I want to argue. Want to list every reason why trusting a Valdorian witch is suicide. But the words won’t come, because beneath the strategic objections and the tactical concerns, there’s something else.
The way she looked at me when she apologized. Like she actually meant it.
The way her voice broke when she talked about watching Morrigan change.
The way her fire felt against my magic when I helped her regain control—warm and bright and nothing like the darkness I expected from Morrigan’s blood.
Stop. This is exactly how it starts. Trust. Warmth. Then the knife in the dark.
“What are you proposing?” My voice comes out colder than I intended. Good. Cold is safe. Cold is controlled.
Drayke’s gaze holds mine for a long moment. Something passes between us—understanding, maybe. Or resignation.
“She stays.” He speaks the words with the finality of a decree. “She’s essential to controlling the Crown, which makes her essential to our survival. We give her sanctuary, protection, whatever she needs to recover and prepare for what’s coming.”
“And in exchange?” Rurik’s question carries genuine curiosity rather than challenge.
“In exchange, she helps us end this. Morrigan. Ulrik. The entire Shadow Clan threat.” Drayke’s jaw tightens. “Lakhu’s death destabilized Ulrik. The destruction of Valdoria suggests he’s abandoned patience for vengeance. He’ll come for us eventually—for the Brotherhood, for the Fire-Bringers, for everything we’ve built. We need every advantage we can get.”
“Including a Valdorian princess with unprecedented power and questionable loyalty.” I can’t keep the edge from my voice.
“Including exactly that.” Drayke doesn’t rise to the bait. “Which is why you’re going to be responsible for her.”
The chamber goes silent.
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re our strategist. Our analyst. The one who sees threats before they materialize.” Drayke’s expression doesn’t waver. “If anyone can determine whether she’s genuine or a trap, it’s you. Watch her. Evaluate her. Report anything concerning.”
“You want me to be her jailer.”
“I want you to be her protector.” The distinction hangs in the air between us. “Morrigan will send forces after her. Ulrik will send assassins. She needs someone who can anticipate threats and neutralize them before they reach her.” His voice softens slightly. “And she needs someone who won’t be swayed by sympathy or sentiment. Someone who will remain objective no matter what.”
Someone who hates her enough to stay suspicious.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to.
“This is a mistake.” The words escape before I can stop them.
“Probably.” Drayke’s agreement surprises me. “But it’s the best option we have. Unless you’d prefer I assign the duty to Rurik?”
“Hey.” Rurik looks genuinely offended. “I’d be an excellent protector.”
“You’d be distracted by the first shiny weapon that caught your attention.” The response is automatic, the familiar rhythm of our bickering providing a moment of normalcy in an otherwise impossible situation.
“Fair point.” Rurik grins, unrepentant. “But at least I’d be entertaining.”
I turn back to Drayke. “And if I determine she’s a threat? If I find evidence that she’s working with Morrigan?”
“Then you do what needs to be done.” His voice carries no hesitation. “But you bring the evidence to me first. No unilateral action. No vengeance disguised as justice.” His gaze sharpens. “Can you do that, brother? Can you set aside your grief long enough to evaluate her fairly?”
The question cuts deeper than he probably intends.
Can I? Can I look at Morrigan’s sister—really look at her—without seeing Lyric’s body in that ritual circle? Without hearing my mother’s screams when she learned what happened? Without remembering my father’s face as he rode to war against the Shadow Clan, knowing he might not come back?
The honest answer is that I don’t know.
“Yes.” The lie tastes like ash on my tongue. “I can do that.”
