“Good.” She rises on her toes and brushes her lips against mine—soft, brief, a promise rather than a demand. “Strategic objectivity is overrated.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
AUREN
The war room fills within the hour.
Drayke takes his place at the head of the table, Selene at his right hand. Her fingers are interlaced with his on the table’s surface—a casual intimacy that still surprises me after all these months. The king who was so convinced he’d destroy anything he touched, now holding his mate’s hand in a strategy meeting.
I understand now, in a way I didn’t before. The pull toward another person. The way their presence rewrites everything you thought you knew about yourself.
Rurik sprawls in his chair with deliberate disregard for posture, but his golden eyes are sharp. Aisling sits beside him, her red hair a bright spot against the room’s dark stone, her healer’s hands folded neatly in her lap. She’s already calculating casualties, I can tell. Running numbers she hopes she won’t need.
Zyphon materializes from the shadows near the door—one moment empty space, the next a dragon with violet-dark eyes. Nasyra appears a heartbeat later, her mismatched gaze finding his across the room. They don’t touch. They don’t need to. Thespace between them vibrates with an understanding that goes beyond physical contact.
And Tamsin. Tamsin takes the seat beside mine, close enough that her thigh presses against my leg beneath the table. Close enough that I can feel the steady pulse of her fire, banked but present, ready to ignite at a moment’s notice. Close enough that her scent—something floral from her bath, underlaid with smoke and magic—fills my awareness until concentration becomes a battle.
I don’t move away. Don’t try to create professional distance. Let the others see. Let them draw their own conclusions.
“We all know why we’re here.” Drayke’s voice cuts through the quiet murmurs. “The assault on Ulrik’s stronghold. Auren has been working on approach strategies. I want to hear them.”
I stand, moving to the maps I’ve pinned to the wall. The largest shows the eastern mountains in detail—every peak, every valley, every path that might lead to Ulrik’s fortress. Part of me resents leaving her side, even for the few feet between us. An irrational response. A human response.
Perhaps she’s making me more human. Or perhaps she’s simply revealing what was there all along, buried beneath centuries of ice.
“The Shadow Clan stronghold is here.” I tap the black mark at the center. “A full day’s flight from our position. The terrain alone will cost us—mountains designed to disorient, valleys that trap sound and light, forests that have absorbed so much shadow magic, they’re effectively hostile territory.”
“We knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Rurik says. “Get to the interesting part.”
“The interesting part is that ‘not easy’ may be an understatement.” I trace the route I’ve marked in red. “This is the most viable approach. Through the northern valley, aroundSpine Ridge, approaching from the southeast where the wards are oldest and potentially weakest.”
“Oldest doesn’t mean weakest.” Zyphon’s voice rasps from the shadows. “Ulrik layers his wards. The oldest are the foundation—the newer protections are built on top of them. Break the old ones, and everything above collapses. He knows this. He maintains them accordingly.”
“You’ve been inside.” I turn to face him. “What can you tell us about the defenses?”
Zyphon steps forward, into the light—or what passes for light, given how his cursed scales seem to drink it in. “I was inside once. Three centuries ago, when I went to kill him.” His mouth twists. “We know how that ended.”
“But you got in.”
“Through shadow. I materialized in his throne room before the wards could register me as a threat.” His violet gaze flickers to Nasyra, something complicated passing between them. “The curse was his response. His way of ensuring I couldn’t do it again.”
“So shadow travel is out.”
“For me, yes. The curse ties me to his magic. The moment I try to shadow-walk into his territory, he’ll feel it.” Zyphon’s hands clench at his sides. “But the stronghold itself—the layout hasn’t changed. Entry halls designed to intimidate, ceilings that disappear into darkness, floors polished to mirror-brightness. Shadow constructs patrol constantly. The temperature drops with every step inward.”
“The throne room?” Drayke leans forward. “That’s where we’ll find him?”
“If he chooses to meet us there. It’s designed for intimidation—massive, dark, the ceiling lost in shadow so complete, it might not exist. His throne is carved from black stone.” Zyphon’s voice goes flat. “It suggests screaming faces if you look too long.”
“Charming décor.” Rurik’s tone is dry. “So we fight through hostile terrain, breach centuries of wards, navigate shadow-construct patrols, and confront a king in a throne room designed to terrify. Anything else?”
“The curse chamber.” Zyphon’s voice drops. “Where he created what’s killing me. He keeps it maintained—uses it as a workshop for adjustments. If we’re going to destroy him, we should destroy that too.”
The room is silent for a moment. I watch my brother’s face—the careful blankness that hides pain so old, it’s become part of him. Three centuries of slow consumption.
“We’ll destroy it,” I say quietly. “The curse chamber. The throne room. Everything that gave him power.”
Zyphon’s gaze meets mine. Something passes between us—acknowledgment, gratitude, the silent understanding of brothers who’ve learned to communicate without words.
