Their bonds shine to my eyes—literally.
I see them as threads of light, rooted deep in each Lord’s chest, twining out and into their viyellas. Fire-gold for Thorne. Bright storm-silver for Alaric. Tidal blue-shot-with-starlight for Kael.
All of them bright. All of them steady, humming with power and trust and something that makes my teeth ache.
Love.
The one thing this realm has never promised me.
I take a slow drink, letting the burn of Thorne’s ember-ale cut through the heaviness in my chest. The hall is loud—music, laughter, the clatter of plates and chairs—but underneath it all, I hear the deeper sounds.
The soft shift of stone in the castle walls as Ashfell adjusts to the weight of so many bodies.
The low, earth-deep thrum from far below where The Ember Vein pulses, stabilizing again after the SoulTakers’ assault.
The distant grind of mountains turning in their sleep.
Nightfall hums through my bones.
The war is not over.
Idris is not finished.
The rot he has sown has not yet been carved out.
I know this the way I know when a quake is coming—long before the first tremor, when the rock itself begins to hold its breath.
“What’s going on in your thunderhead?”
Thorne’s voice comes from my right. I didn’t hear him approach, which irritates me.
I turn my head slowly. He stands there with a plate piled high with roasted meat and ember bread, Delia back with the healers.
His eyes are bright, mouth curved in a smirk that does not quite hide the concern beneath.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Bullshit,” Kael says easily, appearing on my left like they planned it. He has a goblet of sea-wine in hand and the look of a man who is both content and endlessly nosy. “You’re rumbling loud enough to shake the rafters.”
I glance up.
The rafters are, in fact, shaking.
I exhale and let the earth settle.
“Better?” I ask dryly.
“For the structure? Yes,” Alaric says as he joins us, folding his arms across his chest. His silver eyes are sharp. “For you? Not so certain.”
I narrow my gaze. “I am fine.”
“You’re brooding,” Kael says.
“I always brood.”
“You’re brooding more than usual,” Thorne points out. “Usually you just glower quietly and drink. Tonight you look like you want to punch the Gemini moon itself.”
I grunt.
