She smiles up at me, and the world steadies.
I hold up the missive. “Uh, I have news. From Alaric’s viyella.”
Concern flickers across her face immediately, all that sharp EMT focus snapping into place. She steps closer without realizing it, eyes going straight to the letter like she might read it through my hand.
“She is having some difficulty,” I say carefully. “Alaric requests that we come. That you see her. The healers at the Eyrie are uncertain.”
“With her pregnancy?” Delia asks at once, all business and warm, aching concern that makes my heart clench. “Is it the baby? Her blood pressure? Contractions? Headaches? How far along is she again?”
A corner of my mouth lifts despite the worry.
Of course she thinks like this.
Of course she goes straight to triage in her head.
“She is early yet, for such complications,” I say. “The letter does not say more. Only that the winds are restless and he does not like it.”
She exhales, shoulders squaring, decision already forming in her eyes.
“Okay,” she says, voice firm. “Let’s go.”
The words shouldn’t soothe me.
But they do.
Because there is no hesitation.
No bargaining. No complaint.
Nightfall needs her—and she answers.
I step closer, sliding a hand to the small of her back, pulling her gently into my side.
“Xavier will ready the portal to the Eyrie,” I murmur. “It will be different from the way we traveled to the Vein. Wind instead of flame. Do not let Alaric’s theatrics unsettle you.”
She snorts softly.
“Oh, so drama is his element.”
“His and the weather’s,” I agree dryly.
She reaches up then, fingers brushing my jaw, her gaze searching mine.
“Hey. Thorne?”
“Yes, Shula?” I breathe.
“Don’t worry. I trust you,” she says—and leans in to press a quick, soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.
It is not nearly enough.
It still undoes me.
For a heartbeat, I forget about crowns and mines and SoulTakers and restless winds.
There is only this woman.
This human.
