Footsteps retreat down the corridor. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“That’s going to be awkward.” I grab my shift and pull it over my head, grimacing at the thought of walking through the fortress in last night’s borrowed clothes.
Auren crosses to a wardrobe I hadn’t noticed and pulls out a dark shirt. “Here.” He tosses it to me. “It will be too large, but it’s better than—” He gestures at my flimsy shift.
I catch the shirt and hold it up. It’s soft, well-worn, and smells like him. Something warm uncurls in my chest as I pull it on over my shift—it falls almost to my knees, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, but he’s right. It’s better.
And I like wearing it. Like carrying his scent on my skin, his clothes against my body. Like being marked as his, even in this small way.
The thought should probably alarm me. It doesn’t.
“I don’t care if they know.” Auren’s voice is quiet, his gaze steady on mine as he fastens his own shirt. “About us. Whatever this is.”
“Neither do I.” And I realize, as I say it, that it’s true. Let them know. Let them see me walking out of his chambers wearing his shirt. After everything that’s happened—Morrigan, the assault, the grief and violence and fire—this feels like something worth claiming. “But we should probably focus on whatever made Drayke sound like that first.”
Auren nods, his expression shifting into something harder. Battle mode. “Whatever this is, it’s not good news.”
He holds out his hand. I take it.
We walk to the war council side by side.
The war roomis already full when we arrive.
Drayke stands at the head of the massive oak table, his bronze features carved into hard lines. Selene is beside him, her hand on his arm, her expression worried. Rurik paces near the window, restless energy radiating off him in waves. Aisling watches him with the patient resignation of someone who’s learned that trying to calm him is pointless. Zyphon lurks in the shadows at the edge of the room, his violet-dark gaze trackingmovement, his curse-cracked scales absorbing what little light reaches him. Nasyra stands nearby, close but not touching—they communicate in silences and glances that don’t require words.
Every head turns when Auren and I enter. Holding hands. Me wearing his shirt.
Rurik’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. “Well. That’s a development.”
“Not now.” Auren’s voice cuts through the room, sharp enough to silence even Rurik. He releases my hand, but his palm finds the small of my back instead—a point of contact, of support. “What’s happened?”
Drayke’s jaw tightens. “Ulrik knows about Morrigan.”
The words land hard. Of course, he knows. Morrigan was his tool, his agent within the Valdorian bloodline. Her death would have been felt the moment it happened—the collapse of wards tied to her power, the absence of a magical signature he’d been tracking for decades.
“How bad?” I ask.
Drayke’s gaze meets mine, and I see the answer before he speaks it. Bad. Very bad.
“He attacked Valdoria’s ruins this morning.” Drayke’s voice is flat, controlled, the voice of a commander delivering casualties. “Any survivors who were hiding there, anyone who might have been waiting for you to return?—”
He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.
The air leaves my lungs.
I knew there were survivors. Scattered, leaderless, traumatized—but alive. Hiding in cellars, in the mountains, in neighboring villages. Waiting for someone to tell them what happens next. Waiting for their queen.
And now they’re dead. Because Ulrik wanted to send me a message.
“How many?” My voice sounds distant, hollow.
“We don’t have exact numbers yet.” Selene’s voice is gentle, careful. “Our contacts in the area are still reporting. But the Shadow Clan was thorough. They burned what was left of the capital and swept through every village within a day’s ride.”
Auren’s hand presses harder against my back. Grounding. Steadying. I lean into the touch without thinking about it—reaching for him instinctively, the way I might reach for a weapon or a ward.
“That’s not all.” Drayke’s voice pulls my attention back. “Two of our allied outposts were hit last night. Assassins, not armies. Targeted strikes against commanders and their families.”
“Which outposts?” Auren’s tone has gone cold. Dangerous.
