.
Cordelle carefully flipped the scroll over, and the entire squad leaned in as a second side was revealed—this one a map, faded but clear enough to stir something ancient in my chest.
“This is the Blood Isle,” Cordelle murmured. “Before it was corrupted. Before the war turned it into what it is now. Back when it was still the Fae Isle.”
Teren stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as Cordelle pointed to a section on the southern curve of the island. “That’s the sanctuary,” Cordelle confirmed. “Near the ocean. It’s marked as a rehabilitation zone for water-bound mammals, birds, a few species of wild magic creatures too rare to name. That’s how they survived all this time. Access to open sea… and a closed land mass protected by old fae wards.”
