“No,” Race said, his tone clipped. “He won’t. His days are numbered.”
Their bond thrummed like stormlight. Beyond the cave, thunder rumbled once more—low, distant, as if the heavens themselves waited.
Caelvyrn waited, too. Ancient, wounded…ready for retribution.
Chapter
Thirty-Six
The familiar scentof herbs and woodsmoke welcomed them as they reformed in their attic room at Talonhold House. Ash exhaled, exhaustion weighing her down.
From the common room below, Attor’s low rumble and Varkyn’s commanding tone blended with unfamiliar voices.
“I feel your exhaustion, my mate,” Race said, setting the backpack on the bench. “Rest, while I meet with the Resistance.”
She snorted. “We’ve come this far. I’m not sitting out any meeting when it comes to bringing that blackguard down.”
His eyes softened with tender indulgence. “I’ve created a monster,” he teased, lips twitching. He tipped her chin and kissed her. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She straightened her rose-pink jumper over her jeans, blowing a wavy strand of hair from her face. Then stilled. “Oh, boy.” Her face heated. “Everyone will know what we’ve been up to… You know, with us missing for three days and all.”
“They already knew.” His voice held a note of smug satisfaction, his palm settling on her lower back, warm and possessive.
Ash rolled her eyes. “Subtle as a brick through a window, aren’t you, my love?”
He laughed and gave her bum a quick squeeze. As he shut their door behind them, his expression shifted back to cool, the warrior returning.
In the common room, the fire threw restless shadows over the maps and weapons scattered across the table. Wind rattled the shutters, dragging a low howl through the old beams.
A dozen resistance fighters filled the room, their faces drawn and grim. Attor looked up first, the relief in his weathered features fleeting but unmistakable. The shifters bowed to Race, who inclined his head in return.
“Welcome back.” Attor’s gaze swept over them. “Everything…settled?”
Race nodded once. Ash bit her lip, fighting the heat climbing into her cheeks.
Skaldr threw them a brief, unreadable glance before returning to the maps on the table. Koal, ever the friendly one, gave her a quick smile.
And Rhaedra, who stood near the hearth, her copper hair glinting in the firelight like minted coins, offered a respectful nod. No trace now of her earlier spark of interest in Race.
“How are the children?” Ash asked, glancing between the shifters she knew.
“The young are safe,” Varkyn said, all clipped efficiency. “But Malcarion’s forces are in motion. After the fall of the Soul Forge, they’re sweeping the mountains—wrong region, thanks to your storm.”
Relief loosened her chest. Ash nodded and stepped away, sinking into the armchair by the hearth. The flames licked higher, their heat a thin shield against the chill creeping through the room.
Then the door swung open, and the air shifted. An enormous man entered, his weather-worn cloak damp with rain, old battle scars crossing his jaw. The conversation paused—respect, relief, renewed purpose rippling through the fighters as if a missing piece had fallen into place.
“Wing Commander Braxion,” Attor told Race.
“I remember,” Race said.
The man inclined his head. “Your Highness.”
“It’s just Race for now, Braxion,” he said, moving to the table, his fingers tracing a section on it.
“The best plan is to move now,” Attor said, and Race looked up. “They’re scattered, confused, still reeling from the fall of the forge.”
“Aye.” Varkyn braced both fists on the wooden surface. “The skies are ours, but Malcarion’s wyrms still scour the mountains. He intends to strike first.”
