Steel rasped as every Resistance fighter drew their dagger and pressed the blades to their hearts.
Ash stilled, the hairs on her arms rising. This wasn’t strategy any longer—this was ritual. Ancient. A blood oath, centuries of weight compressed into one single moment.
“As it will be,” Varkyn intoned.
Their voices echoed as one, like a single strike of iron, “As it will be!”
“By crown and by flame, I stand.” Attor’s vow cut through the quiet, deadly and unwavering. He was no longer the easygoing shifter Ash knew. This was the warrior who’d kept faith through ages of darkness. “Any who falter, I’ll cut down myself.”
The air itself seemed to vibrate with power. And through their bond, she sensed Race’s dragon stir in recognition of the old words. Only then did Ash understand the enormity of what this was.
These were the last guardians of something sacred, fighting to right the wrong.
Daggers sheathed with practiced grace, the fighters moved around the table, maps rolled and packed away, Varkyn’s orders carried down the line.
Watching the dozen shifters who would lead the teams, Ash realized she was witnessing the fragile seed of a reborn kingdom—one blade oath at a time.
With Bregga’s medicinal tea easing her exhaustion, she kept calm, even as wariness prickled at her. Her gaze locked on Race as he spoke to Braxion. She didn’t want him hurt. Heck, she didn’t want any of them hurt. But Lemuria had suffered too long under this bloody tyrant’s rule. It was time to act.
The once-busy common room had fallen quiet again after the shifters left. Only the crackling fire broke the silence now and then.
Race stood by the window, looking out at the dim street. Two of Malcarion’s guards passed by, gesturing animatedly, and his mouth tightened, every muscle coiled as vengeance burned.
Through the window’s reflection, he watched Attor roll up the maps.
“Last night, Malcarion held another of his compulsory gatherings,” Attor said then, his tone grim. “Demanded the people swear loyalty again—likely because he heard the rumors that a pureblood was spotted.”
Race turned, his jaw clenching.
Attor shook his head, slid the maps into tubes, and capped them. “One civilian—gods, the fool had courage—asked how many more children they were going to lose to the mines. Malcarion smiled, called him up to the dais, and executed him.”
Steel-gray scales popped along Attor’s jaw and neck, revealing his barely restrained fury. He looked up. “The worst part of all this,” he bit out, “is the sheer godsdamn silence. The acceptance of it.”
“When you live in fear for millennia,” Race said quietly, “you learn to trade anything for the illusion of safety. We couldn’t save that male, but come tomorrow, we will save thousands.”
“Aye.” Attor’s gaze hardened. “Until morn, then, sire.” He gave a bow and strode out.
One way or the other, he would end this.
Every child the bastard stole. Every scream he wrung from their throats. Every scar he carved into these people?—
It ends with me.
He slipped his fisted hands into his pockets and stared outside again.
“You’re brooding so hard, you’re going to burn a hole straight through the buildings,” Ash said, her voice soft enough to pull him back from the edge.
He drew in a deep breath, forcing the fury down until he could trust himself to turn.
She sat curled in the armchair, firelight wreathing her in gold, like the living heart of a flame. Her hair was tangled, her face wan with exhaustion, and yet…she insisted on waiting with him. His chest tightened.
“Not brooding,” he corrected. “Calculating.”
“Uh-huh.” She set her mug aside and crossed to him, slipping her arms around his waist. “Well, by my calculation, tomorrow’s problem can wait.” She hugged him. “For what’s left of tonight, you’re mine.”
He held her close, the tension bleeding from his frame. “Always yours, heart-fire.”
Race scooped her into his arms and carried her toward the stairs. He needed the warmth she offered to thaw the ice that had settled deep in his soul after what he’d heard.
