“The wards are the real problem.” I turn back to the maps, pushing emotion aside for strategy. “Eight centuries of accumulated protection, designed to withstand any force imaginable. We can’t breach them with conventional assault.”
“Which is why we use unconventional methods.” Tamsin rises from her seat, moving to stand beside me at the maps. The warmth of her presence is distracting in ways I can’t afford—and ways I don’t want to resist. “The Crown.”
“The Crown is dangerous.” Selene’s voice is careful, diplomatic. “We discussed this. The power it provides?—”
“Is exactly what we need.” Tamsin’s chin lifts. “I’ve thought about this. The Crown amplifies existing abilities. My fire, my witch magic—all of it magnified beyond anything Ulrik has planned for.”
“I’ve read the journals.” Aisling’s Irish accent sharpens with concern. “Fire-Bringers who tried to channel too much power—they burned out. Consumed from within by magic they couldn’t contain.”
“Those Fire-Bringers didn’t have witch blood.” Tamsin’s voice stays steady. “My witch magic provides control. It’s why my bloodline was chosen to guard the Crown in the first place. No other combination can.”
“You’re asking us to bet everything on a theory.” Nasyra speaks for the first time, her mismatched eyes intent on Tamsin’s face. “On the idea that your bloodline’s purpose will be enough to save you from being consumed.”
“I’m asking you to bet everything on me.” Tamsin holds Nasyra’s gaze without flinching. “I know that’s a lot. I know you have every reason to be skeptical—I showed up at your gate with nothing but a Relic and a prayer. But I’ve earned my place here. I’ve fought beside you. Bled for you.” Her voice drops. “I killed my own sister to protect what we’re building.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
I watch her stand before my brothers, before the Fire-Bringers, defending her right to risk her life for all of us. Pride swells in my chest—an unfamiliar sensation, pride in someone else. In her strength. Her conviction. The way she refuses to bend no matter how much pressure she faces.
This woman. This impossible, magnificent woman.
“She’s right.” The words come out before I can stop them. Every head turns toward me—Drayke’s assessing, Rurik’s surprised, Zyphon’s knowing. “The Crown is our best option. Perhaps our only option. Ulrik’s defenses were designed to withstand anything. Tamsin wielding amplified power is the unconventional variable he never planned for.”
“You’re the strategist.” Drayke’s voice is neutral. “Is this your recommendation?”
I want to say no. Want to find another way, any other way, that doesn’t involve risking the woman who has become?—
I stop the thought before it can complete. Focus on the facts. The probabilities. The cold equations that have guided my decisions for centuries.
But the equations don’t account for her. Don’t have variables for the way she makes me feel. For the hollow ache in my chest when I imagine a world without her in it.
“Yes.” The word costs me more than anyone in this room will ever know. “This is my recommendation.”
Tamsin’s hand finds mine beneath the table. Squeezes once. I squeeze back, holding on as if her touch is the only thing keeping me grounded.
It might be.
“Then we plan for it.” Drayke’s voice carries command. “Tamsin, it’s time for you to show us in the morning. If you can control it, we move forward. If not, we find another way.”
“I can control it,” Tamsin says, her voice steady as stone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
AUREN
The council continues for another three hours.
We discuss formations, contingencies, retreat routes if everything falls apart. Rurik argues for aggressive assault; I counter with surgical precision. Zyphon provides intelligence on Shadow Clan forces, their numbers, their capabilities. The Fire-Bringers debate their role—support positions, backup containment if Tamsin’s power becomes unstable, emergency healing protocols.
Through it all, Tamsin sits beside me. Sometimes her hand rests on my knee beneath the table. Sometimes her shoulder presses against mine. Small touches. Quiet reminders that whatever happens in this war room, whatever strategies we craft and risks we calculate, we’re in this as partners.
I’m hyper-aware of every point of contact. The warmth of her palm through my trousers. The brush of her arm against mine when she reaches for maps. The way she shifts her weight, leaning into me almost unconsciously. Each touch sends ripples through my concentration, disturbing the calm surface I’ve maintained for centuries.
It should frustrate me. Distraction has no place in strategic planning.
Instead, I find myself craving more.
She makes me want things I’d convinced myself I didn’t deserve. A future. A partner. Someone to stand beside rather than in front of. Someone who sees past the ice to whatever warmth remains beneath.
