“Every battle is a gamble.” Drayke’s voice carries the finality of a king’s decision. “The question is whether the odds are worth the risk.” His gaze meets mine. “Tamsin, if we do this—if we launch an assault on Ulrik’s stronghold with you wielding the Crown—there’s no turning back. We commit everything. And if we fail...”
“If we fail, we’re no worse off than if we do nothing and let Ulrik pick us apart piece by piece.” I step forward, standing at the table beside Drayke, claiming my place in this council. “I watched my parents die holding a door so I could escape. I watched my sister become a monster and had to kill her myself. I’ve lost my kingdom, my people, everyone I grew up loving.” My voice cracks slightly, but I push through. “I am done losing. I am done watching other people die because Ulrik wants to hurt me.”
I place my palms flat on the table, leaning forward. “The Shadow King wants me? Fine. Let him have me. But not as a victim. As the weapon that destroys him.”
The room is silent for a long moment.
Then Auren steps up beside me. His hand finds the small of my back again, and his voice is steady when he speaks.
“She’s right. Tactically, strategically, we can’t keep playing defense. Ulrik will bleed us dry.” He meets his brothers’ gazes in turn. “I say we plan an assault. A real one. Everything we have against everything he has.”
Rurik grins—the wild, reckless expression of someone who lives for battle. “Finally. I was getting bored sitting around waiting for the next attack.”
“This isn’t a game.” Aisling’s voice is sharp, but there’s resignation in it. She knows she’s been outvoted.
“No,” Zyphon agrees. “It’s an ending. One way or another.” His violet-dark gaze meets mine. “I’ve been waiting three centuries to face the dragon who cursed me. If there’s a chance to end Ulrik permanently, I won’t waste it.”
Drayke looks at Selene. Something passes between them—a silent conversation, a question and answer conveyed in glances. Finally, she nods.
“Then we plan.” Drayke’s voice carries the finality of command. “Auren, you’ll coordinate strategy. Rurik, assess our weapons and forces. Zyphon, intelligence on the Shadow Clan stronghold—you’ve been there more recently than any of us. Tamsin—” He turns to me. “You need to test your control of the Crown. Make sure you can wield it safely before we commit to this.”
“I can wield it,” I say. Auren and I experimented a bit before we went after my sister. I didn’t have to use it then.
“We need you to prove it.” Drayke’s expression is not unkind, but it’s firm. “We’re not attacking the most dangerous position in dragon territory on faith alone. Show us what you can do.”
It’s a fair request. A reasonable one. And yet something in me bristles at being tested, at having to prove myself yet again.
Auren’s hand presses against my back, and when I glance at him, his expression is steady. Supportive. Trusting.
“Fine,” I agree. “I’ll open the Crown and show you what it can do. Let me know when.”
Drayke nods. “Then we’re done for now. Everyone rest while you can. The next few days are going to be brutal.”
The council disperses, brothers and Fire-Bringers filtering out in pairs and small groups. I stay where I am, staring at the map spread across the table, not really seeing it.
The Valdorian survivors are dead. The people I should have been protecting, should have been leading, should have been saving—gone. Killed by a shadow king who wanted to make me suffer.
“Hey.” Auren’s voice is soft, for my ears only. His hand slides from my back to my hip, turning me to face him. “You’re not alone in this.”
“I know.” I do know. It’s just hard to feel it, with the guilt, grief, and rage all churning in my chest.
He cups my face in his cold hands, tilting it up until I have no choice but to meet his gaze. “The Crown. Ulrik. All of it. You face none of it without me. That’s not a request.”
The possessiveness in his voice should probably irritate me. Instead, it makes something warm bloom beneath my ribs. “Is that so?”
“Consider it a tactical assessment.” His thumb traces my cheekbone.
I press my forehead against his, breathing him in. “Even if I get myself killed trying to destroy a king?”
“Especially then.” He presses his lips to mine—soft, brief, a promise rather than a demand. “Though I’d strongly recommend against it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
When he pulls back, his expression has hardened into something more familiar. The Ice Dragon, ready for war. “The Fire-Bringers will want to talk to you. I saw Selene signaling Aisling before she left.”
I groan. “About the shirt?”
“Among other things.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Apparently walking into a war council holding hands was not subtle.”
