“Thornwall and Greyspire. Both commanders are dead. Their mates survived, barely.” Drayke runs a hand through his hair—a gesture of frustration I’ve never seen from him. “Ulrik isn’t just retaliating. He’s demonstrating. Showing us that he can strike anywhere, any time, and we can’t stop him.”
“Patience is no longer his strategy,” Zyphon says from the shadows. His voice is rough, rusted from disuse. “Morrigan was supposed to deliver Tamsin to him. With her gone, he’s abandoned subtlety for brutality.”
“He’s making us pay,” Nasyra adds quietly. “For Lakhu. For Morrigan. For every defeat we’ve dealt him.”
The room falls silent. I can feel everyone’s gaze on me—weighing, calculating, wondering what the princess without a kingdom is going to do now that her kingdom’s survivors are gone.
I should feel grief. Should feel the crushing sorrow of knowing that people who waited for me, who hoped for me, are gone. And I do—somewhere beneath the numbness, there’s a well of pain so deep I’m afraid to look at it directly.
But stronger than grief is something colder. Something that tastes like the white fire that burns in my blood.
Rage.
“There’s more,” Drayke says. He reaches into his vest and pulls out a folded piece of parchment. The paper is dark, almost black, and it seems to drink in the light around it. Shadow magic. Ulrik’s signature. “This arrived an hour ago. Spelled to bypass our wards.”
He unfolds it and reads aloud:
“You took my son. You destroyed my agent. Now I will take everything from you. Starting with the witch princess who thinks dragon scales can protect her.”
The words hang in the air, poisonous and precise.
“Delightful,” Rurik mutters. “The bastard has a flair for the dramatic.”
“It’s a declaration of war.” Auren’s voice is ice and steel. “Not that we weren’t already at war, but this makes it personal. He’s not just trying to claim the Crown anymore. He wants to destroy us.”
“He wants to hurt us,” Selene corrects quietly. “There’s a difference. Destruction is strategic. This—” she gestures at the parchment “—this is revenge.”
I think of what I know about Ulrik. Eight centuries of accumulated power. A king who created the curse that’s been slowly killing Zyphon for three hundred years. A father who watched his son die at the Brotherhood’s hands and responded not with grief but with calculation.
Except now the calculation has cracked. Morrigan’s death wasn’t just the loss of a tool—it was the failure of his plan. And Ulrik, for all his coldness, is still capable of rage when things don’t go his way.
“He’ll keep attacking,” I say. The words come out steadier than I feel. “As long as I’m here, as long as he knows where to find me, he’ll keep killing people to make his point. The Valdorian survivors were just the beginning.”
“You’re not suggesting we hand you over.” Auren’s voice is sharp, his hand pressing harder against my back.
“No.” I turn to face the room fully, pulling away from Auren’s touch so I can stand on my own. So they can see the princess instead of the woman who spent last night in a dragon’s bed. “I’m suggesting we stop waiting for him to come to us.”
Drayke’s eyes narrow. “Explain.”
“Ulrik is attacking because he’s lost his advantage. Morrigan was supposed to capture me, drain my power, deliver the Crown to him on a platter. Now he’s improvising, lashing out, trying to hurt us enough that we make a mistake.” I let my gaze sweep the room, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. “But that also means he’s vulnerable. Off-balance. He expected this to be over by now.”
“You want to attack the Shadow Clan stronghold.” Zyphon’s voice carries something I’ve never heard from him—interest. “Storm the most fortified position in dragon territory.”
“I want to end this.” My fire stirs in my chest, responding to the emotion building inside me. “Every day we wait, more people die. Valdorian survivors. Brotherhood allies. Anyone Ulrik thinks will hurt us.” I clench my fists at my sides. “I refuse to be the reason he keeps killing.”
“It’s not your fault,” Aisling says firmly. “None of this is?—”
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is.” I cut her off, not unkindly. “What matters is that I can stop it. I’m the only one who can wield the Crown. If we’re going to take down Ulrik, if we’re going to end the Shadow Clan’s threat permanently, that Relic is our best weapon.”
The silence that follows is heavy with implication.
“The Crown is dangerous.” Selene’s voice is careful, diplomatic. “Even for you. Opening it, wielding that kind of power?—”
“Is what my ancestors expect me to do.” I meet her gaze, letting her see the fire burning behind my eyes. “My bloodline has protected the Crown for generations because we’re the only ones who can control it. Not seal it. Not fear it. Control it. It’s time I fulfilled that purpose.”
“She’s right.” Zyphon’s voice cuts through the murmurs of concern. Everyone turns to look at him—the shadow-cursed brother who rarely speaks in council, who spends most meetings lurking at the edges. “I’ve faced Ulrik’s power. The curse he put on me was designed to be unbreakable, and it would have been, if not for Nasyra.” His gaze flickers to the woman beside him, something softening in his expression for just a moment. “Tamsin wielding the Crown might be the only thing strong enough to break his defenses.”
“Might be,” Rurik emphasizes. “That’s a hell of a gamble.”
