Alaric stops pacing mid-step.
He slaps his palm over the stone. His face goes hard, eyes distant.
Jules’ hand finds mine under the table.
I hold on.
When the connection clears, he’s shaking.
“Stone’s Edge has fallen,” he grinds out.
The floor hums under my boots in confirmation.
A sick, twisting feeling hits my stomach.
“What do you mean, fallen?” I ask, even though I already know I won’t like the answer.
“The SoulTakers seized the village,” he says. “They took Masielle. Idris himself attacked her mind while wearing another’s skin—ripped what he needed from her. Her knowledge of old Dreamwright paths. Secret routes into the forges and sanctums.”
His voice cracks on the word her, and he slams his fist against the stone.
Blue light snaps and pops, then dies.
“Dagan has called legions to his side,” Alaric continues, quieter now, like he’s forcing himself into commander mode. “They’re fighting what Idris left behind. Half the SoulTakers on the ground are… not even fully there. Puppets.” He spits the last word like it tastes foul. “He’s using our own people as shells.”
My throat goes tight.
I can feel the earth under Stone’s Edge—broken, scorched, still shuddering from the assault. I know Dagan’s down there somewhere, pushing back with everything he has.
Come back to me, Lord of Dirt, I think helplessly. Just—please, come back.
Time turns strange after that.
We snatch sleep where we can. Take turns at the windows. At the messenger stones.
Clarisse and her crew keep the food coming even though half of it goes uneaten.
We wake.
We wait.
We worry.
By the third morning, weariness has sunk deep into my bones. My dreams are a blur of stone and feathers and green-gold eyes.
I wake to chaos.
Not war chaos.
Different chaos.
The kind with raised voices and feet running past my door.
I shove out of bed, drag on the nearest tunic and leggings, and follow the sounds down the corridor, heart pounding in my throat.
The big common room is a whirlwind.
Servants rush in and out with basins of hot water, linens, armfuls of cushions.
