Mine.
I bow my head—bow—to hide the rawness in my eyes, to the visible shock of a passing servant who nearly drops the linens in his arms.
“You trust easily, Shula.”
“I don’t. But I do trust you. Do you trust me?” she asks.
“Always,” I promise quietly, straightening. “Stay close to me when we cross. Alaric may be the Lord of Air, but you are the only breath I cannot lose.”
Her cheeks flush.
“You really have to say things like that right before we jump into a magical sky portal?”
“Yes,” I say simply, taking her hand in mine. “I do.”
Xavier appears at the end of the hall, already braced, the faint shimmer of wind-magic tugging at his hair.
“The portal is ready, my Lord. The Eyrie awaits,” he announces.
I squeeze Delia’s hand.
“Come, Shula,” I murmur, leading her toward the swirling, silver-lit archway forming in the air. “Let us go keep Alaric’s world from falling apart, and see what your Earth training can do for a child of Nightfall.”
Chapter 26
Delia
The Eyrie, Nightfall
The Eyrie feels like standing inside a storm that learned manners.
Wind hums through the stone, soft and constant, like the whole fortress is breathing.
Everything is tall and airy and dramatic—arched windows, sheer black curtains stirring in invisible drafts, silver lanterns that sway without chains.
And in the center of it all, on an absurdly massive bed draped in black and silver silk, is Jules.
Meeting Alaric’s viyella shouldn’t make me nervous, but my palms are damp and my heart is doing its own panic cha-cha.
She’s beautiful—of course she is.
Silver-streaked dark hair, light gray eyes, plump pink lips, and clear, smooth skin.
The kind of pretty that, back on Earth, usually came with a side of casual cruelty and a pack of mean girls in matching lip gloss.
For one horrible second, I’m back in middle school, waiting for the shoe to drop.
Then she smiles.
A wide, relieved, real smile that hits me right in the chest.
“Hi! You must be Delia. Oh thank God,” she says, throwing out her hand like we’ve known each other for years.
All the air rushes out of me in a relieved laugh. “Yeah. I’m Delia. And you must be Jules.”
Her fingers are warm when they grip mine. There’s a faint tremor there, but the grip itself? Strong.
“Myrrin?” Alaric says, his voice low and worried as he looms beside the bed. “Are you quite alright?”
