“To Nightfall,” I say. “To our men. And to us.”
We clink our cups, three little sounds ringing out under the Gemini moon.
And for the first time since stepping into that burning house on Earth, the fire in my chest feels like home.
Chapter 27
Thorne
The Eyrie, Nightfall
It feels different here than Ashfell.
Less embers, more wind.
Less bone and basalt, more carved stone and open balconies where the sky itself intrudes.
But the tension is the same.
We stand in Alaric’s throne room—if it can be called that.
The great chamber is all jagged arches and soaring windows, the ever-present wind threading through like a living thing.
His hearth is narrower than mine, burning in a tall, elegant column at the center of the room instead of a wide, sprawling hearth.
Air Lord aesthetics.
Useless when it comes to my temper.
Alaric is pacing, wings a restless shimmer beneath his skin, magic hovering around him in shreds of half-formed illusion.
Kael leans against a carved pillar, arms crossed, ocean-dark eyes narrowed.
Dagan stands near the window, shoulders bunched, the stone beneath his boots vibrating in time with his mood.
I’ve brought the Prime’s crown with me, and it now rests on a pedestal between us, wrapped in layer upon layer of my fire wards and Kael’s, Dagan’s, and Alaric’s spells.
To anyone else, it looks like a simple, inert circlet.
I know better.
“You know what I think?” Alaric says at last, halting mid-stride. “Three of the four of us have found true viyellas, formed true zareth bonds. Kael’s tides have steadied. My illusions answer me without bleeding me dry. Your fire—” He gestures at me, eyes glinting. “—is more volatile and powerful than I’ve ever seen it. And still, the crown remains silent.”
“It will choose in its time,” Kael says evenly.
“It has had time,” Alaric snaps. “The multiverse is fraying, SoulTaker attacks escalate in every realm, and the Fates are playing dice in the dark. Perhaps one of us should attempt to force it to choose. Just touch it. Call it. See who it answers.”
My fire snarls inside me.
“No,” I say, the word edged in flame. “You know that is a bad idea.”
Alaric’s jaw clenches. “I know what the old texts say. But desperate times?—”
“Desperate times do not make ancient magic less lethal,” I cut in. “The crown does not suffer coercion. If it is forced, it does not ‘consider.’ It destroys.”
Kael nods, pushing off the pillar.
“Thorne is right. My ancestors tried to wrest its choice, once. It rejected them. The ocean still remembers their screams.”
