Some things are simply true. Beyond strategy. Beyond calculation. Beyond the cold equations I’ve used to navigate the world since Lyric died.
Tamsin is one of those things. And I will spend every moment I have left making sure she knows it.
But first?—
First, we kill a king.
THIRTY-SIX
TAMSIN
The entry halls are designed to break you before you reach your destination.
I don’t break.
But I’m starting to feel the cost.
The Crown has been open since the courtyard battle. Minutes that feel like hours, power flooding through me in an endless torrent. I told Drayke I could hold it long enough to break Ulrik’s defenses. I didn’t mention what holding it would take from me.
My hands have started trembling. Fine tremors I can hide if I keep them moving. There’s a headache building behind my eyes—pressure that has nothing to do with stress and everything to do with life force bleeding away. The Crown doesn’t just amplify power. It burns through the wielder to fuel itself.
Auren walks beside me, his cold hand wrapped around mine. The contact grounds me—reminds me that I’m not alone in this nightmare of stone and shadow. His presence is a steady flame against the oppressive darkness, even though his fire burns cold where mine burns hot.
He doesn’t know how much this is costing me. I’ve made sure of that.
“Left here.” His voice is low, tactical. Even now, his strategic mind maps our path. “The throne room is at the heart of the stronghold.”
“You’ve never been here.”
“I’ve studied every intelligence report we’ve gathered over centuries.” His thumb traces across my knuckles, a small gesture that shouldn’t mean as much as it does. “Ulrik builds his spaces to project power. The throne room will be central, elevated, designed to make supplicants feel small.”
“I’m not a supplicant.”
He stops walking. Turns to face me, his golden eyes reflecting the white light of my Crown. His free hand comes up to cup my cheek, cold against my heated skin.
“No.” Something fierce burns in his gaze. “You’re not.”
He kisses me. Brief, hard, a claiming that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with choice. When he pulls back, I’m breathing harder, and it has nothing to do with the Crown’s power drain.
Or maybe it does. Maybe everything does now.
“Whatever happens in there,” he says against my lips, “remember who you are.”
“Who am I?”
“Mine.” The word is possession and promise, demand and devotion. “You’re mine. And I don’t intend to lose you.”
My heart stutters. Not from fear. From the fierce joy of hearing him claim me so absolutely. From knowing that I would claim him with equal ferocity if I asked.
From knowing that I might not survive long enough to do it.
“Then let’s finish this.” I squeeze his hand, hiding the weakness in my grip. “So we can have what comes after.”
We move deeper into the fortress.
The throne roomdoors stand twice my height, carved from stone so dark, it eats my light rather than reflect it.
No guards. No wards barring our entry. Ulrik wants me to come to him. Wants to face me in the seat of his power, where eight centuries of accumulated magic might give him the edge he needs.
