“On your feet, Lieutenant.”
Xavien’s tone sliced clean.
“I’m her guard,” Evander seethed.
“Until this war ends,Iam her lord protector.”
Xavien hissed the words, tightening his hold.
“On your feet.”
Evander rose, fists coiled.
Jasmine pressed closer, gaze darting to the basin.
“What happened?”
Amerei curled deeper into Xavien’s chest, as if she could hide from what she had seen.
Xavien’s voice fell low.
“The southern line holds, but Oustinon burns. Dragons, fire, Ashakar itself. The ballistae are spent. Storne rallies, but even he cannot turn back the mountain. The Ruakite…”
His words faltered, his head bowed, muffling her cries. His hand swept her arm once, twice, before he lifted her chin.
“Elarien…”
His voice steadied.
“If he yet breathes—come. Let us look.”
“Amerei, no—” Jasmine urged.
Xavien’s head snapped, braids rattling like beads of warning.
“You will be silent as the grave. Or you will leave my chamber.”
Jasmine stilled.
With trembling steps, Amerei let him guide her back to the basin. Smoke writhed across the surface, stormlight gone to a dim, ashen ripple. She reached for it, desperate, but his hand caught hers—anchoring.
“Easy, Elarien.”
Then the water stirred.
Not with stormlight.
With darkness that slithered.
A voice bled through—silken, cruel.
“Oh, little queen,” Zeporah purred. “Clawing at stone as if you could drag him back.”
Amerei flinched, nails digging the onyx rim. Xavien drew her closer, but the voice only sharpened.
“And you, princeling,” Zeporah hissed. “Cradling another man’s whore like she is yours. Does she shiver when you touch her? Does she beg? Or does she think only of the Ruakite while you rut in shadows?”
Xavien’s hand seized the basin’s edge, knuckles white.
