A blast of wind knocks it off-course.
Alaric. Even half a battlefield away, his protection finds Jules like instinct.
Kael’s water whips across the ground, a slick wave that trips two more attackers before they can reach us.
Thorne’s fire flares in warning, a wall of heat that forces a path open.
And Dagan—Dagan turns.
He’s so far, but the moment his eyes lock on mine, the world narrows into a single line of connection.
Green-gold.
Fierce.
Terrified.
Furious.
Mine.
His wings twitch, like he’s about to launch himself toward me, like he’s about to break every order he ever gave me and wrap me in stone until nothing can touch me.
I lift the crown higher so he can see it.
So he can understand.
Trust me.
I don’t say it out loud.
I don’t have to.
The bond carries it.
His jaw flexes.
Then, slowly—like it costs him everything—he nods once.
Yes.
Go.
The crown fights us the moment we stop running and plant our feet.
The air around it thickens. The metal vibrates in my hands like it’s trying to shake free. A low hum builds into a pressure that makes my teeth ache.
Jules winces.
Phoebe’s eyes squeeze shut.
Delia sucks in a breath, shoulders tensing.
It’s not just resisting.
It’s testing.
Like it’s asking us, “Do you have any right?”
