For now.
Thorne claps a hand on my shoulder.
“We need to regroup,” Kael says. “Get back to the Barrow. Plan our next move.”
“I’m not leaving the Vein unprotected. I must go back to the Broken Plains,” Thorne growls instinctively.
“You’re not leaving it,” Kael says. “I’ve already anchored a tidal ward through the lower caverns. It will flare if anything breaches. Dagan, you’ve layered the stone with your own protections. Alaric has air scouts circling. We’ve done all we can here.”
“Fie. Fuck, I need to see Delia,” Thorne growls and I get it.
He’s right.
I know he’s right. Our viyellas own us in ways our magic does not, and we need to return to them.
I’m turning that over in my mind when it hits me.
A shiver.
Not through Stone’s Edge.
Through home.
The Marches quake—soft, barely there, like the land is trying not to startle me and failing.
Alina.
My heart lurches.
“What is it?” Thorne asks, eyes narrowing.
I tilt my head, listening with everything I am.
There’s no screaming fracture, no catastrophic collapse. Just a deep, insistent tug.
The same way the earth called to me the night Aurel fell.
Only now, the call has her voice braided through it.
“I don’t know,” I admit, which I hate. “But something is wrong at The Barrow.”
Kael stiffens. “Do you sense an attack?”
“Not yet,” I say. “But the roots are restless. The wards are… shifting. And Alina—” I break off, jaw clenching.
The bond hums.
Not in panic. Not in agony.
In warning.
“We go back,” I say, decision crystallizing like quartz in my gut. “Now.”
Kael nods once, sharp. “We’ll leave trusted commanders in our stead,” he says. “Varen can coordinate on the ground. Your riders will patrol the skies. The Rooted Marches will hold until we return.”
“Then move,” Thorne snaps, already summoning fire to carve a portal. “I do not like my viyella being out of my sight when the realm feels like this.”
“You’re not the only one,” I mutter.
