My bond with Dagan thrums.
He’s not slipping.
Yet.
But he is tired, and that scares me more than I want to admit.
Clarisse sets a cup of tea in front of Jules, then another in front of me. Her hands are steady, but her eyes are tight.
“They will endure, miladies,” she says, like she’s willing it to be true. “The Lords have held Nightfall for centuries. They won’t fall now. Not while the Barrow stands. Not while the crown sits hidden in its place.”
I glance away.
To the far side of the room.
And it’s like my vision sees past the bed, past the stone walls, and floors, all the way down to the secret chamber where, on a low stone pedestal grown straight out of the floor, sits the crown.
The Prime’s crown.
It’s smaller than I expected—more a circlet than a full-on king hat—twined metal and crystal that glows from within with a low, pulsing light.
Not bright. Not bold. Just there.
Like a heart that hasn’t decided if it’s still beating.
It hums in my bones.
None of us have history with it the way the Lords do.
We never saw it on Aurel’s head.
Never watched it refuse a new Prime.
Never feared it or wanted it.
But I feel it.
Power, layered and old and confused.
Searching.
Reaching for someone who doesn’t exist anymore.
The next shock that rolls through the castle is worse.
The floor lurches.
A hairline crack races across the far wall, only to be stitched shut by roots a second later.
Marcel startles and lets out a sharp, offended cry.
Jules shushes him, tears shining in her eyes.
“Okay, that was bigger,” Delia says tightly. “I didn’t like that one.”
Phoebe grimaces, pressing a hand to her chest. “Kael just swore through the bond. In several ancient languages.”
“Alaric’s mad,” Jules whispers, breath hitching. “Not just battle-mad. Scared-mad. He doesn’t get scared.”
