“Marcel,” she says finally, voice soft but sure.
Alaric’s eyes widen. “After my father?”
“Yes, and his father before him. See, I was reading, and well, do you like it?” Jules asks.
“Like it?”
“Well, I read they were both stubborn old bastards who loved fiercely and never gave up. Seems fitting.”
Alaric closes his eyes like he’s been stabbed in the chest.
“I am honored, my viyella,” he says hoarsely. “He is Marcel, then. Our Marcel.”
Tears burn at the back of my throat.
It’s a lot.
Watching a new life slip into a world this dangerous.
Watching two people who’ve seen more war than I can imagine cradle something so small and fragile and hopeful.
The door to the chamber bursts open without warning.
For half a second, my heart stops.
Then I see them.
Thorne, Kael, and—most importantly—Dagan.
They look wrecked.
Armor scorched, clothing torn, magic still crackling faintly around them like a storm they haven’t quite shaken off.
Soot streaks Thorne’s cheek; Kael’s hair is damp with seawater; Dagan’s left wing sports a fresh tear, edges singed.
But they’re here.
Alive.
My knees nearly give out.
“Careful,” Dagan rumbles, striding toward me.
His hands bracket my elbows, steady and strong. “Oona?”
“I’m fine,” I say, even though my heart is trying to crawl up my throat. “You’re back.”
“Of course,” he says simply.
The bond sparks between us, relief and exhaustion and something tender enough to crack stone flooding me. “I told you I would be.”
“I told you, you’d better be,” I snap back, but it comes out watery.
His mouth curves. “You did, at that.”
“Hey!” Jules calls, voice still rough but brighter. “Look what we did while you idiots were off playing war games.”
Alaric steps aside just enough for the others to see.
