His fear. His rage. His stubborn, relentless will.
It’s all bleeding through the zareth like someone opened a floodgate.
My chest tightens, and my eyes blur.
“I can barely breathe,” Phoebe whispers, pressing her free hand to her ribs. “Kael’s power is… surging. He’s trying to keep something back?—”
“Alaric’s gone very quiet,” Jules murmurs, her eyes distant, thumb rubbing small circles against my knuckles now. “Focused. That’s not always a good thing.”
Fear crashes over us in a shared wave.
I can’t just sit here.
But Jules is pregnant. And Phoebe—Kael’s viyella—is pale, jaw tight, fighting whatever storm is rolling through her bond.
Thorne told me before he left.
He brought it with him.
The crown.
“The Prime’s crown is here, right?” My voice comes out too loud, too sharp. “In the Eyrie?”
Jules nods, swallowing. “Alaric wanted to try something while all four of them were here. It’s safe though, right? Under his wards while they’re all away at the Vein.”
“It’s both Idris wants,” Phoebe inserts. “Kael always says he’ll come for both—the forges and the crown.”
“That’s what he really wants though, right?” I ask, fighting to keep my breathing even. “The crown?”
Phoebe nods, eyes shadowed.
“He thinks he can wield the Prime’s power if he has it. But it doesn’t work that way. The crown is sentient. It chooses. It protects itself. Alaric says forcing it only ends in madness or death.”
“Great,” I rasp. “So we’ve basically hung a ‘free insanity’ sign in the middle of a war.”
Before either of them can answer, the world tilts.
Power hits me like a physical blow.
A tidal wave of heat and agony tears through my bond. I slam to my knees, hands flying to my chest as if I can hold myself together by force.
“Delia!” Phoebe cries, sliding down beside me.
“Goddess,” Jules gasps. “What is it? Talk to us.”
“It’s—” I can’t get enough air. My heart is galloping. My skin feels too tight. “Thorne. He’s—he’s hurt. Oh my God, he’s hurt?—”
Tears burn my eyes.
I see flashes that aren’t mine.
Fire. Stone. A clash of power so intense it cracks the darkness itself.
The smell of scorched air and blackened magic.
And under it all, through it all—his voice, hoarse and furious and unyielding.
Mine.
