"Coordinate with the other Death Lords," he said. The words came out even. They had to. "Communication signals active two hours before we move."
Aldric saluted and moved off.
Dante's gaze found Brynn across the courtyard. She stood with the ward-keepers, hands moving through magical constructs, circlet glowing as she synchronized the communication network.
He knew that look. Had seen it on warriors before battle, when acknowledging terror meant breaking.
His shadows reached for her without permission. Crossing the courtyard, needing to touch her even from a distance.
She wouldn't last two hours like that. And he needed her sharp when they hit Caelum's fortress—needed her whole, not hollowed out by fear she refused to face.
But she had to finish the synchronization first. And he had coordination to handle.
He'd find her after.
Dante moved through the preparations on instinct. Confirming positions. Checking supply lines. Answering questions from captains who needed orders. The whole time, part of him watched her across the courtyard. Watched her shoulders creep higher with tension she wouldn't release. Watched her hands move faster, more desperate, like she could outrun her own fear if she just worked hard enough.
When she finally slipped away from the ward-keepers and disappeared into the palace, he gave himself five minutes. Let her have a moment alone before he followed.
He found her on the eastern balcony.
She stood with her back to him, hands gripping the stone railing hard enough that her knuckles had gone white. Below her, thirty-five hundred souls checked weapons. Reinforced armor. Said goodbye to people they might never see again.
Her whole body was rigid. Braced against something that was coming, whether she was ready or not.
He crossed the balcony without a sound, shadows reaching her first—tendrils curling around her ankles, announcing his presence.
She didn't turn.
"Forty to sixty percent casualties." Her voice barely carried. "That's what Aldric said."
Shadows wound around her waist. He pulled her back against his chest—an anchor in the dark.
"Yes."
"Fourteen hundred to two thousand souls. Who trusted us. Who believed what we said." A tremor ran through her. "They're going to die because we asked them to fight."
"They're going to die because they chose to." He covered her hand on the stone, feeling how cold her fingers were. "Everyone down there knows the cost. They came anyway."
Her laugh was bitter. "Is that supposed to make it better?"
"No." He pressed his mouth to her hair. "Nothing makes it better. You just carry it."
She went quiet. Below them, the blacksmith directed younger fighters toward the armory. Ward-magic flared bright as the network linked across realms. Somewhere, someone was crying. Somewhere else, someone was laughing too loud, the way people did when they were terrified.
"I should check the ward calculations." She pulled away from the railing, from him. "Make sure the synchronization is perfect. If there's any weakness?—"
He caught her wrist.
"Brynn."
She wouldn't look at him. Kept her eyes on the courtyard, the preparations, anywhere but his face.
His shadows wound around her other wrist. "Look at me."
"I can't." Her voice cracked. "If I look at you right now, I'll fall apart. And I can't afford to fall apart. I need to stay focused. I need to keep working. If I stop?—"
He pulled her into the shadowed alcove beside the balcony doors. Away from the courtyard. Away from watching eyes. Into darkness where nothing existed but his power and her heartbeat.
