The corrupted Ember ore he carved from the earth using maps stolen from Masielle’s mind. shards hover around Idris like a crown of broken teeth, each one pulsing with trapped screams.
His disciples ring him, chanting, eyes glassy with devotion. SoulTakers slam into our men’s defenses without care—bodies that burn, drown, shatter, and keep coming anyway.
My throat tightens.
I should be terrified.
I am.
But the bond in my chest burns hotter than fear.
It’s Dagan.
It’s the pull of him—raw and furious and aching—and for a moment it’s so strong I stumble.
Jules catches my elbow. Delia’s hand clamps on my shoulder. Phoebe swears under her breath, eyes bright with the same panic I feel.
We all feel it.
Our mates’ pain.
Their weakening.
The way the world keeps reaching for a Prime that doesn’t exist anymore.
The crown.
It thrums against my palms even now, heavy in a way metal shouldn’t be.
Not weight—pressure. Like holding a live fault line. Like holding a living choice that doesn’t want to be forced.
It doesn’t want us.
It wants one.
It wants the old way.
But we don’t have time for the old way.
“Now,” I whisper, and my voice shakes like I’m standing on the edge of a quake.
Jules steps in beside me, body soft and tired from hours of labor and delivery, but her chin still lifts like she’s daring the universe to argue.
Phoebe’s fingers lace with mine.
Delia’s hand slides in, warm and steady.
Four women. Four bonds. Four stubborn New Jersey hearts who refuse to sit quietly while the men we love bleed out for everyone else.
We move as one.
Down the ridge.
Into the wind and ash.
A SoulTaker sees us first—head snapping around, jaw splitting too wide, teeth like broken glass.
It lunges.
